"Do you eat your prepared butter upon bread?"
"I never do any thing so extravagant as to eat butter upon bread: I prefer to use it in my cookery; but I don't think boiled butter would taste well so, though it fries beautifully on maigre days; and on others I use lard to my potato."
"Does one satisfy you?" asked I, laughing.
"Oh yes, if it is of a tolerable size. I cut it in pieces the size of a hazel-nut, dry, and put them into a common saucepan, with the least bit of butter, shaking them about every few minutes; less than half an hour does them; they are eaten hot, with some salt sifted over."
"I suppose you often have an omelet?"
"Not often; but let me offer you one now."
I had scarcely assented, when the frying-pan was on the fire to heat three eggs broken, some chives and parsley minced, and mixed with a little pepper and salt all together—Madame Miau throwing in a drop of milk, because she happened to have it, in order to increase the size of the omelet, although in general she seldom used it—and flour never. It was thrown upon the boiling fat, and as it hardened, lifted up with two wooden forks round and round, and then rolled over, never turned—the upper part, which was still slightly liquid, serving for sauce, as it were. This was all, and very good I found it. Another time she put in grated cheese, which was also excellent.
"I can't comprehend how you contrive to make every thing so good at so little expense," said I.
"There is no merit in making good things if you are extravagant: any one can do that."
"No, indeed, not every one."