Delicious music for to-day--the tinkling of ice in the pitcher, as Susan,
slowly and carefully, brings up-stairs the water we wait for. It were
really a loss to have the way shorter, or the servant a harum-scarum thing
who would dash in with her precious burden before one knew it was coming.
We might try, to-day, the latest novelty in cookery, a ball of solid ice
wrapped in puff-paste, and baked so adroitly that the paste shall be brown
while the ice remains unmelted.
Akin to this, is an antique achievement culinary, as old as Mrs. Glasse,
at least--the roasting of a pound of butter, an operation not unlike the
very work we are engaged in at this moment--indeed so like it, that the
remembrance has occurred several times. Your pound of butter is to be
thoroughly crusted in bread-crumbs to begin with, and then put upon the
spit and turned before a very hot fire; the unhappy cook standing by to
dredge on crumbs continually, to prevent the slippery article from running
away. When the crumbs (and cook) are quite roasted, the thing is done.
And so should we be, but that here comes a thunder storm, fit conclusion
for an intense day, and very like the sudden and terrific blowings up
which terminate the most ferocious kind of friendships.
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