Trials and Confessions of a Housekeeper | Page 5

to my husband, one day, as we passed from
the dining-room, after having partaken of one of her excellent dinners.
"She's too good," replied Mr. Smith--"too good to last. There must be
some bad fault about her--good cooks always have bad faults--and I am
looking for its appearance every day."
"Don't talk so, Mr. Smith. There is no reason in the world why a good
cook should not be as faultless as any one else."

Even while I said this, certain misgivings intruded themselves. My
husband went to his store soon after.
About three o'clock Margaret presented herself, all dressed to go out,
and said that she was going to see her sister, but would be back in time
to get tea.
She came back, as she promised, but, alas for my good cook! The fault
appeared. She was so much intoxicated that, in attempting to lift the
kettle from the fire, she let it fall, and came near scalding herself
dreadfully. Oh, dear! I shall never forget the sad disappointment of that
hour. How the pleasant images of good dinners and comfortable
breakfasts and suppers faded from my vision. The old trouble was to
come back again, for the faultless cook had manifested a fault that
vitiated, for us, all her good qualities.
On the next day, I told Margaret that we must part; but she begged so
hard to be kept in her place, and promised good behaviour in future so
earnestly, that I was prevailed on to try her again. It was of no use,
however--in less than a week she was drunk again, and I had to let her
go.
After that, for some months, we had burnt steaks, waxy potatoes, and
dried roast beef to our hearts' content; while such luxuries as muffins,
hot cakes, and the like were not to be seen on our uninviting table.
My next good cook had such a violent temper, that I was actually afraid
to show my face in the kitchen. I bore with her until patience was no
longer a virtue, and then she went.
Biddy, who took charge of my "kitchen cabinet," a year or so
afterwards, proved herself a culinary artist of no ordinary merit. But,
alas! Biddy "kept a room;" and so many strange disappearances of bars
of soap, bowls of sugar, prints of butter, etc., took place, that I was
forced to the unwilling conclusion that her room was simply a store
room for the surplussage of mine. Some pretty strong evidence on this
point coming to my mind, I dismissed Biddy, who was particularly
forward in declaring her honesty, although I had never accused her of

being wanting in that inestimable virtue.
Some of my experiences in cooks have been musing enough. Or, I
should rather say, are musing enough to think about: they were rather
annoying at the time of their occurrence. One of these experiences I
will relate. I had obtained a "treasure" in a new cook, who was not only
good tempered and cleanly, but understood her business reasonably
well. Kitty was a little different from former incumbents of her office in
this, that she took an interest in reading, and generally dipped into the
morning paper before it found its way up stairs. To this, of course, I
had no objection, but was rather pleased to see it. Time, however,
which proves all things, showed my cook to be rather too literary in her
inclinations. I often found her reading, when it was but reasonable for
me to expect that she would be working; and overdone or burnt dishes
occasionally marked the degree in which her mind was absorbed in her
literary pleasures, which I discovered in time, were not of the highest
order-such books as the "Mysteries of Paris" furnishing the aliment that
fed her imagination.
"Jane," said my husband to me one morning, as he was about leaving
the house, "I believe I must invite my old friend Green to dine with me
to-day. He will leave the city to-morrow, and I may not have the
pleasure of a social hour with him again for years. Besides, I want to
introduce him to you. We were intimate as young men, and much
attached to each other. I would like you to know him."
"Invite him, by all means," was my reply.
"I will send home a turkey from market," said Mr. Smith, as he stood
holding on to the open door. "Tell Kitty to cook it just right. Mrs.
Green, I am told, is a first-rate housekeeper, and I feel like showing you
off to the best advantage."
"Don't look for too much," I replied, smiling, "lest you be
disappointed."
Mr. Smith went away, and I walked back to the kitchen door to say a
word to Kitty.