This
poet knows not what a sallat is,
His
a concoct of many musty bits
Of
rubbish lurking in the kitchen store
That
must be eaten ere they’ve rotted more.
‘Tis
not a condiment, whate’re he states;
More
like the slops our fussy daughter hates.
Mustard
and onion are a trifle strong
To
add to ingredients vastly overlong
Where
squashed pots, yolks with oil and sour mixed
Are
not improved by stinking fish when fixed
In
dishes, tabled plain or fine. I’d hope,
Dear
poet, you can’t be such a derelict dope
As
never passes through the kitchen door
To
see how real cooks deal with meals galore
Or
can you be? ‘Tis no surprise to me
To
find a man as ignorant as thee.
Nauseously
full, an epicure would say,
“Fate
has harmed me – I’ll die ere close of day.”
Recipe for a Salad
By Sydney Smith
TO make this condiment your poet begs
The pounded yellow of two hard boiled eggs;
Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen sieve,
Smoothness and softness to the salad give;
Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl,
And, half suspected, animate the whole;
Of mordant mustard add a single spoon,
Distrust the condiment that bites so soon;
But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault
To add a double quantity of salt;
Four times the spoon with oil from Lucca crown,
And twice with vinegar, procured from town;
And lastly, o’er the flavored compound toss
A magic soupçon of anchovy sauce.
O green and glorious! O herbaceous treat!
’T would tempt the dying anchorite to eat;
Back to the world he ’d turn his fleting soul,
And plunge his fingers in the salad-bowl;
Serenely full, the epicure would say,
“Fate cannot harm me,—I have dined to-day.”
