THE LAMENT OF THE CULINARY ARTIST.

Cromwell Argus, Volume LX, Issue 3111, 12 May 1930, Page 2

THE LAMENT OF THE CULINARY ARTIST.

lam not glad! lam not proud! Altho I ought to be. My last souffle has caught the crowd. Immortalising me.

My bisques and biscuits are the rage, My pates take the cake; And throngs from youth to oldest age Walk miles to soe me bake.

My salads are pronounced a dream; My terrapin divine, When o'er that dainty, cooked in cream I pour the tawny wine.

The daily papers pay me twice For recipes I pen; The very highest market price They give the greatest men.

Two chefs of fame have used my name Their dishes to enhance; The one in England, deviled game, And one, a stew, in France.

lam not proud! lam not glad! Altho I ought to be. For something makes me dull and sad More so than black-boiled tea.

It is not love. My virgin heart Allegiance knows alone To modern culinary art— Especially my own.

Nor is it conscience. In ten weeks Once only have I erred It was for onions, using leeks In currying a bird.

It is not sickness. For my skill Doth own a doctor's spell. My peptonci soup restores the ill And makes them strong and well.

it Is —but let me calm my Ire And find perchance relief — It is a violent desire For cabbage and corned beef.