SIROP DE GOMME.

Otago Daily Times, Issue 19947, 15 November 1926, Page 12

SIROP DE GOMME.

I believe that “sirop de gomme” is a Russian drink. For madame, who make* it, is a native of the steppes. She lives now in Canada, and offers to her guests dishes and beverages strange in appearance, curiously appealing in flavour. Among these is the cordial. We sipped it, sitting round the stove. I liked its novelty, revelled in its cosiness. Out of doors, the thermometer registered 20deg below zero. “And how,” I asked presently, “did you make it?’’ “I buy one pound of a-cacia-gomme, an' break -it li-tel, an’ put it into two pints of water which boils, on ze stove. I stir it so fast, so ze gomme not bum, till it is all dissolve.” Madame—as we all call her—paused in politeness, that T might grasp the process. By “a-cacia gomme” 4. knew she meant gum arabic, and I understood, too, what was the secret of that supreme smoothness in her cordial. “When ze gomme is all dissolve, 1 pour one pint of cold water, an’ mix wit* my spoon, an’ strain. Nex’ I clean my saucepan ver’ well, an’ put ze sirop in wit’ four pounds of good sugar, an' one pound of sugar candy I break to pieces, an’ set it back of ze stove, till all melt, so slow.' I assured my hostess I comprehended, and waited to learn- more. There was a flavour that played hide-and-seek in my wineglass; and a scent I knew, and could not name. “To give it fine taste,” Madame continued, “I put one li-tel cup of orange flowers water, an’ one li-tel cup of rose flowers water. An’ I watch till ze sugar an’ ze candy is dissolve. After, I make ze sirop come to boil, but not let it boil." Over the gleaming brim my hostesi looked a question. “To boiling point, we would say,” I told her. “And then, at once you lift the saucepan from the stove?” “So,” said Madame, “till it is cool, when I pour it into bottles, an’ tie ver’ tight. To drink. I pour a li-tel, a quarter-glass, zen kirsch-wasser, or maraschino, should come to half-fill, an’ water to ze top. Too sweet, more water. In Canada I use port wine. I have no kirsch-wasser. no maraschino, now., . .” I heard sadness in the voice, saw sadness in the face. And I waited, my eyes on the cordial.

“Ze sirop”—Madame spoke slowly—“was to the tables of the moe’ honoured ze mos’ great in my countree, once. . . .” I put down my glass, and rose. A guest should know when it is time to go.