“You Don’t Eat That?”

My family led a conventional existence; but while Father’s bringing up had been that of a strict orthodox Friend, it was probably the age she lived in that restrained Mother’s Irish blood from showing, except in a love of music, bright blue eyes, and an infectious always-ready laugh. Father declared that her attitude towards her constant bank overdrafts also displayed blarneying ancestry, and the only time I ever remember him speechless was when she guilelessly stated that of course any sensible trust company would allow its depositors occasional human errors on the wrong side of their balance sheets. Father heaved a weary sigh and gave up trying to teach Mother the principles of finance; thenceforward when the usual end-of-the-month phone call came to his office from her bank, his resigned “How much is it this time?” could be heard almost before “Dependable Trust speaking” ceased.

Otherwise my home followed the accepted Edwardian pattern of solid “handsome” furniture and lavish heavy meals. Father took charge of the carving and the wine cellar, while Mother ran the house and managed the three children, as well as the servants who each night willingly climbed four steep flights to an unheated, unplumbed attic which both she and they considered almost too luxurious.

From the start our married life dismayed my hitherto approving parents. Not only did we buy shabby antique furniture and allow our one hardworking servant unheard-of privileges, but my husband and I took our vacations in a twenty-foot sailboat which had no space for what Mother modestly referred to as a “bathroom.” Worse was to come. Our second child and second wedding anniversary were almost simultaneous, and for some months before, I shamefacedly avoided Mother’s shocked murmurs of “there must be peasant blood in your father’s family,” as she eyed my casually accepted and rapidly increasing girth. Instead, I frequently pushed the heavy gocart, on which our very young son sat enthroned on the day’s marketing, into the small nearby Italian grocery and there took comfort from its ancient proprietress who regarded my supposedly disgraceful condition not only as natural but proper for a young married woman.

As the tinkle of the rusty shop bell died, the signora’s beady eyes and toothless grin would appear from the littered backroom where she dwelt, surrounded by bottles of red wine, jars of homemade tomato paste, and a numerous family. “’Ello,” she’d say. “Buy nice spaghetti today? You make a new bambino soon, yes? Fine!”

Once, after my purchases had been tied in the usual knobby newspaper bundle, she darted into her kitchen and reappeared with a piece of warm, brownish red pastry on a bright plate. “Eata,” she beamed, “Good for you and dat new bambino.” The first mouthful left dull, run-of-the-mill food without appeal forever, and I learned then never to scorn an odd-appearing dish: What I had been tempted with was ITALIAN TOMATO PIE, or PIZZA, and when I acquired the recipe we ate it frequently to increasing parental disapproval. As can be imagined, the original directions were garbled, but here is a clear set and its ingredients can be bought at any good American food store. Start by thickly greasing two 10 by 14 inch tin cooky sheets with olive oil in which a crushed clove of garlic has been sautéed and then removed. Next prepare the foundation of the pizzas and while an equal amount of bread dough can be used for this, the recipe below has the authentic olive oil flavor, doesn’t call for very much of that hard-to-get and expensive shortening, and takes very little time to make. Put 1 cupful of lukewarm water into a bowl and add to it 1 tablespoon of olive oil, 1 tablespoon of sugar, 1 teaspoon of salt, and 1 crumbled yeast cake. Wait a minute for the yeast to soften, then beat in 3 or 4 cups of sifted flour to make a soft dough. Turn it out on a board or cloth, knead it for 5 or 6 minutes, using as little extra flour as possible, then put it back into its cleaned bowl, greasing it with 1 tablespoon of the oil. Cover and let rise in a warm place until doubled in bulk. This will only take about an hour, and like other doughs it can be punched down after rising and kept covered in the icebox until wanted. Cut the dough in half and roll each piece until it fits a cooky sheet. This is the only difficult part of the proceeding, as it takes patience and some practice to get the dough to the desired thinness, but persevere in pulling and rolling, making a ½-inch high dam of dough around the edge of each tin. Cover the dough with thin slices of Provalona cheese, first removing the rind—about ½ pound or a little more, depending upon the thinness of the slices. Thin 4 cans of Italian tomato paste with 2 tablespoons of olive oil and 2 cups of canned consommé or chicken broth, and spread this over the cheese. Drain 2 cans of flat anchovy fillets and lay them on the tomato paste in hollow squares or any other design your fancy dictates. A half-pound of salted Italian anchovies can be substituted here, but while their flavor may be better they must first be soaked for 5 minutes before being drained and boned. Let the pies rest and rise in a warm place for 1 hour; then into a 375° oven for 20 minutes until the edges are crisp and brown and the filling a mass of savory-smelling bubbling richness. Each pizza should feed four or six and they are easiest served right from the hot tin with the old family pie knife; any leftover will disappear from the refrigerator with surprising speed. Slices of ripe olives and bits of peeled mushrooms can be added to the sauce and a little sweet basil for a really authentic flavor. Extra garlic and onion, too, if you wish, and if the directions seem vague remember that this is a dish as happy-go-lucky as its originators in their pre-Mussolini days. Hot or cold, with a green salad and a flask of not-too-sour Chianti, it has it all over Omar’s bottle and meager loaf, even in solitude needing no book of verses to make it good eating. When during the war our son discovered that his ship’s Italian cook had worked in a pizzeria, the pleas that crossed the Pacific for the canned salt fish must have caused censors to feel that Operation Anchovy was only second in importance to the atomic bomb.

A two-generation devotion to that youthful classic gave the name of “Swiss Family Potter Picnics” to our numerous outings with the children, and every clear Sunday for years “Mother” filled her “wonderful bag” with otherwise forgotten articles, our son, alias “Ernst,” stowed food in the car, aided by a very feminine “Jack,” while “Father,” true to form, stood leisurely by directing all the labor. A trip which had as its objective a rocky ledge some miles from our summer cottage remains in memory because on that particular morning Father and Mother, unlike their less convivial Swiss prototypes, were suffering the effects of a late and much-too-gay clambake the night before. None the less a promise was a promise, so grill, beefsteak, potatoes, milk, cake and fruit were packed in the old Ford and off we went. Arrived at our destination, Father built a big driftwood fire, set up the grill, and with the sotto voce remark that sleep was much more necessary to his continued existence than food, stretched out in the warm sun. Meanwhile the children clambered happily around the rocky pools below, returning at all-too-frequent intervals to show their apathetic parents some fresh treasure in the way of a dead crab or an equally odoriferous shell. Suddenly, after a welcome silence there came loud shouts of “Mother! Come quick,” and I bumped in panic down the rocks to the water’s edge, certain that my darlings were being attacked by a herd of hungry octopi, at least.

But Ernst and Jack had read the book to more purpose than their elders, and the bed of mussels they had discovered at high-tide mark made the day memorable for a second time. We pulled big fistfuls, trimmed their beards with Ernst’s grimy pocketknife, and washed the shells well with cool seawater. Then, as we were wondering what to cook them on, came the discovery of a piece of rusty corrugated roofing resting on a nearby rock. With renewed belief in fictional Swiss findings, the iron was set over the grill, the mussels arranged on top, and by the time the heat had opened them up we had butter melted to go with each morsel, supping them from their shells with delighted whooshes, and shortly a much revived Father and Mother were able—just as in the book—to bore Ernst and Jack by pointing out the proverbial advantages of always keeping their eyes open.

Mussels, almost unknown on this side of the Atlantic except as bait, can be purchased in many seafood markets and are well worth a trial by any family, Swiss or American. Good just as we prepared them on the beach, they are at their best and most famous as MOULES MARINIÈRE. For four or six, wash 2 quarts of mussels in several waters and trim their fringy edges with sharp kitchen shears. Have ready a saucepan of sufficient size and put in it ½ cup of dry white wine, 1 or 2 chopped cloves of garlic, ½ cup of chopped parsley, an optional bit of chopped celery, and ¼ cup of butter. As with oysters, no salt should be needed, but a few twirls of the pepper grinder won’t be amiss. Put in the mussels, cover the saucepan closely, and set it over a hot fire for 5 minutes, after which remove the lid and see whether the mussels have opened. If not, continue steaming until they do open. Serve them hot in big soup plates or deep bowls, with their redolent juice. Fingers—and finger bowls—are the only utensils devotees demand for the enjoyment of this insufficiently known delight, with perhaps a thick slice of warm French bread for postoperative dunking. Silence those finicky souls who call for spoons by superiorly scooping up the few last precious drops of your own luscious sauce in one of the empty shells.

Sometimes out-of-town friends have deemed us inhospitable when their unexpected phone calls haven’t always been followed by our usually enthusiastic invitation to dinner, but bitter experience has taught us the uninterested answer that comes back at the mention of calf’s brains as the planned meal, although amusingly the same people have been known to display foreign menus with pride while discoursing on the epicurean delights of cervelle au beurre noir. So if you too, feel hesitant at the first thought, pretend to be in some famous French restaurant where an obsequious garçon is offering this delicate plat for certain approval.

CALF’S BRAINS WITH BLACK BUTTER. Allow 1 set of brains—or more, for true addicts—for each serving. Soak the brains in cold water for 1 hour or so and drain. Add 1 sliced onion, a bit of chopped parsley and celery, 1 tablespoon of salt, and ½ cup of vinegar to enough boiling water to cover the brains, and simmer them gently for ½ hour. Drain and when cool tenderly remove the skin and any bits of bone the butcher may have left clinging to their surface. For each 2 sets of brains melt ½ cup of butter (or as much more as can be spared) in a shallow pan and allow it to brown slightly. Add the brains and cook over a medium high heat for 20 minutes, or until each side is covered with a light brown crust. Remove to a hot serving dish. Increase the heat if the butter hasn’t already reached a beautiful dark brown, and add 1 tablespoon of sharp vinegar and an optional tablespoon of capers. Pour this over the brains with a little chopped parsley and serve. This is a dish that calls for real butter, so if there is a shortage of the dairy product, prepare the brains for cooking as directed, brown them in the smallest amount of butter possible, and pour over them the white wine gravy on page 96. CERVELLE AU VIN BLANC is what you’ll be enjoying.

A usually unheeded sense of thrift was the cause of my learning to prepare a calf’s head. The marketing pocketbook was woefully thin and company was on its way, but at a very low cost four delighted guests sat down to a main dish of MOCK TERRAPIN. Appeal to the butcher to split a calf’s head and remove the brains. (You already know what to do with them.) Soak the head in cold water for 1 hour, then drain and cover with fresh water. Add 2 teaspoons of salt, a sprig of parsley, and 1 sliced onion. A stalk of celery and a few peppercorns too, if you have them. Simmer gently until the meat is tender—about 2 hours—then drain and cool. Reserve the tongue for a dish that comes later, for you are working on a truly economical section of the animal. Cut the head meat into 1 inch pieces. Hard boil, shell and slice 3 eggs. Melt 1 tablespoon of butter in the top of a double boiler. Blend in 1 tablespoon of flour and slowly add 3 cups of thin cream or top milk, 1 teaspoon of salt, ½ teaspoon of dry mustard, and a dash of cayenne. When it thickens slightly add the meat and sliced eggs and let everything become piping hot. Meantime, beat the yolks of 2 eggs with 2 tablespoons each of dry sherry and cream. Stir this into the hot meat and its sauce, bring back to the original temperature, and serve immediately. Spoons as well as forks should accompany this, and big baked potatoes.

CALF’S HEAD CHEESE, a grand hot-weather snack, has the meat cooked until very tender, then coarsely chopped, mixed with a tiny scrape of onion, 1 teaspoon of salt, the same amount of poultry seasoning and chopped parsley, and an optional shake of cayenne. While still warm, press it into a greased mould, right up to the top, cover it tightly, and chill overnight before unmoulding it on a bed of watercress garnished with crimson sliced tomatoes.

STEWED CALF’S HEAD I found interleaved into a very old cookbook. On the back of the yellowed paper is written in a copperplate hand, “June, 1837. Give this to Helen.” These are the original instructions with modern parentheses. Boil your (?) head till the bones can be removed, then take out the bones and lay it on a dish to drain. Put your butter, a piece as big as an egg (2 tablespoons), onto the fire, and when hot lay your head in and let it brown a little, first having seasoned it with salt (1 teaspoon), pepper (¼ teaspoon), and a little allspice and cloves (a pinch each). Take it out and lay it on your dish. Take a lump of butter the size of a walnut (2 teaspoons), dust some flour (1½ tablespoons) over it, and let it brown. Put in a little (½ cup) water (or diluted consommé) and add to your gravy ½ dozen cloves, as many whole allspice, and a tumblerful (1 cup) of wine (sherry). Let them all simmer together (until thickened), then strain and pour over the meat. Chop 2 hard-boiled eggs, strew over the dish, and garnish with lemon.

The CALF’S TONGUE unfortunately won’t serve more than two or three at most but it is so delicious—and cheap—that an extra tongue or two is worth the purchase. Cook them as directed above (Mock Terrapin), let cool, skin, and remove any bone. Cover them with red wine gravy (page 96) made with the water in which they were boiled. Add 2 peeled carrots and a few tiny peeled onions for each serving and place in a tightly covered casserole in a 375° oven for 1½ hours. BRAISED TONGUE is the result and very good it is.

The title should be sufficient directions, but for TONGUE AND MUSHROOMS cut the prepared cooked tongue into thin slices, allow ½ cup of sliced mushrooms for each tongue, and sauté both in 2 tablespoons of butter for 5 minutes. Blend in 2 tablespoons of flour and let it brown a little. Slowly stir in 2 cups of the water in which the tongue or head was boiled. Simmer, stirring, until creamy and then add 1 tablespoon of dry sherry and 1 teaspoon of Worcestershire sauce, a shake of cayenne, and extra salt if necessary. A TONGUE HASH made as on page 54, is by no means to be scorned either, you’ll find.

The water in which the calf’s head is boiled makes an easily jellied but rather tasteless soup. Either use it with the addition of ½ pound of chopped raw beef as in the base for vegetable soup (page 39), or flavor it with beef extract, bouillon cubes, or canned consommé, before serving it clear, hot or cold.

Altogether, a calf’s head is well worth experimenting with and not only for economy. Imagination is the only limit to the ways of serving it, and once started you’ll not wonder at my reaction when, during meat rationing, I saw a Helen Hokinson type ordering the last one in the store for “cat food,” and had to be forcibly restrained from murder.

EELS we learned perforce to eat during a fishing trip to out-of-the-way Chincoteague Island. Early spring had brought the famous ponies out in appealing groups, comfortable rooms we had, even indoor plumbing, although “the bathtub had been lent to the minister,” for what purpose we never discovered; but the sport we had come for was woefully lacking. Morning after morning we hopefully put off-shore in our small boat, to return in the late afternoon with heavy coats of sunburn and empty baskets. We dined at the town’s only eatery and in a week its menu of panned, fried, roast or stewed oysters began to pall on even such addicts of the bivalve as we. Meat was scarce, the proprietor apologized, but he would be only too glad to cook and serve any of our catch. Laughing hollowly in every meaning of the word, we were forced to admit that our only catch so far had been eels, not to be eaten, of course, but unhooked with loathing and thrown back in the water. When he insisted that “eels was de bes’ eatin’ on de Sho’” we brought him some of the unattractive things and bade him do his best or eat his words and the horrible creatures as well. We were the ones who did both. The eels arrived at our table crisp and brown and were devoured in a silence almost devout. FRIED EELS. First, unless of a really hardy nature, have the eels skinned and beheaded well out of sight. Then remove the backbone and cut into convenient lengths. Four inches is a nice size. Beat 1 whole egg with 2 tablespoons of water or white wine. Put 1 cup of bread crumbs on a plate and mix with it 1 teaspoon of salt and the same of black pepper. Dip the sections of eel in the egg and then roll in the crumbs. Have ready a skillet in which a half-inch of bacon fat is smoking. Fry until each side is a delicate tan; 10 minutes should do it. Drain carefully and serve on a hot plate with slices of lemon or lemon butter (page 97).

SAUTÉED EELS are the fillets cooked in a very little butter to which 1 crushed clove of garlic has been added. Remove the garlic and add a teaspoon of white wine and a little chopped parsley for each serving.

“BOILT AALS” came from a very ancient English cookbook. King Alfred undoubtedly enjoyed them when he wasn’t busy burning cakes and ruining dinner. Sauté 1 tablespoon of chopped onion—or 2 of chopped chives—in 2 tablespoons of butter until the onion starts to color. Add 1 tablespoon of chopped parsley, 2 cups of red wine, 2 teaspoons of vinegar, 1 teaspoon of salt, a shake of pepper, and another of cayenne. The original calls for a pinch of nutmeg, too, but that’s optional. When the wine simmers, gently slide in 3 pounds of filleted eel. Cover and continue simmering for ½ hour, then remove the eel to a warm plate and let the sauce boil for 2 or 3 minutes longer. Blend 2 teaspoons of butter with 2 teaspoons of flour, thin this with a little of the hot wine, and slowly stir it into the rest. Simmer and stir for 10 minutes, then pour it over the eels. “Serve with sippets of toste.” The red wine seems contrary to all the principles of fish cookery but the result here is a hearty succulent dish, and after all, are eels fish?

Against tripe I fought a long but losing battle, and like many another of the defeated, now bless the victor. In the city I was accustomed and always indifferent to my husband’s weekly remark, “Tripe for lunch today,” swearing that nothing would ever get me to taste, much less cook, the horrid-looking stuff. But when we moved to the country, miles from the nearest restaurant, his hints anent his favorite dish grew so insistent that it became a question of tripe or divorce, and for a short time it was a difficult decision. The “winnah” was tripe creole, much better than a trip to Reno.

In all of the following recipes, except where noted, prepare the tripe as follows: Allow 1 pound per person, as it shrinks unbelievably in cooking. The honeycomb variety is supposed to be best but English and French cookbooks—and they should know—say that the “double fold” has the finer flavor. Either, or a mixture of both, is good. Soak the tripe in cold water for 1 hour, then cover it with fresh water and rub it between your hands just as though scrubbing the bath towel it so much resembles. This is more fun than it sounds. Now cover the tripe with water once again, add 1 sliced onion, a few peppercorns, a sprig of parsley, and bring to a boil. Cover and let simmer until very tender. To my surprise most cookbooks allow only one hour for this, but I find it always takes at least 3 hours for the tripe to reach the stage we consider perfection. Tell when it’s done by lifting a piece from the kettle with a fork, and when a sharp knife cuts through it easily, call it a day. Drain and cool. This will keep, well covered, for at least 2 or 3 days, so is one more of those handy things that can be prepared well ahead.

TRIPE CREOLE. Cut the tripe into pieces about the width and half the length of a lead pencil and let it get very hot in the creole sauce (page 95). Serve it with lots of boiled rice.

FRIED TRIPE. Beat 1 egg with 2 teaspoons of water or white wine. Season 1 cup of bread crumbs with 1 teaspoon of salt and the same of pepper. Dip the tripe, cut into squares or strips, first in the egg and then in the crumbs, and fry until brown in hot fat or cooking oil, turning each side if necessary. Drain on brown paper and serve plain or with white wine gravy (page 96), or tomato sauce (page 181).

Broiled tripe we ate first at a little Canadian hotel, entirely surrounded by retired “Colonel Blimps” and their lorgnette-carrying wives. Even the cotton-stockinged waitresses had that distantly high-nosed air generally associated with royalty, and when I humbly asked if I could have another serving of the meat, to be answered with a sniffy “Yes, modom, you may,” I felt put in my place by an expert. But the typically British food was much better than usual and the BROILED TRIPE superb. Dip palm-sized slices of cooked tripe in cooking oil or melted butter. Let drain a little and brown quickly under a hot broiler. This was served with plain boiled potatoes—Oh, those English!—and creamed onions, and it is such a fine combination that I am willing at any moment to join in “The Maple Leaf Forever.”

TRIPE À LA MODE DE CAEN us the final chord in this symphony. For six, wash, but do not cook, 6 pounds of tripe and cut it into comfortable-sized pieces. Butter a deep casserole, a big one with an inset tight-fitting lid. Put 2 slices of chopped bacon and 1 calf or pig foot (have the butcher crack it) in the bottom. Add the tripe and scatter around it 1 cup each of sliced carrot and onion, 2 chopped garlic cloves, 1 chopped celery stalk, a sprig of parsley, half a bay leaf, a pinch of thyme, and a whole clove. Add ½ cup of skinned and chopped tomatoes, or the same amount of canned, and pour in 1 cup of dry white wine and 1 cup of good brandy. This last adds to the expense but the tripe is correspondingly cheap. Add enough canned consommé or chicken broth to cover the meat, taste for salt, add a grind of pepper, and put on the lid. Now go back to childhood, mix almost 1 cup of thick flour-and-water paste, and seal the casserole with this. Bake it in a 275°–300° oven for 6 to 8 hours according to your convenience, and serve hot and bubbling from the dish it was cooked in. Some cooks say to open the casserole and remove the few bones before serving, but this loses the glorious fine flourish with which the host or hostess should cut the hard paste seal, and also deprives the anxiously awaiting guests of their rightful first whiff of the deservedly classic repast. Serve with buttered boiled potatoes and a green salad. With iced white wine also on the table, could there be a more perfect meal?

The law courts were closed on Election Day and early that clear November morning my attorney-husband and I cast our canceling votes for opposing “right parties” and started off for a whole day’s exploring of the Pennsylvania Dutch countryside. Witch signs were our passion of the moment. Finally, we arrived at Intercourse—yes, there is just such a town, find it on the map—whence we gleefully mailed unsigned but postmarked cards saying, of course, “Wish you were here,” to various friends none of whom knew we were in that part of the state. Ah, Youth! Then, exhausted by this attempt at humor and blackmail, we looked for a place to eat. The first two we tried were firmly closed; they take their politics and religions seriously in those regions. The third would serve us if we would eat the family dinner. Would we! The traditional sweets and sours were already on the table and we dove right into—hold your breath, now—pickled beets, pickled cucumbers, mustard and green tomato pickle, catsup, spiced and pickled peaches, old-fashioned cole slaw, apple butter, strawberry jam, quince honey, and, as the country auction sheets say, “other articles too numerous to mention,” coming up for air just as the waiter bore in a big steaming tureen of lusciously sauced meat and staggered in a minute later under an equally large plate of country fried potatoes. Words were inadequate, but when our Ganymede appeared with deep-dish apple pie and about a pound of bitey cheese we had recovered sufficiently to ask the name of the stew. A gargled “Rwpt” was the reply and it wasn’t until halfway home that I gave a tardy scream of comprehension.

Our colored cook heard the story and offered to provide a recipe for equally good FRICASSEED RABBIT. If possible, have the butcher split the rabbit down the back and disjoint it, although it is really just as easy to do at home as to divide a chicken. Do not wash it unless necessary. Dust the pieces with seasoned flour—1 teaspoon of salt, 1 teaspoon of pepper to each cup. Remove the rind of ¼ pound of fat salt pork and cut into small dice. Place it in a skillet over medium heat and when the meat yellows add the cut-up rabbit. Increase the heat slightly and cook, turning each piece until well browned and crusty. Stir in 2 tablespoons of the seasoned flour and let it brown a little, too. Slowly add 3 cups of water and let simmer until it starts to thicken. In another smaller pan melt 2 tablespoons of butter and brown the liver and ½ cup of chopped onion in this, mashing the liver as finely as possible. Add this to the rabbit, cover closely, and simmer until the rabbit is tender, about 1½ or 2 hours. Plain baked sweet potatoes are good with this.

Rabbit can also be cooked as in Beef à la Mode Sentimentale (page 48) for a very superior HASSENPFEFFER. Boiled noodles and beer are the side dishes here, and a rigid sense of poetic justice demands peas as well as lettuce, Peter and his family being such ruthless despoilers of both greens.

My “French” artist-uncle raved about COCKSCOMBS WITH WINE, but it took wartime rationing and an adjacent chicken farm before I attempted them. By that time the word had gone out via the country grapevine that I was writing a book and my mad request was just an anticlimax. The combs were saved each week when dressing the fowls for market, frozen in the refrigerator, and when there was a drawerful we invited appreciative gourmets to share them. Two cups will feed four people. Rinse the combs in water, drain, cover with fresh water—about 2 more cups—add 1 teaspoon of salt and a twist of the pepper grinder, and simmer 5 minutes or so, until tender. Drain and reduce the broth to 1 cup. Melt 2 tablespoons of butter in a skillet, add 1 teaspoon of finely minced celery and the same amount of minced parsley and scraped onion. Green onion tops or chives are better if you have them, for this is a delicate dish. Let them cook over a moderate heat for 5 minutes, then add 2 tablespoons of flour. When this bubbles, add the broth and 1½ cups of dry sauterne or light claret. Not the heavier Burgundy, for it kills the flavor. Simmer and stir until creamy, add the cockscombs, allow them to get thoroughly hot, and serve surrounded with toast points. We eat boiled rice and the usual green salad with this, although there may be more traditional accompaniments. But Uncle Charlie is now painting his pictures for an undoubtedly appreciative heavenly host, and lacking his encouragement here on earth, my French has descended to that of the scole of Stratford-atte-Bowe.

Convinced by now, I hope, that strange foods are not only edible, but delicious and often economical, continue your culinary explorations by searching out of the way delicatessens and hole-in-the-wall groceries for more of that something different. Put unsuccessful buys down to experience but there will be many more on the credit than the debit side. Italian stores sell herbs, sausages and cheeses that are well worth a try, as are kosher breads, pickled meats and fish, while coarse kosher salt is far more flavorful than any always-pouring iodized brand. French and Swedish groceries need no recommendation, and oh, if the German nation would concentrate only on such activities as putting more caraway seed in their pumperknickel! Even a crossroads general emporium may prove a gold mine. One tiny seashore grocery carries our favorite canned baked lima beans that superior city merchants refuse to stock, and its fisherman proprietor salts or smokes part of his catch for our year-round breakfasts. A small store in a little New York town supplies us with delicious hams.

Explore strange as well as familiar neighborhoods for eating places, too. The cop on his beat or the gas station attendant can often give better advice than roadside signs of Tea Shoppes or a book on Good Eating. We go miles out of our way to dine in a grimy coal town whose spotless restaurant was first recommended by a Polish policeman and where childish wails of “Don’t go down the mine, Daddy!” must be unknown, for the workers descend to their labors fortified by the most tremendous orders of heavenly boiled beef and featherlight dumplings.

The best Italian spaghetti I ever tasted was eaten, surprisingly, in a screened white tent strategically situated between the bingo game and the kitchen-gadget demonstration at an upstate Ohio country fair. We faithfully returned each day of the fair for all three attractions. Language difficulties made attempts to learn the spaghetti recipe unsuccessful but we were finally beckoned into the tiny cubbyhole where the Patronna cooked tomato sauce over a minute oil-burning stove, and after unintelligible compliments both sides drank toasts to international cooking and unity, in homemade red wine.

Many references to difficult-to-get herbs and other seasonings have been purposely left out of this book, for while they may add interest to a new recipe they more often interfere with its attempting. As to the depressing and too frequently recurring call for “shallots” in many cookbooks, take cheer. Again, from experience, I know that few can tell the difference between shallots and a small scrape of mild onion—and the screams of epicures, including those of my French hairdresser, fall on deaf ears as I write. Tantalized for years by this impossible-to-buy ingredient, I finally commanded sets of the bulbs at a high price from a swank New York seedsman, not a whit dismayed when the order was followed by a request for the name of our “Estate Manager.” On our Maryland farm they flourished like the wild onions they so much resemble, and each spring the fall’s forgotten bulblets produced a lush new crop. Now they are used only to impress visiting gourmets, most of whom have to be told whence comes the familiar flavor.

So go your culinary ways with confidence and without apology. Use only one standard in trying out strange foods or seasonings: that you like the result. Follow a new recipe exactly, the first time it is tried, but after that add individual touches unafraid, lightheartedly paying little attention to my or anyone else’s instructions except as they appeal to your particular taste.