Trials and Confessions of a Housekeeper

remarkable thing in a good cook; and more remarkable still, was tidy

in her person, and cleanly in her work.

“She is a treasure,” said I 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