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Cooking is revelation and creation; and a woman can find special satisfaction in a successful cake or a flaky pastry, for not every one can do it: one must have the gift.
— Cooking
Cooking is revelation and creation; and a woman can find special satisfaction in a successful cake or a flaky pastry, for not every one can do it: one must have the gift.
Cookery is become an art, a noble science; cooks are gentlemen.
And nearer as they came, a genial savourThings which in hungry mortals' eyes find favour.
Yet smelt roast meat, beheld a huge fire shine,And cooks in motion with their clean arms bared.
I seem to you cruel and too much addicted to gluttony, when I beat my cook for sending up a bad dinner. If that appears to you too trifling a cause, say for what cause you would have a cook flogged.
A cook should double one sense have: for heShould taster for himself and master be.
Oh, better no doubt is a dinner of herbs,He gets up as ill-tempered as when he sat down.
'Tis burnt; and so is all the meat.And serve it thus to me that love it not?
He that will have a cake out of the wheat must needs tarry the grinding. Ay, to the leavening: but here's yet in the word "hereafter" the kneading, the making of the cake, the heating of the oven and the baking: nay, you must stay the cooling too, or you may chance to burn your lips.
No one here will be surprised to hear me say that the Promethean fire which first raised humanity above the animal was the cooking fire.
God sends meat, and the Devil sends cooks.
Every investigation which is guided by principles of nature fixes its ultimate aim entirely on gratifying the stomach.
Great pity were it if this beneficence of Providence should be marr'd in the ordering, so as to justly merit the Reflection of the old proverb, that though God sends us meat, yet the D— does cooks.
Hallo! A great deal of steam! the pudding was out of the copper. A smell like a washing-day! That was the cloth. A smell like an eating-house and a pastrycook's next door to each other, with a laundress's next door to that. That was the pudding.
Ever a glutton, at another's cost,But in whose kitchen dwells perpetual frost.
Heaven sends us good meat, but the devil sends us cooks.
Digestion, much like Love and Wine, no trifling will brook:The Emperor made history—and no one blamed the cook.
Of herbs, and other country messes,Which the neat-handed Phillis dresses.
The vulgar boil, the learned roast, an egg.
I never strove to rule the roast,She ne'er refus'd to pledge my toast.
A crier of green sauce.
He ruleth all the rosteWith bragging and with boste.
The waste of many good materials, the vexation that frequently attends such mismanagements, and the curses not unfrequently bestowed on cooks with the usual reflection, that whereas God sends good meat, the devil sends cooks.
Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl,And, half-suspected, animate the whole.
This Bouillabaisse a noble dish is— In that one dish of Bouillabaisse.
Very astonishing indeed! strange thing!""How, how the devil got the Apple in?
