The Donaldsonville Chief

Confessions of a Meddling Husband.

It was about the buckwheat cakes. I told Maria any fool could beat her making those cakes, and she said I had better try it. So I did. I emptied the batter all out of the pitcher one evening, and set the cakes myself. I got the flour and the salt and the water and warmed the paste, put in a liberal quantity of eggs and shortening. I shortened with tallow from roast beef, because I could not find any lard. The batter did not look right. I lighted my pipe and pondered—yeast—yeast, to be sure. I had forgotten the yeast. I went and woke up the baker and got six cents' worth of yeast. I set the pitcher behind the sitting-room stove, and prepared to enjoy my triumph; but I didn't. That was yeast strong enough to raise the dead; the batter was running all over the carpet. I scraped it up and put it into another dish. Then I got a fire in the kitchen and put on the griddle. The first lot of cakes stuck to the griddle. The second dittoed, only more. Maria came down and asked what was burning. She advised me to grease the griddle. I did it. One end of the griddle got too hot, and I dropped the thing on my tenderest corn while trying to turn around. Finally the cakes were ready for breakfast, and Maria got the other things ready. We sat down. My cakes did not have exactly the right flavor. I took one mouthful and it satisfied me. I lost my appetite at once. Maria would not let me put one on her plate. I think those cakes may be reckoned a dead loss. The cat would not eat them. The dog ran off and stayed three days after one was offered him. The hens won't go within ten feet of them. I threw them into the back yard, and there has not been a pig on the premises since. I eat what is put before me now, and do not allude to my mother's system of cooking.