What a
wonder it is the English common people call the stomach a
bread-basket, for it has no meanin' there. They should have called it
a meat-tray, for they are the boys for beef and mutton. But with us
it's the identical thing. They clear the table in no time, it's a
grand thing, for it saves the servants trouble. And a steak, and a
dish of chops, added to what the ladies had, is grand. The best way to
make a pie is to make it in the stomach. But flour fixins piping hot
is the best, and as their disgestion ain't good, it is better to try a
little of everything on table to see which best agrees with them. So
down goes the Johnny cakes, Indian flappers, Lucy Neals, Hoe
cakes--with toast, fine cookies, rice batter, Indian batter, Kentucky
batter, flannel cakes, and clam fritters. Super-superior fine flour is
the wholesomest thing in the world, and you can't have too much of it.
It's grand for pastry, and that is as light and as flakey as snow when
well made. How can it make paste inside of you and be wholesome? If
you would believe some Yankee doctors you'd think it would make the
stomach a regular glue pot. They pretend to tell you pap made of it
will kill a baby as dead as a herring. But doctors must have some
hidden thing to lay the blame of their ignorance on. Once when they
didn't know what was the matter of a child, they said it was water in
the brain, and now when it dies--oh, they say, the poor thing was
killed by that pastry flour.
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