We are exceedingly pleased to note that our contemporary, _The Pall
Mall Gazette_, preaches frugality in the most practical manner
by providing a daily _menu_ card, with helpful comments on the
preparation of the viands. The time for an unrestricted dietary is
still far off, and it is a work of national importance to encourage
the thrifty use of what our contemporary calls "left-overs." Herein
we are only following ancient and honourable precedent, one of the
earliest lyrics in the language informing us that
"What they did not eat that day
The Queen next morning fried."
Our only fault with the _P.M.G._'s _chef_ is that he is inclined
to err on the side of generosity. The dinner for January 6th, for
instance, is composed of no fewer than four dishes, of which only one
is a "left-over." The bill of fare opens with "Kipper meat on toast";
it proceeds with a fine _crescendo_ to "Beef _á la jardinière_,"
followed by "Fried macaroni," and declining gracefully on "Cabinet
pudding."
"Left-over meat," as our contemporary remarks, "is more of a problem
nowadays than ever before, for, being generally imported, it is not
so tender as the pre-war home-grown meat to begin with, and the
small amounts that can be saved from the rationed joint rarely seem
sufficient for another meal." An excellent plan, therefore, would be
to provide all the members of the family with magnifying-glasses. It
is easy to believe a thing to be large when it looks large. Also there
is great virtue in calling a thing by a nutritious name. "Kipper on
toast" is not nearly so rich in carbohydrates, calories and aplanatic
amygdaloids as "Kipper _meat_." As for the preparation of "left-overs"
in such a way as to render them both appetising and palatable, "all
that need be done is to add a few vegetables and cook them over
again." And herein, as our instructor most luminously observes, "lies
one solution of the problem of quantity, for the amount of vegetables
used, if not the meat, can be measured by the size of the family
appetite." Once more the wisdom of the ancients comes to our help,
for, as it has been said, "the less you eat the hungrier you are, and
the hungrier you are the more you eat. Therefore the less you eat the
more you eat." The instructions for the preparation of a sauce for the
"Beef _á la jardinière_" seem to us rather lavish. It is suggested
that we should give the whole a good brown colour by dissolving in
it "a teaspoonful of any beef extract." Walnut juice is just as
effective. If the "left-over" is made of "silver-side," the silver
should be carefully extracted and sent to the Mint. The choice of the
vegetables must of course depend on the idiosyncrasies of the family.
In the best families the prejudice against parsnips is sometimes
ineradicable. But if chopped up with kitten meat and onions their
intrinsic savour is largely disguised. Fried macaroni, as the _P.M.G.
chef_ remarks in an inspired passage, is delicious if properly
prepared with hot milk and quickly fried in hot fat. But, on the other
hand, if treated with spermaceti or train-oil it loses much of its
peninsular charm.
Cabinet pudding, if a "left-over," should perhaps be called
"reconstruction pudding." Here again the amount of egg and sugar used
must vary in a direct ratio with the size of the family appetite.
Prepared to suit that of the family of the late Dr. TANNER, such a
dinner as the above is not merely inexpensive, it costs nothing at
all.
* * * * *
"All mules attached to the American Army in France have little
khaki bags containing gas masks fastened to the collars of their
harness. In the event of a gas attack these are slipped over their
pleading noses."--_Daily Paper_.
This, we understand, is not what the drivers call them.
* * * * *
_LÈSE-MAJESTÉ._
Our triumphal march into Germany having been arrested just west of the
Meuse, Sir DOUGLAS HAIG (through the usual channels) gave me ten days'
leave to visit the historic town of St. Omer. As I only asked for
seven-days and he gave me ten I knew there was a catch somewhere. It
appeared that the ten days was worked out on the idea that it would
take me five days to get there and five to get back. Needless to say
I ignored trains, which are a snare and delusion in these days. I
lorry-hopped. Most people would think many times before lorry-hopping
from Charleroi to Lille _viâ_ Brussels and Tournai, but there is
nothing that a man with a leave warrant in his pocket will not
do--except perhaps save money.
It was during this leave that I barged right into GEORGE, "George"
being our very own King, besides being Emperor of India.
To bridge the apparent gap between my arrival and the perturbing
catastrophe referred to, it is only necessary to add that if you enter
from the main route from Hazebrouck you will find just off the road a
convoy of some sixty dear things seeing as much life as can be beheld
while groping into the insides of the Red Cross motor ambulance which
it is their job to feed, wash, coax and drive.
I have the _entrée_ here (except when the relentless Miss Commanding
Officer chases me out for breaking the two-and-a-half rules which
govern the place), and when I admitted incautiously that the only
place on the Front that I had not seen or been frightened at was
Passchendaele, they smiled pityingly and promised to take me there on
Sunday for a joy ride. Shades of 1917! What whirligigs of circumstance
time and the armistice have brought us! It was in the joy ride we
nearly upset a dynasty.
To accomplish the journey in greater comfort, Vee and her hut
companion Sadie got hold of a perfectly good Colonel man who had a
perfectly good car and had, moreover, a perfectly good excuse to go
to Passchendaele (he was really going to Boulogne), but wanted to get
a good flying start, and we set off. We were a perfectly organised
unit, consisting of four sections (including two No. 2 Brownie
Sections), A.S.C. complement (one lunch basket), Aid Post (bandage
and thermometer, carried as a matter of course by Sadie, who thinks
of these things), a Scotch dog (mascot) and a flask of similar
nationality (medical comforts for the troops).
On our arrival at Ypres the traffic man held up his hand. That
in itself would not have been important, for we have it on great
authority that the blind eye may be employed on really special
occasions, but the fellow stood determinedly in the middle of the
road, and even traffic men, we have always insisted, should not be run
over except on great provocation.
"All traffic stopped between 12 and 2," he said; "the KING is passing
by."
We looked blankly at one another. I have an extraordinary respect for
HIS MAJESTY, but I did wish that he did more of his work by aeroplane
at times.
We ate sandwiches, selected and sited positions for sniping the royal
progress with our No. 2 Brownies and photographed everything we saw,
including an American cooker, the historic "Goldfish Chateau," and a
Belgian leading a little pig, with the inscription, "The only good
Bosch in the country"; but on the whole Ypres on a Sunday afternoon is
hardly more exciting than the "great commercial centre" of Scotland.
At intervals the Staff dashed up and spoke a word or two to the
traffic man, but they departed again and nothing happened. We _all_
had a turn at that traffic man, and what we don't know about his home
life, pre-war and probable post-war troubles, isn't worth putting
on any demobilisation paper. And each time we tackled him we got a
different idea of the KING'S movements--HIS MAJESTY must have had an
extraordinarily complex journey that day.
Suddenly we were free! The KING was going to lunch near the Cloth Hall
and would not be by till 2.30 P.M. Knowing that _any_ order emanating
from a Staff is liable to instant cancellation we rushed back to the
car and told the driver to "Go!" with the "G" hard, as in shell fire.
Whether we went round or over the traffic man I don't know, but we
slid with terrific speed into Ypres. Traffic was a little congested
round the ruined cathedral, and we barged right up against a panting
Ford, which had one lung completely gone and the other seemingly a
little porous. A stream of traffic was coming down our side of the
road; no matter, we must get on. Urged on by our advice the driver
pulled out from behind the dying Ford and tried to pass. It was
fearfully exciting. Some Staff on the bank began to wave to us.
Thinking perhaps they knew some of us, or thought the girls looked
nice, I smiled and nodded back. More Staff waved more arms. We were
awfully pleased with our reception. Still three abreast on the road,
the Ford having flickered up before death, we reached the crossroads
as a large car with a flag on it came round the corner. The car
stopped dead. So did we. The two cars glared at each other. The Ford
writhed forward hideously in its death agony. I thought I felt funny,
and when Vee whispered something about "the Royal Standard" I knew
why. Royal Standard? Good Lord! I had visions of three laboriously
acquired pips being torn from my sleeves by outraged authorities. The
air was rent by my wild yell to our driver to go on--_go on_ and carry
the Ford with us on our bonnet if necessary.
What happened next is not very clear in my memory. I have a hazy picture
of purple A.P.M.'s, of our GEORGE sitting calmly in a Rolls Royce, of
irrepressible woman poking a No. 2 Brownie against the window of our car
and trying to find a perfectly good king in a small viewfinder; of the
Colonel on my right saluting, with a fearful waggle of the hand, without
his hat on, that article having been simply swept off by my own tremendous
"circular-motion-thumb-close-to-the-forefinger-touching-the-peak-of-the-cap,
etc., etc." Through the haze I saw HIS MAJESTY graciously return our
salute and I seem to recollect Vee taking his salute as a personal
compliment to the feminine element in the car, and smiling back
delightedly in return.
The next thing I remember was that the car had passed, the traffic man
was gazing reproachfully at us, the Ford had expired and our chauffeur
had stopped his engine. I don't know what Sadie did all this time, but
since, from her position, she must have seen the whole thing in better
perspective, I don't wonder the girl looked white.
Returning to consciousness I heard Vee utter a tremendous sigh of
intense satisfaction.
"I _sniped_ him," she said, and cuddled the No. 2 Brownie
affectionately.
"Did you turn it round after the last one?" I asked suddenly.
"No, didn't you?"
And of course we hadn't. And there, in the undeveloped spool lies
HIS MAJESTY superimposed on the back of the Bosch piglet we had
photographed outside Ypres. Isn't that just the hardest of luck?
I'm going to ask if I can develop the film without running the risk of
losing my commission. After all it's not so very inappropriate, is it?