BROILING A LOBSTER.
MR. SMITH'S appetite sometimes takes an epicurean turn, and then we
indulge in a lobster, calf's-head soup, terrapins, or something of
that sort.
Once upon a time, he sent home a lobster. I did not feel very well
that day, and concluded to leave the cooking of the animal to a new
girl that I had taken a week or two before, on a strong
recommendation. She claimed to be a finished cook, and her
testimonials were distinct on that head.
"Kitty," said I, "Mr. Smith has sent home a lobster, I believe?"
I had summoned the girl to my room.
"Yes, ma'am," she replied. "Is it for dinner?"
"Of course it is; and you must see that it is well cooked."
Kitty lingered a few moments, as if not entirely satisfied about
something, and then retired to the kitchen.
"I wonder if she knows how to boil a lobster?" said I to myself.
But then, the remembrance that she had come to me as a finished
cook, crossed my mind, and I answered, mentally, my own question, by
saying:
"Of course she does."
Not long afterwards, I went to the dining-room, which was over the
kitchen. I had been there only a little while, when I heard an
unusual noise below, followed by an exclamation from Kitty--
"Oh! murderation! I can't cook the straddling thing. I wonder what
Mr. Smith brought it home alive for!"
I was, of course, all attention now, and going to the top of the
stairs, stood listening to what was going on below.
"There now. Lie still!" I heard Kitty say. This was followed by a
rattling of tongs, or some other iron implements, and a rapid
shuffling of feet.
Curious to know what was going on, I stepped lightly down the
stairs, and through the open door had a full view of both Kitty and
the lobster.
Live coals had been raked out upon the hearth. Over these was placed
a gridiron, and on this not very comfortable bed Kitty was
endeavoring to force Mr. Lobster to lie still and be cooked. But
this he was by no means inclined to do; and no sooner did she place
him on the heated bars, than he made his way off in the quickest
possible time. Then she caught hold of him with the tongs, restored
him to his proper position on the gridiron, and with poker and tongs
strove to hold him there.
As the lobster, a second and a third time, struggled free of Kitty's
tongs and poker, I could no longer restrain myself, but burst forth
into a loud fit of laughter. By the time this subsided, his
lobstership was in the middle of the kitchen floor. Picking him up,
I threw him into a pot of boiling water, and then retreated from the
kitchen, so convulsed with laughter that I could not utter a word.
Kitty did not soon hear the last of her attempt to broil a lobster.