For all we knew--or cared--the meat she put into her pot might have
been horse meat and the garnishments such green things as she had
plucked at the roadside; but the flavour of the delectable broth cured
us of any inclinations to make investigation as to the former stations
in life of its basic constituents. I am satisfied that, chosen at
random, almost any peasant housewife of France can take an old Palm
Beach suit and a handful of potherbs and, mingling these together
according to her own peculiar system, turn out a ragout fit for a
king. Indeed, it would be far too good for some kings I know of.

And if she had a worn-out bath sponge and the cork of a discarded
vanilla-extract bottle she, calling upon her hens for a little help in
the matter of eggs, could produce for dessert a delicious meringue,
with floating-island effects in it. I'd stake my life on her ability
to deliver.

If, on such an occasion as the one I have sought to describe, we were
perchance in the south of France or in the Côte-d'Or country, lying
over toward the Swiss border, we could count upon having a bait of
delicious strawberries to wind up with. But if perchance we had fared
into one of the northeastern provinces we were reasonably certain the
meal would be rounded out with helpings of a certain kind of cheese
that is indigenous to those parts. It comes in a flat cake, which
invariably is all caved in and squashed out, as though the
cheese-maker had sat upon it while bringing it into the market in his
two-wheeled cart.

Likewise, when its temperature goes up, it becomes more of a liquid
than a solid; and it has an aroma by virtue of which it secures the
attention and commands the respect of the most casual passer-by. It is