I feel, however, that in all these reminiscences I am straying
widely from the point which was before my mind when I began this
chapter, and that is the delusiveness of a cookery book. No book
which I have ever seen tells you, for instance, how to boil rice
properly. They all insist that the grains must be white and dry and
separate, but they omit to describe the process by which these
results can be attained. They tell you what you are to do with your
rice after it is boiled, but not how to boil it. The fact is, I
suppose, that the people who write such books began so early to be
cooks themselves, that they forget there ever was a time when such
simple things were unknown to them.

Even when I had, after many failures, mastered the art of boiling
rice, and. also of making an excellent curry,--for which
accomplishment I was indebted to the practical teaching of a
neighbour,--there used still to be misfortunes in store for me. One
of these caused me such a bitter disappointment that I have never
quite forgotten it. This was the manner of it. We were without
servants. My readers must not suppose that such was our chronic
condition, but when you come to change your servants three or four
times a year, and have to "do" for yourself each time during the
week which must elapse before the arrival of new ones, there is an
ample margin for every possible domestic misadventure. If any doubt
me, let them try for themselves.

On this special occasion, which proved to be nearly the last, my
mind was easy, for the simple reason that I was now independent of
cookery books. I had puzzled out all the elementary parts of the
science for myself, and had no misgivings on the subject of potatoes
or even peas. So confident was I, and vain, that I volunteered to