roly-poly pudding. Next to these failures I think the bread was my
greatest misfortune; it went wrong from the first. One night I had
prepared the tin dish full of flour, made a hole in the midst of the
soft white heap, and was about to pour in a cupful of yeast to be
mixed with warm water (you see I know all about it in theory), when
a sudden panic seized me, and I was afraid to draw the cork of the
large champagne bottle full of yeast, which appeared to be very much
"up." In this dilemma I went for F---. You must know that he
possesses such extraordinary and revolutionary theories on the
subject of cooking, that I am obliged to banish him from the kitchen
altogether, but on this occasion I thought I should be glad of his
assistance. He came with the greatest alacrity; assured me he knew
all about it, seized the big bottle, shook it violently, and
twitched out the cork: there was a report like a pistol-shot, and
all my beautiful yeast flew up to the ceiling of the kitchen,
descending in a shower on my head; and F--- turned the bottle upside
down over the flour, emptying the dregs of the hops and potatoes
into my unfortunate bread. However, I did not despair, but mixed it
up according to the directions given, and placed it on the stove;
but, as it turned out, in too warm a situation, for when I went
early the next morning to look at it, I found a very dry and crusty
mass. Still, nothing daunted, I persevered in the attempt, added
more flour and water, and finally made it up into loaves, which I
deposited in the oven. That bread _never_ baked! I tried it with a
knife in the orthodox manner, always to find that it was raw inside.
The crust gradually became several inches thick, but the inside
remained damp, and turned quite black at last; I baked it until
midnight, and then I gave it up and retired to bed in deep disgust.
I had no more yeast and could not try again, so we lived on biscuits
and potatoes till the dray returned at the end of the week,