But I had meanwhile grown out of
childhood into boyhood, and a boy, whether he will or no, feels
honor-bound manfully to take everything that comes along, even if his
own deepest nature revolts against it. That the prospect of rice
pudding with raisins in it was a contributing factor in this comedy of
bravery, I am unable to say, for fond as I am of good things to eat, I
was always, during the weeks just preceding Christmas, half upset by
the smell of hot grease that drifted through the house. At least I
never had what could be called a really good appetite during this
period, despite the fact that it would have been particularly worth
while just then. Especially would such have been the case when, as
usually happened about the first of December, a stag was sent in from
the chief forester's and was hung up, eviscerated, as game usually is,
against the gable end of the servants' house. Day after day the cook
would go to this horrible gable ornament and cut out, first the
haunch, then the shoulders and legs, with the result that we always
heaved a sigh of relief when the glory of this venison was a thing of
the past.
A far happier time was the baking week, which began with spice-nuts
and sugar cookies, and ended with bretzels, wreath-cakes, and cakes
baked on tins. Not only were we admitted to the bakeroom, where there
was a most alluring odor of bitter almonds and grated lemons; we also
received, as a foretaste of Christmas, a bountiful supply of little
cake-rolls, baked especially for us children.
Pages:
584
585
586
587
588
589
590
591
592
593
594
595
596
597
598
599
600
601
602
603
604
605
606
607
608