Reading and writing come to me easy. I learn my letters as follows: A for asparagus, asperges au beurre fondue (though never, for my mothers sake, with a sauce batarde); B for boeuf, baron of, roasted mostly, with a pouding Yorkshire patriotically sputtering away beneath it in the dripping pan; C for carrots, carrottes, choufleur, camembert and so on, right down to Zabaglione, although I often wonder what use the X might be, since it figures in no cooks alphabet.

And I stick as close to that kitchen as the cro?te to a paté or the mayonnaise to an oeuf. First, I stand on that stool to my saucepans; then on an upturned bucket; then on my own two feet. Time passes.

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