Reading and ing come to me easy. I learn my letters as folloarde); B for boeuf, baron of, roasted mostly, riotically sputtering a in ts, carrottes, c and so on, rigo Zabaglione, alten  be, since it figures in no cooks alp.

    And I stick as close to t kitce to a paté or to an oeuf. First, I stand on t stool to my saucepans; turned bucket; t. time passes.

    Life in te mansion floranquil stream, only convulsing into turbulence once a year and t t fuss enoug, o set us by the ears.

    Alt to be tences of eaceric of our beings,  of to life like Sleeping Beauty rut on so  t terruption of our routine. e s out tniglefolk forced by reduced circumstances to take paying guests into te cuisine, forget it; sandwic is sandwiches.

    And never again, ever again, a special request for a soufflé, lobster or otouc, moody, distracted, and, even ter soufflé all ter, boil it alive, beat tc. etc. etc., as if tual t  of t t question mark from  ime. Or, per sruct t, most savoury soufflé t ever lobster graced; but nobody arrived to eat it and none of tc. So, fifteen times in all, t t soufflé.

    Until, one fine October day, t rising over team off a consommé, taking last y meals like condemned men, my mot last rey arrives and as it does algic he lys de France.

    o  dory slab  my maker,  t broods about her.

    But rots into tco pick up t of ice ttles   a beardless boy of ries to quizz s of some otical valet rol of t understand ime in all .

    First, s for s, s for