FOREWORD

That the average parent is blind to the faults of its offspring is a fact so obvious that in attempting to prove or controvert it time and logic are both wasted.  Ill temper in a child is, alas! too often mistaken for an indication of genius; and impudence is sometimes regarded as a sign of precocity.  The author, however, has honestly striven to avoid this common prejudice.  This book, the child of his brain, and experience, extending over a long period of time and varying environment, he frankly admits is not without its faults—­is far from perfect; but he is satisfied that, notwithstanding its apparent shortcomings, it will serve in a humble way some useful purpose.

The recipes given in the following pages represent the labor of years.  Their worth has been demonstrated, not experimentally, but by actual tests, day by day and month by month, under dissimilar, and, in many instances, not too favorable conditions.

One of the pleasures in life to the normal man is good eating, and if it be true that real happiness consists in making others happy, the author can at least feel a sense of gratification in the thought that his attempts to satisfy the cravings of the inner man have not been wholly unappreciated by the many that he has had the pleasure of serving—­some of whom are now his stanchest friends.  In fact, it was in response to the insistence and encouragement of these friends that he embarked in the rather hazardous undertaking of offering this collection to a discriminating public.

To snatch from his daily toil a few moments, here and there, in order to arrange with some degree of symmetry, not the delicacies that would awaken the jaded appetite of the gourmet, but to prepare an ensemble that might, with equal grace, adorn the home table or banquet board, has proven a task of no mean proportions.  Encouraged by his friends, however, he persevered and this volume is the results of his effort.

If, when gathered around the festal board, in camp or by fireside, on train or ship, “trying out” the recipes, his friends will pause, retrospectively, and with kindly feelings think from whence some of the good things emanated, the author will feel amply compensated for the care, the thought, the labor he has expended in the preparation of the book; and to those friends, individually and collectively, it is therefore dedicated.

SKETCH OF MY LIFE

I was born in Murray County, Tennessee, in 1857, a slave.  I was given the name of my master, D. J. Estes, who owned my mother’s family, consisting of seven boys and two girls, I being the youngest of the family.

After the war broke out all the male slaves in the neighborhood for miles around ran off and joined the “Yankees.”  This left us little folks to bear the burdens.  At the age of five I had to carry water from the spring about a quarter of a mile from the house, drive the cows to and from the pastures, mind the calves, gather chips, etc.