Excerpt: No man can be a hero in his own kitchen. No man with the slightest regard for domestic peace will ever permit his wife to see him cook without having outsiders present. The psychology of this is obvious. Impatient though a woman may be of her husband's attempts to show that he is a real sport and skilled in all the arts of social entertaining, before guests she is likely to manifest a modest degree of pride in his performances. Or even if slightly contemptuous she is moved to assume a chaffing attitude that adds to the general good feeling. I beg not to be confused with the type of bachelor club man who is a perfect wizard with the chafing dish. I have always viewed those birds with suspicion. Their tricks are few and easy of accomplishment-stunts with mushrooms, or chicken à la king done nonchalantly in a dinner coat. I sing my fiercest hymn of hate of those persons. My own method is to assume full charge of an orderly kitchen, removing coat and waistcoat, donning an apron and attacking the job without apology or simper or the silly pretense that I'm not sure of the result. Not sure! Except in the case of colored women cooks, who trust to inspiration and achieve miracles without, seemingly, knowing how they do 'em-except, I say, in such instances, cookery is an exact science. If you follow a good rule and know how to regulate the range and have a true eye and acute nose, failure is obliterated from the lexicon. And now for my scenario, which I stole from a lady, who in turn stole it, I dare say, from some cook book. I might pretend that I invented it, but I didn't. All I claim is that it offers an Olympian feast-particularly if you can accompany it with hot biscuits, which I admit are beyond my powers.