Bancroft School - Blue Moon Yearbook (Worcester, MA)

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34 THE BLUE MOON thinking that a few new pans might be advisable, gave Andre permission to go to New York and buy what he wanted. But she knew better next time. The following day the postman was kept busy delivering packages: and by the time they had all arrived, we began to wonder if we would have to move to a larger house. Not only had Andre bought one of everything in sight, but he had also bought one of everything in every conceivable size and shape. Mother objected. Mais, Madame, je les en ai besoinf' said Andre, and Mother relented. I have seen him prepare a chicken using five different sized knives for various bones and pieces. He knew how to cook as only French chefs do, and for that Mother was thankful: but Andre also had his lapses. At times he would forget that he was not in the kitchen at the Ritz and would prepare enough for fifteen people, while we were only three. Mother told him to save what was left over when there was enough: but Andre said he did not want to mess up his ice-box with scraps. They finally decided to compromise and get chickens. This may sound absurd, but the connection lies in the fact that we would profit from the eggs and the chickens themselves, and Andre could feed them the left-overs. Peace reigned temporarily: and the chickens thrived equally well on baked beans or caramel custard. Andre was an amiable and loquacious fellow, and I often wandered toward the kitchen to visit with him. He always had a bit of local gossip to impart to me, or an amusing narrative to relate about his experiences. He enjoyed exhibiting for my benefit the veree best way to prepare certain complicated but delectable dishes. Father also used to drop into the kitchen to talk with him: and Andre was always glad to serve Father's favorite delicacy whenever asked. g An incident which brought out Andre's harmless pride was the killing of the cat. Father, who is exceedingly fond of birds, had noticed a cat perilously near his winged friends, and decided to get rid of it on the spot. He took his rifle and aimed, but unhappily he missed. Andre, unobserved, had been watching the procedure from the the kitchen window. Half an hour later I heard a sharp squeal, and ran outside to see what had happened. There wias Andre stationed by the unfortunate cat whose life he had ended by a blow from his potato masher. It was many weeks before he forgot that he had for once succeeded where Monsieur had failed. Andre was interested in our guests as well as our family. Naturally he knew that he was an excellent chef, but he beamed and glowed all over When- ever anyone complimented him on the perfection of his meals. Once a certain dish had been praised, he would .always remember that it was Mr. White who was so fond of macaroons, and Miss Lawrence who just loved his chocolate souflle. Much of Andres time was spent in his kitchen. Sometimes we would find him scrubbing the floor or making preserves at eleven o'clock at night. But

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THE BLUE MOON 33 Returning from Sunday School, I would inevitably lind the faithful Margaret whacking ice in a brown cloth bag. She would groan and grunt, murmuring indignation over this Sunday dessert-making, and would acquiesce readily to my offer to churn it. That was the fun! .lust to sit and churn- and churn - watching the salt dissolve with the melting ice, and pondering how I could open the can for a sample without endangering it with the enveloping salty ice and water, a not unknown tragedy in the case of home-made ice cream. But at last the job would be finished. Then two hours until dinner was announced, and an interminable time, it seemed, before the eagerly awaited last course was served. The pink, yellow, and blue figured bowl steaming from its frozen contents was at last set in front of me. I can still taste the fresh strawberries, and feel the smooth cream sliding deliciously down my throat. Is there anything better than ice cream made at home? Sandwiches, salads, punch, puddings, candies, cakes: he is indeed a generous host who supplies any kind of refreshments. But when you do a thing, 'ADO it up brown, say I, serve ice cream! AMY LUCINDER LYSETH, 1932 ANDRIE ANDRE had been courting our French maid in his own gallant fashion for many months, and had ultimately persuaded her to marry him. I attended the marriage ceremony, a purely legal and unromantic affair, and was disappointed not only in Maria's wedding, but also in her husband. The newly-married couple secured a position in Florida for the summer but migrated North to work for us in the fall. When I saw Andre in our kitchen, I observed him carefully for the first time. A stocky man just over five feet tall, with muscular arms swinging ape-like at his sides, a small bullet-shaped head encircled by a fringe of brown hair upon which rested a starched chef's cap-that was Andre. As he smiled, I perceived a few widely separated teeth beneath his small mustache: his eyes visible behind uncommonly thick lenses, smiled too. Bonjour Mademo:'seIlel Du cafe ou du Init? Milk, please! And immediately Andre began discoursing upon the incomparable virtues of that beverage. He lit a Lucky Strike- Zey are better for ze sroat -and began to make breakfast. In the midst of buttering the toast, he commenced to sing Marie Madelaine in a rich baritone voice, stopping only to wipe his hands on his large white apron before he started preparing the cereal to Gounod's Berceuse. Andre felt at home. ' People often feel at home although the home does not suit them perfectly. Before Andre had resided with us many days, he had a list of utensils needed to make his culinary accomplishments the height of perfection. Mother,

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THE BLUE MOON 35 his work completed, he would eagerly sit down to an evening of poker playing: and then his wife had an arduous task getting him to bed. In the summer he loved the beach. He was neither good at aquatic sports nor beautiful in a striped bathing suit: but he would hurry through his work so that he might get a swim before dark. He always reminded me of a beetle walking on its hind legs, and then plunging into the water and splashing about to see how much foam it could make. Except for week-ends, we spent the winter months in the city. Upon going to the country for one of these week-ends we discovered that Andre was the proud possessor of a car. It did not matter that it was a dilapidated 1920 model Dodge, which could barely make thirty-Hve miles an hour, so long as it was a car. Because of his poor eye-sight, Andre was skeptical about getting a license, but he knew one of the policemen who let him pass the test. Although he had driven an ambulance in the war, Andre was not a very reliable driver, and before he had owned a car a month, it was completely demolished in an accident. This mishap, however, did not daunt him, and he promptly bought a 1923 Buick touring car for fifty dollars. If we needed half a pound of butter, Andre would scuttle out to his car, jump in, and drive the two blocks to the grocery store and back, returning with the half pound of butter, and an expression which seemed to say, Did you see me make that curve down there? I really think my car and I are quite remarkable. We thought so too, because we never were quite sure whether he would make the curve. Being familiar with his impulsiveness and impractical judgment, Mother made me promise never to drive with him: and, although it may seem strange, I obeyed, because I valued my life. However, when Mother tried to extract a similar promise from Father, he only laughed, little realizing LI presumeb how genuinely worried Mother was all the time Andre was pompously perched upon a pillow chauffeuring Father around town. During the three years I have known this man, I have learned more and more about him: but I do not think I shall ever completely understand him or know what to expect next. Kind-hearted, loyal, and sedulous, he is also impulsive, stubborn, and rash. There is hardly a person in town who does not know Andre, and although they are not so close to him as we are, they all like him for his individuality and enthusiasm, and admire him for his ability. LESLIE BAER, 1932