Note 77 — ELLEN TERRY
Reading edition
“It was a chicken! Now, as all the chickens had names—Sultan, Sultan, Duke, Lord Tom Noddy, Lady Teazle, and so forth—and as I was very proud of them as living birds, it was a great wrench to kill one at all, to start with. It was the murder of Sultan, not the killing of a chicken. However, at last it was done, and Sultan deprived of his feathers, floured, and trussed. I had no idea how this was all done, but I tried to make him ‘sit up’ nicely like the chickens in the shops.
“He came up to the table looking magnificent—almost turkey-like in his proportions.
“‘Hasn’t this chicken rather an odd smell?’ said our visitor.
“‘How can you!’ I answered. ‘It must be quite fresh—it’s Sultan!’
“However, when we began to carve, the smell grew more and more potent.
“I had cooked Sultan without taking out his in’ards!
“There was no dinner that day except bread-sauce, beautifully made, well-cooked vegetables, and pastry like the foam of the sea. I had a wonderful hand for pastry.”