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Frangipanni-Frangipane

A strange trait it is, but civilized humanity always seems to be ashamed of its subjection to the necessity of eating, and is always ready either to quarrel with its bread and butter or laugh at it. So strong is this tendency, that only a very few authors of the utmost independence and decided power have cared to treat of matters of food and drink in a serious manner. The nation that is credited with being the most highly civilized in Europe, finding that all its civtlization did not redeem it from the necessity of eating, made the best of the difficulty, and elevated the entire matter to a point of respect, which the other peoples acknowledge whether they understand or not. But, "Oh, if we could only live without eating!" is the common aspiration still. Some fanciful story tellers have imagined people living on air alone; quaffing the rich south wind as real people quaff wine. Others have come down a little lower, from airy nothings to trifles light as air. "That suits me exactly," says one of Disraeli's ladies, "I am a great foe to dinners, and, indeed, to all meals. I think when the good time comes we shall give up eating in public, except, perhaps, fruit on a green bank, with music." "It is a pity, my lord," says one of Bulwer's characters, "that we do not serve perfumes at dessert; it is their appropriate place. In confectionery (delicate invention of the Sylphs,) we imitate the forms of the rose and the jessamine; why not their odors, too?" "It is an exquisite idea of yours," said he, "and the next time you dine here we will have perfumes."

It seems likely enough that this very conceit grew out of the name, frangipane, by which the cream or custard used for filling puffs is known to French cooks. Thackeray, who names a cook Champignon, at the same time calls a milliner Mademoiselle Frangipanni.

Frangipanni was as common a perfume, it appears, as eau-de-cologne is now. Savarin, examining the causes of obesity, finds his fat neighbors showing a partiality for such things as tourte de frangipane, which in English is cream pie. Worcester finds that both these are one word, the Italian being frangipanna, frangipane the French, but that it means two things--a perfume of jasmine, and milk boiled down thick and mixed with almonds. So, as Tommy Traddles would say, "There you are!" The people had a perfume which they admired, but it would not satisfy hunger; they made an almond cream and thought it so good they named it perfume. An obvious compromise between etherial longings and material needs. And thus it is the art of cookery meets every requirement, even of the delicate people who really eat nothing at all. Whatever it may have been, the frangipane of the present time is not made with condensed milk, and the nearest approach to the old definition is a receipt that directs almond macaroons to be broken up in it. The compounds carrying the name are all made with flour, and the flavors vary.