So much has been done in the production of food. Look at our beautiful tomatoes. Look at the care and attention that go into the cultivation of chickens and turkeys. Beautiful creatures they are, too. Of course, they no longer have any taste.

Sadly I think back on the chicken noodle soup my mother used to cook. It started with a real stewing hen, not pieces of pullets. She made the noodles from scratch and even after she’d skimmed the fat from the soup it sparkled in the bowls like diamonds.

The last time I had a stewing hen in my kitchen it had to be ordered, cost more than a turkey and was so tough that eating it provided a wartime experience.

As for eggs &045; what are termed &uot;jumbo eggs&uot; now wouldn’t have made it as &uot;mediums&uot; in my younger days. A couple of nights ago, feeling hungry and realizing I hadn’t had my nightly meal, I decided a scrambled egg sandwich might take care of the situation.

As I took the eggs out of the refrigerator, glancing at the package to make sure they were the right date, I read on the egg carton the following message: &uot;Keep refrigerated. Cook until yolks are firm.&uot;

&uot;Firm yolks!&uot; I’ll tell you something, you show me a fried, poached, soft-boiled or coddled egg with a firm yolk and I’ll show you an egg that is for all purposes inedible.

My favorite dessert is an ice-box creation that my mother used to make from crushed pineapple, vanilla wafers, whipped cream, creamed sugar and raw eggs.

I’d like to share it with my friends, but raw eggs now are verboten.

When I was growing up I heard little about the presentation of food. The entree and following course came to the table on festive occasions in the best china, looking beautiful, smelling magnificent and tasting even better. I don’t recall in my childhood anything special in the way of presentation.

You have to realize that for a woman devoid of manual dexterity, presentation has its difficulties. I do, however, recall one outstanding success. It took place about this time of year. A simple little Sunday night supper it was.

I had invited a friend and two of his friends, and secure in the knowledge that I was keeping it simple, looked forward to the evening. Welsh rabbit, hot rolls and tiny sausages were on the menu. All three of my guests, though, were artists, and I wanted a presentation.

Closely copying a picture in a Better Homes and Gardens cookbook, I came up with a salad that I can only regard as a victory. It consisted of a ring of green Jell-O, decorated with a variety of canned fruit so it looked exactly like a Christmas wreath. For once it turned out like the one in the book. I was that proud!

Just before we ate, the woman among the guests asked for direction to my convenience. It opens off from a hall just outside the dining room. I turned on the light, motioned her on her way, and set the table, my beautiful salad as a centerpiece.

She was long in coming back. A little uneasy, I went to check up on her. For some strange reason she had not taken the turn into the bathroom, but had gone straight down the basement steps at the end of the hall. It was a terrible moment when I switched on the basement light and saw her lying on the landing.

I rushed down, implored her to be all right and asked her what I could do for her. A woman of the utmost gentility, as I knew her to be, she rather surprised me by opening her eyes, giving me a dark look and saying clearly, &uot;You can get the hell away from me.&uot;

Not knowing quite what to do, I went back upstairs as quietly as possible and gently broke the news to her husband that Opal was lying on the basement landing. He and the other guest dashed down and brought her up. I can no longer remember whether her ankle was broken or merely sprained.

She was an extremely good sport about it. Sat at the table with the rest of us and made a full meal. We ate all the salad. No one said anything about it, though. I didn’t resent Opal falling down the basement stairs. I’m sure she didn’t do it intentionally. Had I known, thought, that she’d had it in mind I’d never wasted so much time on that salad.

Love Cruikshank is an Albert Lea resident. Her column appears Thursdays.