''Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat'

 My native good cheer has been somewhat dented this past couple of days by a dreary saga involving the non-delivery of some bathroom flooring. However, it's summer, the days are long, the nights short and, in contrast with last year, the weather has been properly summery and the butterflies are out in decent numbers (especially Commas just now). With temperatures reliably in the 20s most of the time, these are salad days. So here is the Rev. Sydney Smith's ' Recipe for a Salad' – 

To make this condiment your poet begs
The pounded yellow of two hard boiled eggs;
Two boiled potatoes, passed through kitchen sieve,
Smoothness and softness to the salad give;
Let onion atoms lurk within the bowl,
And, half suspected, animate the whole;
Of mordant mustard add a single spoon,
Distrust the condiment that bites so soon;
But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault
To add a double quantity of salt;
Four times the spoon with oil from Lucca crown,
And twice with vinegar, procured from town;
And lastly, o’er the flavoured compound toss
A magic soupçon of anchovy sauce.
O green and glorious! O herbaceous treat!
’T would tempt the dying anchorite to eat;
Back to the world he ’d turn his fleeting soul,
And plunge his fingers in the salad-bowl;
Serenely full, the epicure would say,
“Fate cannot harm me,—I have dined to-day.”

Famous for his wit and wisdom, Smith was prone to what he called 'low moods', and his advice to those similarly afflicted was to steer clear of 'poetry, dramatic representation (except comedy), serious novels, melancholy sentimental people, and everything likely to excite feeling or emotion not ending in active benevolence'. Fair enough, and still better was his advice to a friend to 'take short views of human life – not further than dinner or tea'. Wise words. 
   'Recipe for a Salad' sparked a faint memory of another jeu d'esprit – an elaborate recipe for something or other which ends along the lines of 'mix all the ingredients together and throw out of the window'. Is it Dorothy Parker or someone? I can't trace it. Anyone?