I can't rightly say, at this juncture (almost said 'at this point in time', an expression I decry whenever it is used, far too often as it happens, by newscasters on television, or by politicos of all stripes), that there have been, this past week, any project which I can lay claim to having completed, unless you are willing to count, as the committee ladies who attended a meeting hosted by my wife did when they took time out to enjoy it, that is to say, the platter of cheese toast that I had prepared for them, and that most were later kind enough to inform me was indeed delicious and certainly comparable to what they remembered having been served back in our younger days when we all were members of a certain club whose kitchen staff then had a consistently good reputation for this sort of snack, which, though there was no recipe for me to follow, I was fortunate enough through a series of trials and errors to closely approximate in our own kitchen, the project itself, though it was a simple one, requiring a certain amount of time and care in preparation, seeing that two different cheeses were involved, both finely hand-grated, blended with English dry mustard, milk, sugar, two eggs, a quarter cup of flour and a teaspoonful of baking soda, the mixture then being spread on sliced bread which had been diagonally cut into triangles, to end up in a broiler-oven (preferably one with a convection broiler for more even cooking) set at four hundred and fifty degrees Fahrenheit, where the cooking time would be in the neighborhood of a half- minute or so but you really must keep a close eye on the toast to be sure it does not get incinerated.
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