"I can use you.

You don't have to be cooked, bless your hearts! But _you_--!" Billy scowled at the beefsteak and ran her finger down the index of the "Bride's Helper"-- Billy knew how to handle that book now.
"No, you don't--not for me!" she muttered, after a minute, shaking her finger at the tenderloin on the table.

"I haven't got any 'hot coals,' and I thought a 'gridiron' was where they played football; though it seems it's some sort of a dish to cook you in, here--but I shouldn't know it from a teaspoon, probably, if I should see it.

No, sir! It's back to the refrigerator for you, and a nice cold sensible roast leg of lamb for me, that doesn't have to be cooked.

Understand?
_Cooked_," she finished, as she carried the beefsteak away and took possession of the hitherto despised cold lamb.
Once more Billy made a mad search through cupboards and shelves.