And now let me tell you of a way to prepare oysters so that they may
come under the head of stand-bys, so dear to every housekeeper. Take
two quarts of oysters and put them into a porcelain-lined saucepan
with their own liquor strained, half a grated nutmeg, a teaspoonful of
salt, a little cayenne, and half a pint of strong vinegar. Then into a
muslin bag put half a teaspoonful of cloves, two blades of mace, a
teaspoonful of allspice, and two bay leaves; put this in with the
oysters. Let them cook very slowly, stirring all the while with a
wooden spoon. As soon as they come to a boil pour them into an
earthenware jar. When thoroughly cold they are ready to serve; if they
are well covered in a cool place they can easily be kept for a week or
even longer.
* * * * *
Of late years, when the subject of home-made preserves and pickles has
been referred to in my hearing, I have been wont to assume a very
superior and quite top-lofty air, and to remark in a know-it-all tone
of voice: "Oh, life's too short for me to bother with anything like
that; give me the fruits and vegetables and all other edibles that one
can buy preserved in tin or glass the year round; they're better than
home-made nine times out of ten, they cost no more in the end, and
there's slight necessity for guesswork when you are to open a can as
to the condition of its contents." Sometimes, if I had a very
tractable audience, this would end all discussion for the time being.
At others it would fairly set the advocates of domestic preserving by
their ears, and then you may be sure they defended their cause in
good earnest. But they never induced me to go in for anything of the
sort. Still, I now have on hand a very fair array of jars and bottles
and tumblers filled with jellies and jams and pickles, and they are
home-made, and they are old-fashioned and I am proud of them. And I'll
tell you how it happened. Out in the country, three weeks or so ago, I
was passing a farmhouse where the door opening into the kitchen stood
wide open, and through that open door came a fragrant breath that
called to mind numberless sweet woodsy smells. There was in it a
suggestion of sweet fern, a reminder of bayberry, a hint of sassafras
and a distinct likeness of grapevine blossoms. And this divine odor
was conjured up, I learned, by the stewing of grapes--wild grapes, of
course; the cultivated varieties being quite out of it when it comes
to preserving. That settled it. Within twenty-four hours from that
time there was issuing from my kitchen an odor of wild grapes
a-stewing.