FRITTERS AND SALAD
‟WHAT _are_ we going to have for supper, Daisy?” asked Nan, as, arm in
arm, they sauntered toward the cottage.
“I don’t know, I’m sure; but, Nannie, just look at those clouds,—those
gorgeous ones behind that clump of pine-trees,—all gold and pink,
pushing themselves through the green.”
“Yes, they are beautiful. The sun never sets like that at home, does
it?”
“No. Oh, here’s the vegetable-man’s cart. Wonder what he’s around so
late for? But suppose we get some of his things, ’cause I know there’s
nothing in the house to cook.”
“Yes; let’s give them a vegetable supper. They ought to have a light
meal after that hearty dinner. What shall we buy?”
“Whatever he has the freshest,” replied Marguerite, with one of her
wisest nods.
“Good afternoon, young ladies,” called out the huckster, reining up his
horse. “What’ll ye hev in my line?”
“Have you any very nice asparagus?” asked Marguerite.
“Grass? No mum; it’s a leetle late fer grass. Nice egg-plants now, or
cauliflower.”
“Oh, cauliflower!” cried Nan. “That will be fine—you can make a salad.”
“So I can,” said Marguerite; “and here’s lovely-looking corn. You make
some of your delicious corn fritters.”
“I will,” said Nan; “and let’s buy a watermelon, and then, with bread
and butter and coffee, that will be enough.”
“Seems’s if we ought to have a made dessert,” said Marguerite, as they
followed the huckster’s slowly moving vehicle to the house.
“I’ll make a snow pudding,” said Nan. “Let’s give them a real bang-up
supper.”
“All right,” said Marguerite; and the two fell to work with such vigor
that Rosie stared at them in astonishment, for she had secretly thought
this particular duet ornamental rather than useful.
“Fly round, Rosie,” said Marguerite to the smiling Irish girl. “Husk
this corn, please, and cut it carefully from the ears—we want to make
fritters. Perhaps you’d better grate it.”
“No, cut it,” said Nan; “it’s so young and tender.”
“Well, cut it, Rosie,” went on the Matron; “and then boil the
cauliflower for twenty minutes in salted water—oh, you’d better do that
before you fix the corn, so it can get ice-cold for the salad.”
“But, Rosie,” put in Nan, “first I wish you’d get out the eggs for me;
and just open this box of gelatine and put it to soak in cold water.”
“There ain’t no eggs, miss,” announced Rosie, after a search in the
cupboard.
“Oh, what a shame! I’ve set my heart on making a snow pudding. Well,
Rosie, can’t you run over to the grocer’s and get some? It won’t take a
minute.”
“Yes’m,” said the willing maid, and away she went.
“Oh, dear!” groaned Marguerite, “she didn’t put the cauliflower on to
cook; she might have done that before she started.”
“I’ll do it,” said Nan. “Is it that it must be washed?”
“Yes, of course; oh—no—I don’t know,” replied Marguerite, somewhat
vaguely. “Does it look soiled?”
“Not much,” said Nan, cheerfully; “just a few stains of good old Mother
Earth on its fair face. That won’t hurt anybody—so here goes.”
She dropped the cauliflower into a kettle of water and set it on the
stove.
“We’ll have everything served separately,” said the canny Marguerite,
“and then it will seem like more. Somehow I don’t see much around to
eat.”
“Oh, there’s plenty,” said Nan, who was weighing sugar. “Corn fritters
are hearty, you know.”
Rosie soon returned with the eggs, and the preparations went merrily on.
Nan sang and Marguerite whistled, and occasionally they bumped against
each other, and then waltzed a few turns around the kitchen.
“Now, Rosie, supply me with oil and vinegar and salt and pepper, and
I’ll whisk up this mayonnaise in a jiffy. Phew! what’s burning?”
It was the cauliflower, but luckily it was only scorched on one side.
Marguerite pared off the brown part, pronounced it done, and set it
aside to cool.
“Don’t speak to me,” cried Nan, who was wildly manipulating a Dover
beater; “this snow pudding won’t snow; it never will when I’m in a
hurry.”
“Never mind, deary; it will be just as good soft.”
“It won’t,” wailed Nan; “and Betty will make fun of it—hers are always
perfect.”
“Well, you’re perfect, so who cares about a pudding more or less? But
jiminetty! when are you going to make the corn fritters? The girls will
be here in a minute.”
“I can make corn fritters, miss. Shall I be afther doin’ ’em?” said
Rosie.
“Oh, do,” cried Nan, still beating away for dear life; “and get the
frying-pan on the stove—it wants to be awfully hot.”
And then, somehow, the things got done: the snow pudding was _nearly_ a
success; the cauliflower salad looked fine; and as for Rosie’s corn
fritters, they were of a melting golden brown that appealed very
strongly to the two hungry cooks.
“How many are there, Rosie?” asked Nan, eyeing the pile.
“Thirteen, miss; the corn wouldn’t make no more.”
“Thirteen! An unlucky number!” exclaimed Marguerite. “Nannie, let’s eat
one, and offer our friends a decent dozen.”
“All right,” said Nan, and a fritter was carefully halved and eaten with
a relish.
“Those are simply great!” said Marguerite, with a hungry glance at the
heaped-up plate. “You like them, don’t you, Rosie?”
“No, ma’am; I never touches corn in any way.”
“You don’t! Now see here, Nan; we would, of course, have left two for
Rosie, and since she doesn’t care for them, and the girls haven’t come
yet, let’s you and I eat Rosie’s share now.”
Nan willingly agreed, and the plate was further depleted by two.
Still the girls came not.
“It’s ridiculous,” said Nan, in a hesitating way, “to serve ten fritters
to eight people. One apiece seems so much more reasonable.”
“It does,” said Marguerite, solemnly nodding her pretty head. “Let us so
arrange matters that eight shall be served.”
Whereupon the cooks appropriated one more fritter apiece, and declared
that they really increased in deliciousness. Then they sat and wondered
why the girls didn’t come.
“It’s just half-past,” said Nan; “I supposed they’d be here howling
before this.”
“Do you know,” said Marguerite, “I don’t feel like waiting, and I don’t
believe they’d care if we—you and I, I mean—ate our two fritters now.
They’re so much better hot.”
“We’ll do it,” said Nan; “two of them are ours, of course.”
So two more of Rosie’s fritters had just disappeared when a barking
announced the approach of the cavalcade.
“Supper ready?” cried Betty, as they all trooped in.
“Yes,” said Marguerite, beaming with pride at her ability to answer the
question in the affirmative; “bring it in, Rosie.”
The girls seated themselves at table, and Timmy Loo waltzed gaily about
in great expectation when Rosie brought in the plate of six corn
fritters and passed it round.
“Oh, how good!” cried Marjorie, helping herself. “I just love these
things, and it’s so nice of you not to bake them all at once. They’re
lovely just off the pan. Hurry up the next lot, Rosie.”
Nan blushed and thought seriously of slipping under the table; but
Marguerite said blandly:
“Oh, these are individual fritters. There’s only one apiece, and Nan and
I ate ours before you came home. What made you so late?”
“Only one apiece!” exclaimed Betty, ignoring Marguerite’s question.
“Why, I could eat six!”
“So could I,” said Millicent; but Marguerite went on airily:
“Pooh! do you think we’re going to have nothing else? There are several
courses yet to come.”
This mollified the girls, and each ate her fritter hopefully, while Nan
and Marguerite chattered very fast to hide their rapidly growing
embarrassment.
The next course was the salad, though it did seem as if something else
ought to have preceded it.
“H’m!” said Marjorie, as the not over-bounteous-looking bowl was placed
before her. “I see the salads are also to be served individually. Mine
looks very nice.”
“No, no!” cried Nan; but Marguerite laughed gaily and said: “Why, you
girls would ruin a hotel proprietor. How _can_ you want so much to eat?
No, madam; we offer you a variety in our service. The salad is to be
served at table.”
Just then Rosie brought eight plates, and by careful division the
Duchess portioned to each about a tablespoonful of salad.
“There’s really plenty of it, after all,” said Betty, laying down her
fork after the first taste.
“Why?” said Marguerite, hurriedly trying hers. “Oh, it’s scorched, isn’t
it? Well, you see, it burned a little while it was cooking, but I
thought we scraped the burnt part all off. Queer how that scorchy taste
permeates the whole thing!”
“Take it away, Rosie,” said Marjorie; “remove the smoked salad and
delight our eyes with the next course.”
The next delicacy seemed to be a great bowl of yellow custard.
“Dessert already?” said Jessie. “Oh, perhaps we’re having one of those
backward dinners. I’ve read about them. You begin with coffee and end
with soup, you know.”
“I love custard,” said Millicent. “What do we eat it on?”
“It’s—it’s a snow pudding,” faltered Nan.
“Oh, so it is,” cried Millicent, “and the snow has all melted.”
“I think it’s down underneath,” Nan went on hopefully.
“Of course it must be,” replied teasing Millicent. “Get the snow-shovel;
perhaps we can dig it up.”
However, the dessert was all eaten, for a snow pudding tastes good even
when its shape is not all that could be desired.
“What, something else?” cried Millicent, as Rosie appeared with a pile
of fresh plates. “You astonish me! Girls, you really oughtn’t to
overfeed us in this mad fashion. A watermelon, as I live!”
The great green melon was hailed with delight by all, and, except that
it was a bit warmish from having traveled about in the sun all day, it
was pronounced extremely satisfactory. Coffee followed, and Betty
remarked that that made up in quality and quantity for what the other
courses had lacked in both.
“Some of the things _didn’t_ turn out quite right,” admitted Marguerite,
“but you had quite enough of them. You can’t expect the lavishness of a
Nero on five dollars a week.”
“Let’s go in the Grotto and write in the ‘Whitecap,’” said Helen, who
always interposed when Betty and Marguerite began a discussion.
So into the Grotto they went, and while Helen picked at her banjo, and
Nan and Jessie sang, the others made up rhymes for their book.
After some struggles, in which Marguerite joined with as much good will
as the others, they produced this masterpiece, which they read aloud to
the musicians, who applauded most heartily:
OMELET’S SOLILOQUY
BY THE COOK
To fry or not to fry; that is the question—
Whether ’tis better in this pan to sizzle
A scarce and scanty lot of small corn fritters,
And by devouring end them. To fry, to brown,
No more. And by this dish to say we fill
Our suffering companions and ourselves.
Fritters and salad! ’Tis a combination
Devoutly to be wished. To fry, to brown,
To brown, perchance to burn, aye, there’s the rub,
For in that kitchen range what flames may come
When we have shoveled on this mortal coal.
But who would want the roasts of beef or lamb,
The apple-pie, Welsh rarebit, deviled crabs,
The quail on toast, or duck with canvasback,
When he might such a royal dinner make
With a corn fritter? Who would these dainties wish,
And run the risk of nightmare or of gout?
And so the thought of soda-mints to come
Impels us to be careful what we eat,
And makes us rather bear the ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus indigestion doth make cowards of all.
And so instead of rich meringues and pastry,
Instead of oysters, terrapin, or pie,
Give us a single fritter!