THE MARCH WIND BLOWS.
“Well, Jane, tell us something interesting,” said Ada, as the trio sat
toasting their toes before the fire on a gusty evening in March.
Jane yawned, and the wind whistled eerily round the house.
“I can’t think of anything,” she said, after a minute or two. “My head
feels as if it were stuffed with cotton wool. I wish this wind would go
down.”
“You have not told us any anecdotes of your children for ever so long.
How are the little things getting on?”
“A detachment of volunteers came to drill in the school yard this
afternoon, and they were all longing to look out of the windows and
watch.”
“Why could you not let them?”
“Oh, they never settle down to their work properly if interruptions
like that are allowed,” said Jane, getting more wide awake.
“Are your classes full?”
“There is a great deal of illness about, and that keeps some of them at
home. The people are terribly poor. I wish I could persuade some of the
better class people about to give me orders for dinners for the poor
people. It would cost so little, and I would be very careful to give it
to those who most needed it. I ask this of everyone who happens to come
in to see the children at work, but except for a chance order now and
then, it is very difficult to get rid of the food.”
“Who buys the things that the children make?” asked Marion.
“The children are supposed to buy the things themselves; and they
generally do buy rock cakes and gingerbread and things that are of no
practical use to them. But more sensible dishes, such as stews and
soup, are very difficult to sell without outside help. There are one or
two people in some workmen’s buildings just near who buy from time to
time, and when the beef-tea lesson comes round, the vicar is very kind
in buying it for anyone who is sick. It is very difficult to get along
sometimes,” added Jane, gazing dolefully into the depths of the fire.
“I was just thinking,” said Ada meditatively, after a minute or
two’s thought; “I was just thinking if there was no one to whom we
could mention the matter, who would be glad to help. Of course, one
can understand that there are certain objections. For instance,
if it became widely known that food was given away at the cookery
school, people would be always coming in to beg, and it would be very
inconvenient. Besides, there would be so much jealousy amongst those
who did not get it, and it would be impossible to satisfy all. But I
should think a few private orders might be managed, and they would
certainly be a great help to you, Jennie, and if you told the people
who came for dinners not to mention it to others, I should think it
would be all right.”
“They would not do that, I am sure,” said Jane. “They do not like it
known that they are taking charity, unless it is some widely recognised
institution like a soup-kitchen. I have often noticed that.”
“There are the Baddeleys, now; they live near your school in
Warrington Road. Do you ever see them?”
“No; I had forgotten about them. I do not think they know that I teach
up there. I will write to-night and ask them to come and see me.”
“I will write,” said Ada, patting her sister’s nut-brown head, “you are
so tired.”
“The wind has made my eyes ache.”
So Ada wrote to Mrs. Baddeley, knowing her to be a philanthropic woman,
and her appeal was warmly answered.
Mrs. Baddeley called to see Jane at her school two days after, to
her great delight. The lady in question was an old friend of their
mother’s, but they had not seen her for some time. She had heard that
the girls had come to live in London, but had not yet been to see them,
and she had had no idea that Jane was teaching so near to her.
“I had heard that cookery was taught to the children in the schools,
but I did not know exactly where. I am so pleased to come and see
the cookery kitchen, and still more to find you in it,” said the
sympathetic lady, as she sat down in a chair by the dresser and looked
round admiringly at the gleaming pots and pans which Jane’s little
scholars kept in order.
Jennie explained her difficulty to her genial friend.
“You do not have to spend your own money on the food for the classes,
do you?” asked Mrs. Baddeley.
“No; I have some given me to start the lessons with, but if I do not
sell anything for a day or two it is difficult to get along.”
“Of course, it must be, but I think I see a way out of your difficulty.
I shall be only too glad if you can manage to prepare three dinners
twice a week for some poor old people whom I try to help. I will give
you the names, and they shall call for the dishes. But I hope the
dinners will be quite plain and simple but very nourishing.”
Jane assured Mrs. Baddeley that she taught no dishes that were not
plain and simple, and mentioned such items as Exeter stew, Irish stew,
beef skirt pie, liver and bacon, and for puddings fruit in batter, milk
puddings, baked ginger puddings, and so on.
And so the compact was made; Mrs. Baddeley’s _protégées_ came for their
dinners punctually every other day at the appointed time, and the
arrangement proved equally satisfactory to all concerned.
It was now near the end of March. On looking through her dinner lists,
which she kept by her to avoid a too frequent repetition of any one
thing, Marion noticed that the time for pork would soon be at an end,
for she believed in the old saying that pork is not wholesome in any
month that has not an “r” in it. So as April was the last “r” month,
she treated her household to a nice little piece of roast loin, which
they appreciated very much. It was allowed plenty of time to cook;
about half an hour longer than a piece of beef or mutton of the same
weight would have been, and it was so well basted that the crackling
was beautifully crisp and very unlike the tough leathery pieces that
are occasionally served only to be left on the plates of those to whom
they are given. On the following day she cut up the remains into dice,
and, having purchased half a pound of chuck steak and cut it up small,
made it into a curry to which she added the remains of the pork.
This is her list for the week—
_Sunday._
Roast Ptarmigan.
Artichokes.
Baked Potatoes.
Lemon Sponge.
(_Supper._) Sardines. Brown Bread and Butter.
Cocoa.
_Monday._
Roast Pork. Apple Sauce.
Boiled Potatoes.
Stewed Prunes.
Rice Shape.
_Tuesday._
Curry and Rice.
Boiled Batter Pudding.
_Wednesday._
(_High Tea._) Sausages.
Oat Biscuits.
_Thursday._
Pea Soup.
Baked Whitings with Brown Sauce.
Sea-kale.
Cauliflower with Cheese Sauce.
_Friday._
Stuffed Sheep’s Heart with Forcemeat Balls.
Loch Lomond Pudding.
_Saturday._
Fried Liver and Bacon.
Cabbage.
Baked Potatoes.
Semolina Pudding.
Lest my readers should be startled to see sea-kale on the list, and
think that our housekeeper was forgetting her economy, I will explain
at once that it was not the expensive sea-kale at eighteenpence the
basket that one sees wrapped in blue paper in the green-grocers’ shops.
It was some sold at twopence the pound—a quite small kind—that
Marion had discovered at some local “stores” which she occasionally
frequented. It was not as delicate as the expensive kind, but it was
very nice. The salesman told her that they were the siftings of the
finer kind. The ptarmigan she bought on a day when they were for sale
very cheap, as there had been a large supply in the market, and they
hung for a day or two until they were wanted. They took so little time
to cook—about twenty-five minutes, that it was hardly more trouble to
cook them than to warm up a pie or stew as they often did on a Sunday.
The oat biscuits and the Loch Lomond pudding were both made from
recipes given some years before to Marion’s mother by a Highland lady
famous for her good things. Here they are:—
_Oat Biscuits._—Mix a teaspoonful of baking powder with six ounces
of flour; mix in four ounces of fine oatmeal with two ounces of brown
sugar; mix with beaten egg to a dough. Roll out, stamp into rounds with
a wineglass, lay on a greased tin and bake in a rather slow oven about
twenty minutes.
_Loch Lomond Pudding._—Beat a quarter of a pound of dripping to a
cream, stir in two tablespoonfuls of brown sugar, two tablespoonfuls of
raspberry jam, and half a teaspoonful of carbonate of soda; add four
ounces of flour, and lastly beat in two eggs one by one. Bake in a
buttered pie-dish about three-quarters of an hour.
The food bill for the week was certainly economical. The breakfasts on
the alternate mornings, when they did not take porridge, were dried
haddocks, Monday and Wednesday, and bacon on Friday. The haddocks
were left to soak in milk and water all night and then cooked in a
frying-pan in the milk and water until quite tender, skimmed carefully,
drained on a fish-slice, put on a hot dish that had first been rubbed
with a little piece of butter, and another bit was put on the top of
the fish. Then they were peppered and brought quickly to table.
Food account:—
£ s. d.
Two ptarmigan 0 2 0
Three and a half pounds of loin of pork 0 2 11
Half a pound of chuck steak 0 0 5
One pound of sausages 0 0 8
Four sheep’s hearts at 3½d. 0 1 2
One pound of liver 0 0 8
One and a half pounds of bacon 0 1 0
Two haddocks 0 1 0
Four small whitings 0 1 0
One pound of artichokes 0 0 1½
Celery (for flavouring) 0 0 1
One pound of onions 0 0 2
One pound of small sea-kale 0 0 2
Cauliflower 0 0 3
Cabbage 0 0 2
Nine pounds of potatoes 0 0 7
One pound of prunes 0 0 6½
Tin of potted meat 0 0 4½
Small tin of cocoa 0 0 6
Half a pound of tea 0 0 10
Eight loaves of bread 0 2 6
Milk 0 1 9
Sundries (peaflour, jam, etc.) 0 0 6
Quaker oats 0 0 6
Fat for rendering 0 0 2
One and a half pounds of butter 0 1 8
Tin of sardines 0 0 10½
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£1 2 7
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Towards the end of the month, as oranges were getting much sweeter, and
were very cheap, they made some excellent marmalade. Jane, Marion and
Abigail cut up the oranges one Saturday morning, put them in a large
earthenware pan with the right quantity of water, covered the pan and
let the contents soak all Sunday. On Monday Marion cooked it until it
was sufficiently firm and put it in jars, which she tied down on the
following day. This is her recipe—
_Orange Marmalade._—Shred finely sixteen Seville oranges, twelve sweet
ones and four lemons, carefully removing the pips as you do so, and
put them to soak in an earthenware pan with six quarts of water, cover
the pan and let it soak for forty-eight hours. Put in a stewpan or
fish-kettle with eight pounds of loaf sugar. As soon as the sugar has
melted, boil the marmalade, quickly skimming all the while for twenty
minutes, and then let it simmer until the marmalade jellies.
(_To be continued._)
* * * * *
[Illustration: “MY SPIRIT CALLING THROUGH THE DARK.”
[_From photo: Copyright 1896, by Franz Hanfstaengl, Munich._]
* * * * *
CHRONICLES OF AN ANGLO-CALIFORNIAN RANCH.
BY MARGARET INNES.