PART I.

[Transcriber's Note: Bold text is surrounded by =equal signs= and italic

text is surrounded by _underscores_. The text uses a Maltese Cross to

signify some recipes, this has been represented in the text by an addition

sign.]

Breakfast, Luncheon and Tea.

_“COMMON SENSE IN THE HOUSEHOLD” SERIES_

BREAKFAST, LUNCHEON AND TEA

BY

MARION HARLAND,

AUTHOR OF “COMMON SENSE IN THE HOUSEHOLD.”

NEW YORK:

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS,

1886.

COPYRIGHT, 1875, BY

SCRIBNER, ARMSTRONG & CO.

TROW’S

PRINTING AND BOOKBINDING CO.,

PRINTERS AND BOOKBINDERS,

_205-213 East 12th St._,

NEW YORK.

FAMILIAR TALKS.

PAGE

Familiar talk with the Reader—Introductory 1

“ “ “ Breakfast 61

“ “ “ Croquettes 75

“ “ “ Haste or Waste? 98

“ “ “ Gravy 141

“ “ “ Luncheon 168

“ “ “ What I know about Egg-beaters 196

“ “ “ Whipped Cream 203

“ “ “ Concerning Allowances 294

“ “ “ Ripe Fruit 308

“ “ “ Tea 356

“ “ “ Parting Words 398

“ “ “ Practical—or Utopian? 402

FAMILIAR TALK WITH THE READER.

I SHOULD be indeed flattered could I believe that you hail with as much

pleasure as I do the renewal of the “Common-Sense Talks,” to which I

first invited you four years ago. For I have much to say to you in the

same free-masonic, free-and-easy strain in which you indulged me then.

It is a wild March night. Winter and Summer, Spring-time and Autumn,

the wind sings, or plains at my sitting-room window. To-night its shout

is less fierce than jocund to my ear, for it says, between the castanet

passages of hail and sleet, that neither friend nor bore will interrupt

our conference. Shutters and curtains are closed; the room is still,

bright, and warm, and we are no longer strangers.

The poorest man of my acquaintance counts his money by the million,

has a superb mansion he calls “home,” a wife and beautiful children

who call him “husband” and “father.” He has friends by the score,

and admirers by the hundred, for human nature has not abated one jot

in prudential sycophancy since the Psalmist summed up a volume of

satirical truth in the pretended “aside”—“and men will praise thee

when thou doest well unto thyself.” For all that, he of whom I write

is a pauper, inasmuch as he makes his boast that he never experienced

the emotion of gratitude. He has worked his own way in the world, he

is wont to say: has never had helping hand from mortal man or woman.

It is a part of his religion to pay for all he gets, and never to

ask a favor. Nevertheless, he confesses, with a complacent smirk

that would be amusing were it not so pitiable an exhibition of his

real beggary—“that he would like to know what it feels like to be

grateful,—just for the sake of the novel sensation!”

Poor wretch! I am sorry I introduced him here and now. There is a

savage growl in the wind; our snuggery is a trifle less pleasant

since I began to talk of him. Although I only used him as a means of

“leading up” to the expression of my own exceeding and abundant wealth

of gratitude to you, dear Reader and Friend. If I had only time and

strength enough to bear me through the full relation of the riches and

happiness you have conferred upon me! There are letters in that desk

over there between the windows that have caused me to look down with

a sense of compassionate superiority upon Nathan Rothschild and the

Duke of Brunswick. I am too modest (or miserly) to show them; but now

and then, when threatened with a fit of self-depreciation, I come in

here, lock the door, stop the keyhole, get them out and read them anew.

For three days thereafter I walk on air. For the refrain of all is the

same. “You have been a help to me!” And only HE who knows the depths,

sad and silent, or rich and glad, of the human heart can understand how

much I wanted to help you. Verily, I have in this matter had my reward.

Again, I say, I am grateful. Had I “helped” you a hundred times as

well as I have, I should still be your debtor.

May I read you somewhat copious extracts from a letter I received, the

other day, from a wide-awake New England girl? Not only wide-awake,

but refined, original and sprightly; a girl whom though I have never

seen her face, I know to be a worker in life as well as a thinker. She

says some things much better than I could have put them, and others

as noteworthy, which I wish to answer,—or, try to answer—since I

recognize in her a representative of a class, not very large, perhaps,

but certainly one of the most respectable and honored of all those

for whom I write the “Common-Sense Series.” I should like to give

the letter in full, from the graphic touches with which she sketches

herself, “sitting upon the kitchen-table, reading ‘Common Sense in the

Household,’” one bright morning, when herself and sisters had taken

possession of the kitchen to make preparation for “an old New England

tea-party,” at which their only assistant was to be “a small maiden we

keep to have the privilege of waiting upon, and doing our own work into

the bargain; who, in waiting at table, was never known to pass anything

on the right side, and has an invincible objection to learning how”—to

the conclusion, over against which she has, like the frank woman she

is, set her name and address in full.

But the modesty (or miserliness) aforesaid rises in sudden arms to

forbid the reproduction at my hand of certain portions of the epistle,

and it would be neither kind nor honorable to set down in prospective

print her pictures of home life and _dramatis personæ_. Steering

clear, when possible, of these visible rocks and sunken reefs, I will

indulge you and myself with a part of that which has added sensibly to

my treasures—not debt—mind you! of gratitude.

“I want to tell you how much your compilation does for those poor

mortals whom it rescues from the usual class of cook-books.”

A reef, you see, before we are out of harbor! We will skip two pages to

get at one of the well-said things I spoke of just now.

“You speak of ‘company china’ and ‘company manners.’ I detest company

_anything_! This longing for show and display is the curse and

failing of Americans. I abhor the phrase ‘Anything will do for us.’

I do not believe that a person can be true clear through and without

affectations who can put on her politeness with her company china any

more than a real lady can deliberately put on stockings with holes in

them. I seriously think that, so far from its being self-sacrifice to

put up with the meanest every day, and hospitality to use the best for

company, it is a positive damage to one’s sense of moral fitness. I

knew a woman once who used to surprise me with the deceptions in which

she unconsciously and needlessly indulged. This ceased to be a surprise

when I saw her wear a twenty-dollar hat and a pair of unmended hose,

and not seem to know that it was not quite the proper thing.”

Orthodox, you perceive, thus far, is our New England correspondent.

Honest and outspoken in her hatred of shams and “dodges” of all kinds;

quick to see analogies and deduce conclusions. Now comes the pith of

the communication:—

“I wish you could set me right on one point that often perplexes me.

_Is housekeeping worth while?_ I do not despise the necessary work. On

the contrary, I hold that anything well done is worth doing. But with

the materials this country affords, _can_ housekeeping be well done?

Is it worth while for a woman to neglect the talents she has, and can

use to her own and her friends’ advantage, in order to have a perfectly

appointed house? to wear herself out chasing around after servants and

children that things may be always done well, and at the stated time? I

have seen so many women of brains wear out and die in harness, trying

to do their self-imposed duty; to see that the large establishments

their husbands’ wealth, position and wishes place in their care shall

be perfect in detail. And these women could have been so happy and

enjoyed the life they threw away, if they had only known how _not_

to keep house. While, on the other hand, with a small income and one

servant the matter is so much worse. I should not mind if one could

ever say ‘It is a well-finished thing!’ But you only finish one thing

to begin over again, and so on, until you die and have nothing to show

for your life’s work. It looks hopeless to me, I confess. I wish you

would show me the wisdom—or the folly of it all.”

Now, I do not propose to show the folly of anything such as a girl that

writes. She is a sincere inquirer after truth. When her letter came I

tucked it under my inkstand, and said, “There is a text ready-written,

and in clerkly hand, for my next ‘Familiar Talk!’” She is altogether

too sensible and has too true a sense of humor to be offended when I

tell her, as I shall, that her lament over unfinished work reminded me

comically of the story of the poor fellow who cut his throat, because,

as he stated in his letter of explanation and farewell—“He was tired

of buttoning and unbuttoning!” There is a deal that is specious in the

threadbare adage set forth in dolesome rhyme:—

“Man’s work is from sun to sun,

But woman’s work is never done.”

Nothing in this world, or in all time, is finished. Or, if finished,

it is _not_ well with it. We hear this truth reiterated in every

stroke of the artisan’s hammer, employed—from the day he enters upon

his apprenticeship to that on which the withered hand can no longer,

by reason of age, lift the ponderous emblem of his craft—in beating

upon what looks to the observer of to-day like that which engaged him

yesterday; which to the spectator of twenty to-morrows will seem the

same as that which calls out the full strength of the brawny arm this

hour. When he dies, who will care to chronicle the circumstance that he

made, in the course of a long and busy life, forty thousand horseshoes,

or assisted in the manufacture of one thousand engine-boilers? We learn

the same lesson from the patient eyes of the teacher while drilling one

generation after another in the details that are the tedious forging of

the wards of the key of knowledge;—the rudiments of “the three R’s,”

which, laugh or groan as we may, must be committed to memories more or

less reluctant. They were never, I am sure, “learned by heart.” It is

well, so far as they are concerned, that the old phrase has gone out of

fashion. We read the like tale of ever-renewed endeavor in the bent

brows and whitening locks of brain-toilers, the world over. Nature were

a false teacher were this otherwise. Birth, maturity, death; first, the

blade then the ear, and, after the full corn in the ear, ripening and

destruction for the good of man or beast, or decay in the earth that

resurrection may come to the buried seed. Seed-time and harvest, summer

and winter,—none of these are “finished things.” GOD hold our eyes from

seeing many things that are!

A life, the major part of which is spent in sweeping, that the dust

may re-settle; in washing, that clothes may be again worn and soiled;

in cooking, that the food prepared may be consumed; in cleansing

plates and dishes, to put back upon the table that they may return, in

grease and stickiness, to the hardly-dried pan and towel, does seem to

the superficial spectator, ignoble even for the wife of a struggling

mechanic or ill-paid clerk. But I insist that the fault is not that

Providence has made her a woman, but that Providence has made and kept

her poor. Her husband at his bench, or, rounding his shoulders over his

ledger, has as valid cause of complaint of never done work. Is there

any reason why he should stand more patiently in his lot, waiting to

see what GOD the LORD will do, than she?

But—“Is it worth while for a woman to neglect the talents she has,

and can use to her own and her friends’ advantage, in order to have a

perfectly-appointed house, etc.?”

Certain visions that stir me to reverential admiration, arise before

me, at that query. I see Emily Bronté reading German while she kneads

the batch of home-made bread; Charlotte, laying down the pen upon an

unfinished page of Shirley, to steal into the kitchen when poor blind

Tabby’s back is turned, and bear off the potatoes the superannuated

servant insists upon peeling every day, that the “dainty fingers”

may extract the black “eyes” the faithful old creature cannot see. I

see the Greek grammar fixed open in the rack above Elihu Burritt’s

forge; and Sherman, reciting to himself by day over his lapstone and

last, the lessons he learned at night after work-hours were over. I

recollect that the biographer of the “marvellous boy” has written of

him—“Twelve hours he was chained to the office; _i.e._, from eight in

the morning until eight at night, the dinner-hour only excepted; and in

the house he was confined to the kitchen; slept with the foot-boy, and

was subjected to indignities of a like nature. Yet here it was, during

this life of base humiliation, that Thomas Chatterton worked out the

splendid creations of his imagination. In less than three years of the

life of a poor attorney’s apprentice, fed in the kitchen and lodged

with the foot-boy, did he here achieve an immortality such as the whole

life of not one in millions is sufficient to create.”

Note here, too, that Chatterton died of a broken heart; was not driven

to suicide by hard work.

Please be patient with me while I tell you of an incident that seems to

me pretty, and comes in patly just at this point.

I have a friend—my heart bounds with prideful pleasure while I call her

such!—who is the most scholarly woman, and also the best housekeeper I

know. She is, moreover, one of the sweetest of our native poets—one

to whose genius and true womanhood even royalty has done grateful

honor; a woman who ‘has used her’ every ‘talent to her own and her

friends’ advantage’ in more ways than one. She had a call one day from

a neighbor, an eminent professor, learned in dead and spoken tongues.

In the passage of the conversation from trifles to weightier matters,

it chanced that she differed in opinion from him upon two points. He

refused to believe that potatoes could ever be made into a palatable

sweet by any ingenuity of the culinary art, and he took exception to

her rendering of a certain passage of Virgil. In the course of the

afternoon he received from his fair neighbor a folded paper and a

covered dish. Opening the former, he read a metrical translation of the

disputed passage, so beautiful and striking he could no longer doubt

that she had discovered the poet’s meaning more truly than had he. The

dish contained a delicious potato custard.

A foolscap page of rhymed thanks went back with the empty pudding-dish.

It was mere doggerel, for the pundit was no poet, and meant his note

for nothing more than jingle and fun, but his tribute of admiration

was sincere. I forget the form of its expression, except that the

concluding lines ran somewhat thus:—

“From Virgil and potatoes, too,

You bring forth treasures rich and new.”

Am I harsh and unsympathetic when I say, that in ninety-nine cases

out of a hundred, if a woman has genuine talent, she will find time

to improve it even amid the clatter of household machinery? I could

multiply instances by the thousand to prove this, did time permit.

But what of the poor rich woman who throws away her life in the vain

endeavor to bring servants and children “up to time?” Two things.

First, she dies of worry, not of work—a distinction with a difference.

Second, if she possess one-half enough strength of mind and strength of

purpose to have made herself mistress of a single art or science, or

sufficient tact to sustain her as a successful leader in society, or

the degree of administrative ability requisite to enable her to conduct

rightly a public enterprise of any note, be it benevolent, literary, or

social, she ought to be competent to the government of her household;

to administer domestic affairs with such wise energy as should insure

order and punctuality without self-immolation.

“If they have run with the footmen and they have wearied them, how

shall they contend with horses?”

Let us look at this matter fairly, and without prejudice on either

side. I should contradict other of my written and spoken opinions;

stultify myself beyond the recovery of your respect or my own, were

I to deny that more and wider avenues of occupation should be opened

to woman than are now conceded as their right by the popular verdict.

But _not_ because the duties of the housewife are overburdensome or

degrading. On the contrary, I would have forty trained cooks where

there is now one; would make her who looketh diligently to the ways

of her household worthy, as in Solomon’s day, of double honor. Of

co-operative laundries I have much hope. I would have washing-day

become a tradition of the past to be shuddered over by every

emancipated family in the land. In “co-operative housekeeping,” in the

sense in which it is generally understood, I have scanty faith as a

cure for the general untowardness of what my sprightly correspondent

styles “the materials this country affords.” Somebody must get the

dinners and somebody superintend the getting-up of these. I honestly

believe that the best method of reforming American domestic service and

American cookery is by making the mistress of every home proficient in

the art and a capable instructress of others. I know—no one better—how

women who have never cared to beautify their own tables, or to study

elegant variety in their bills of fare, who have railed at soups as

“slops,” and _entrées_ as “trash,” talk, after the year’s travel in

foreign lands their husband’s earnings and their own pinching have

gained for them. How they groan over native cookery and the bondage of

native mistresses, and tell how cheaply and luxuriously one can live in

_dear_ Paris.

“Will the time ever come,” they cry, “when we, too, can sit at ease in

our frescoed saloons surrounded by no end of artificial flowers and

mirrors, and order our meals from a restaurant?”

To which I, from the depths of my home-loving heart, reply, “Heaven

forbid!”

Have you ever thought how large a share the kitchen and dining-room

have in forming the distinctive characteristics of the home? It is

no marvel that the man who has had his dinners from an eating-house

all his life should lack a word to describe that which symbolizes to

the Anglo-Saxon all that is dearest and most sacred on earth. I avow,

without a tinge of shame, that I soon tire, then sicken of restaurant

and hotel dainties. I like the genuine wholesomeness of home-fare.

“Madame,” said a Frenchman whom I once met at an American

watering-place, “one of my compatriots could produce one grand

repast—one that should not want for the beautiful effects, with the

contents of that pail—tub—bucket—of what the peoples here call the

_svill_,” pointing to a mass of dinner _débris_ set just without a side

door.

“Monsieur,” I rejoined, with a grimace that matched his, “_moi, je

n’aime pas le svill_!”

He was right, without doubt, in the implication that very much is

thrown away as refuse which could be reproduced upon the table to the

satisfaction and advantage of host and guest. Perhaps my imagination

was more to blame than he for my unlucky recollection of his

countrywoman’s recommendation of a mayonnaise to a doubting guest:

“You need not fear to partake, madame. The fish has been preserved from

putrefaction by a process of vinegar and charcoal!”

It is a substantial comfort to the Anglo-Saxon stomach for its owner to

know what he is eating. Call it prejudice, if you like, but it may have

something to do with making one “true clear through,” as my Yankee girl

puts it.

“But such poetic repasts!” sighs my travelled acquaintance. “Such

heavenly garnishes, and flowers everywhere, and the loveliest

side-dishes, and everything so exquisitely served! When I think of

them, I abominate our great, vulgar joints and stiff dinner-tables!”

Yet Mrs. Nouveau Riche dawdles all the forenoon over a piece of

tasteless embroidery, and gives the afternoon to gossip; while Bridget

or Dinah prepares dinner, and serves it in accordance with her

peculiar ideas of right and fitness.

“Train American servants?” she says, in a transport of contemptuous

incredulity at my suggestion that here is good missionary ground, “I

have had enough of that! Just as soon as I teach them the rudiments of

decent cookery they carry off their knowledge to somebody else, trade

for double wages from my neighbor upon what they have gained from me!”

“But,” I remark, argumentatively, “do you not see, my dear lady, that

so surely as ‘ten times one is ten,’ if all your neighbors were, in

like manner, to instruct the servants who come to _them_ and desert,

so soon as they are taught their trade, the great work of securing

wholesome and palatable cookery and tasteful serving would soon be

an accomplished fact in your community? and, by the natural spread

of the leaven, the race of incompetent cooks and clumsy waiters

would before long become extinct? Would it not be worth while for

housekeepers to co-operate in the attempt to secure excellence in

these departments instead of ‘getting along somehow’ with ‘the

materials’—_i. e._, servants—‘this country affords?’ Why not compel the

country—wrong-headed abstraction that it is!—to afford us what we want?

Would not the demand, thus enforced and persisted in, create a supply?”

“Not in my day,” she retorts, illogically. “I don’t care to wear myself

out for the benefit of posterity.”

I do not gainsay the latter remark. If she had any desire that the

days to come should be better than these, she would see to it that her

daughters are rendered comparatively independent of the ungrateful

caprices of the coming Celt or Teuton, or the ambitious vagaries of

“the Nation’s Ward,” by a practical knowledge of housewifery. Perhaps

she is deterred from undertaking their instruction by the forecast

shadow of their desertion of the maternal abode for homes of their own.

The prettiest thing that has ever been said of the informal “talks” I

had with you, my Reader, in former days, was the too-flattering remark

of a Syracuse (N. Y.) editor, that they were “like a breath of fresh

air blowing across the ‘heated term’ of the cook.”

I quote it, partly that I may thank the author, principally that I

may borrow the illustration. The heavenly airs that really temper the

torrid heats of the kitchen are loving thoughts of those for whom the

house-mother makes the home. There is a wealth of meaning in the homely

old saying about “putting one’s name in the pot.” It is one thing,

I submit to the advocates of co-operative housekeeping, whether big

John’s and little John’s and Mamie’s and Susie’s and Tommy’s meals

are prepared according to the prescriptions of a salaried _chef_,

in the mammoth boilers, steamers and bakers of an “establishment”

along with the sustenance of fifty other families, or whether the

tender mother, in her “order of the day,” remembers that while Papa

likes smart, tingling dashes of cayenne, garlic, and curry, the

baby-tongues of her brood would cry out at the same; that Mamie has

an aversion to a dish much liked by her brothers and sisters; that

Susie is delicate, and cannot digest the strong meat that is the gift

of flesh and brains to the rest. So Papa gets his spiced ragoût under

a tiny cover—hot-and-hot—and the plainer “stew,” which was its base,

nourishes the bairns. Mamie is not forced to fast while the rest feast,

and by pale Susie’s plate is set the savory “surprise,” which is the

visible expression of loving kindness, always wise and unforgetting.

You remember the legend that tells how Elizabeth of Hungary, having

been forbidden by her lord to carry food to the poor, was met one

day by him outside the castle walls, as she was bearing a lapful of

meat and bread to her pensioners. Louis demanding sternly what she

carried in her robe, she was obliged to show him the forbidden burden.

“Whereupon,” says the chronicler, “the food was miraculously changed,

for his eyes, to a lapful of roses, red-and-white, and, his mind

disabused of suspicion, he graciously bade her pass on whithersoever

she would.”

I have bethought me many times of the legend when I have seen upon very

modest tables such proofs of thoughtful recollection of the peculiar

tastes and needs of the flock to which the home caterer ministered

as made my heart warm and eyes fill, and threw, to my imagination,

chaplets lovelier than Elizabeth’s roses around the platter and bowl.

This is the true poetry of serving, and the loving appreciation of it

is the reward, rich and all-sufficient, of thought, care, and toil.

A few words more before we proceed, in due order, to business.

This volume is not an amendment to “General Receipts, No. 1 of the

Common-Sense Series.” Still less is it intended as a substitute for it.

I have carefully avoided the repetition, in this volume, of a single

receipt which appeared in that. This is designed to be the second story

in the edifice of domestic economy, the materials of which I have

accumulated since the first was completed. As money makes money, and a

snow-ball gathers snow, so receipts, new, valuable, and curious, flowed

in upon me after “No. 1” was given to the world. Some of the earliest

to reach me were so good that I began a fresh compilation by the time

that book was fairly off the press.

Let me say here what you may find useful in your own researches and

collections. My best ally in the classification and preservation of the

materials for this undertaking has been the “The Household Treasury,”

published by Claxton, Remsen & Haffelfinger, Philadelphia, and arranged

by a lady of that city. It is a pretty volume of blank pages, a certain

number of which are devoted to each department of cookery, beginning

with soups, and running through the various kinds of sweets, pickles,

etc. Each is introduced by a handsome vignette and appropriate motto,

with a title at the top of every page. The paper is excellent and

distinctly ruled. I wish I could put a copy into the hands of every

housekeeper who believes in system of details, and development of her

individual capabilities. It has so far simplified and lightened the

task of preparing “Breakfast, Luncheon and Tea” for my public, that I

cannot withhold this recommendation of it to others.

Yet if “General Receipts” was written _con amore_, its successor has

been, in a still higher degree, a work of love and delight. There were

times during the preparation of the trial volume when I could not feel

quite sure of my audience. There has not been a moment, since I began

that which I now offer for your acceptance, in the which I have not

been conscious of your full sympathy; have not tasted, in anticipation,

your enjoyment of that which I have taken such pleasure in making ready.

Do not think me sentimental when I ask that the Maltese cross, marking,

as in the former work, such receipts as I have tested and proved for

myself to be reliable, may be to you, dear friend and sister, like the

footprint of a fellow-traveler along the humble but honorable pathway

of every-day and practical life, bringing comfort and encouragement,

even in the “heated term.”

EGGS.

“Give me half-a-dozen eggs, a few spoonfuls of gravy and as much cream,

with a spoonful of butter and a handful of bread crumbs, and I can get

up a good breakfast or luncheon,” said a housekeeper to me once, in a

modest boastfulness that became her well, in my eyes.

For I had sat often at her elegant, but frugal board, and I knew she

spoke the truth.

“Elegant and frugal!” I shall have more hope of American housewives

when they learn to have faith in this combination of adjectives.

Nothing has moved me more strongly to the preparation of this work

than the desire to convert them to the belief that the two are not

incompatible or inharmonious. Under no head can practice in the

endeavor to conform these, the one to the other, be more easily and

successfully pursued than under that which begins this section.

Eggs at sixty cents per dozen (and they are seldom higher than this

price) are the cheapest food for the breakfast or lunch-table of a

private family. They are nutritious, popular, and never (if we except

the cases of omelettes, thickened with uncooked flour, and fried eggs,

drenched with fat) an unelegant or homely dish.

EGGS SUR LE PLAT. +

6 eggs.

1 table-spoonful of butter or nice dripping.

Pepper and salt to taste.

Melt the butter on a stone-china, or tin plate, or shallow baking-dish.

Break the eggs carefully into this; dust lightly with pepper and salt,

and put in a moderate oven until the whites are well “set.”

Serve in the dish in which they were baked.

TOASTED EGGS.

Cover the bottom of an earthenware or stone-china dish with rounds

of delicately toasted bread. Or, what is even better, with rounds of

stale bread dipped in beaten egg and fried quickly in butter or nice

dripping, to a golden-brown. Break an egg carefully upon each, and set

the dish immediately in front of, and on a level with a glowing fire.

Toast over this as many slices of _fat_ corned pork or ham as there are

eggs in the dish, holding the meat so that it will fry very quickly,

and all the dripping fall upon the eggs. When these are well “set,”

and a crust begins to form upon the top of each, they are done. Turn

the dish several times while toasting the meat, that the eggs may be

equally cooked.

Do not send the fried pork to table, but pepper the eggs lightly and

remove with the toast, to the dish in which they are to go to the

table, with a cake-turner or flat ladle, taking care not to break them.

BAKED EGGS. (No. 1.) +

6 eggs.

4 tablespoonfuls good gravy—veal, beef or poultry. The latter is

particularly nice.

1 handful bread-crumbs.

6 rounds buttered toast or fried bread.

Put the gravy into a shallow baking-dish. Break the eggs into this,

pepper and salt them, and strew the bread-crumbs over them. Bake for

five minutes in a quick oven. Take up the eggs carefully, one by one,

and lay upon the toast which must be arranged on a hot, flat dish. Add

a little cream, and, if you like, some very finely-chopped parsley

and onion, to the gravy left in the baking-dish, and turn it into a

saucepan. Boil up once quickly, and pour over the eggs.

BAKED EGGS. (No. 2.) +

6 eggs.

1 cup of chicken, game, or veal gravy.

1 teaspoonful mixed parsley and onion, chopped fine.

1 handful very fine bread-crumbs.

Pepper and salt to taste.

Pour enough gravy into a neat baking-dish to cover the bottom well,

and mix with the rest the parsley and onion. Set the dish in the oven

until the gravy begins to hiss and bubble, when break the eggs into it,

so that they do not crowd one another. Strew bread-crumbs thickly over

them, pepper and salt, and return to the oven for three minutes longer.

Then pour the rest of the gravy, which should be hot, over the whole.

More bread-crumbs, as fine as dust, and bake until the eggs are “set.”

Send to table in the baking-dish.

This dish will be found very savory.

FRICASSEED EGGS. +

6 hard-boiled eggs. When cold, slice with a sharp knife, taking care

not to break the yolk.

1 cup good broth, well seasoned with pepper, salt, parsley and a

suspicion of onion.

Some rounds stale bread, fried to a light-brown in butter or nice

dripping.

Put the broth on the fire in a saucepan with the seasoning and let it

come to a boil. Rub the slices of egg with melted butter, then roll

them in flour. Lay them gently in the gravy and let this become smoking

hot upon the side of the range, but do not let it actually boil, lest

the eggs should break. They should lie thus in the gravy for at least

five minutes. Have ready, upon a platter, the fried bread. Lay the

sliced egg evenly upon this, pour the gravy over all, and serve hot.

EGG CUTLETS. +

6 hard-boiled eggs.

1 raw egg well-beaten.

1 handful very fine, dry bread-crumbs.

Pepper and salt, and a little parsley minced fine.

3 table-spoonfuls butter or dripping.

1 cup broth, or drawn butter, in which a raw egg has been beaten.

Cut the boiled eggs when perfectly cold, into rather thick slices

with a sharp, thin knife; dip each slice into the beaten egg; roll in

the bread-crumbs which should be seasoned with pepper, salt and minced

parsley. Fry them to a light-brown in the butter or dripping, turning

each piece as it is done on the under side. Do not let them lie in the

frying-pan an instant after they are cooked. Drain free from fat before

laying them on a hot dish. Pour the gravy, boiling hot, over the eggs,

and send to table.

STIRRED EGGS. +

6 eggs.

3 table-spoonfuls of gravy—that made from poultry is best.

Enough fried toast, from which the crust has been pared, to cover the

bottom of a flat dish.

A very little anchovy paste.

1 table-spoonful of butter.

Melt the butter in a frying-pan, and when hot, break into this the

eggs. Stir in the gravy, pepper and salt to taste, and continue to stir

very quickly, and well up from the bottom, for about two minutes, or

until the whole is a soft, yellow mass. Have ready in a flat dish the

fried toast, spread thinly with anchovy paste.

Heap the stirred egg upon this, and serve before it has time to harden.

SCALLOPED EGGS (_Raw_). +

6 eggs.

4 or 5 table-spoonfuls of ground or minced ham.

A little chopped parsley.

A very little minced onion.

2 great spoonfuls of cream, and 1 of melted butter.

Salt and pepper to taste.

½ cup of bread crumbs moistened with milk and a spoonful of melted

butter.

Line the bottom of a small deep dish, well-buttered, with the soaked

bread-crumbs; put upon these a layer of chopped ham, seasoned with

the onion and parsley. Set these in the oven, closely covered, until

they are smoking hot. Meanwhile, beat up the eggs to a stiff froth,

season with pepper and salt, stir in the cream and a spoonful of melted

butter, and pour evenly upon the layer of ham. Put the dish, uncovered,

back into the oven, and bake five minutes, or until the eggs are “set.”

SCALLOPED EGGS (_Hard-boiled_). +

6 eggs boiled, and when cold, cut into thin slices.

1 cupful fine bread-crumbs, well moistened with a little good gravy and

a little milk or cream.

½ cup thick drawn butter, into which has been beaten the yolk of an egg.

1 small cupful minced ham, tongue, poultry, or cold halibut, salmon, or

cod.

Pepper and salt to taste.

Put a layer of moistened crumbs in the bottom of a buttered

baking-dish. On this lay the sliced eggs, each piece of which must have

been dipped in the thick drawn butter. Sprinkle the ground meat over

these, cover with another layer of bread-crumbs, and proceed in like

manner, until the egg is all used up. Sift on the top a good layer of

dry bread-crumbs. Cover the dish with an inverted plate, until the

contents are heated through, then remove the plate, and brown the top

upon the upper grating of the oven.

WHIRLED EGGS.

6 eggs.

1 quart of boiling water.

Some thin slices of buttered toast.

Pepper and salt to taste.

A table-spoonful of butter.

Put the water, slightly salted, in a saucepan over the fire, and keep

it at a fast boil. Stir with a wooden spoon or ladle in one direction

until it whirls rapidly. Break the eggs, one at a time, into a cup,

and drop each carefully into the centre, or vortex of the boiling

whirlpool, which must be kept in rapid motion until the egg is a soft,

round ball. Take it out carefully with a perforated spoon, and put it

on a slice of buttered toast laid upon a hot dish. Put a bit of butter

on the top. Set the dish in the oven to keep it warm, and proceed in

the same way with each egg, having but one at a time in the saucepan.

When all are done, dust lightly with salt and pepper, and send up _hot_.

POACHED EGGS _à la Bonne Femme_. +

6 eggs.

1 teaspoonful of vinegar.

½ cup nice veal or chicken broth.

Salt and pepper to taste.

½ cup butter or dripping.

Rounds of stale bread, and the beaten yolks of two raw eggs.

Prepare the bread first by cutting it into rather large rounds, and,

with a smaller cutter, marking an inner round on each, leaving a narrow

rim or wall on the outside. Excavate this cautiously, not to break the

bottom of the cup thus indicated, which should be three-quarters of

an inch deep. Dip each round thus prepared in the beaten egg, and fry

quickly to a yellow-brown in hot butter or dripping. Put in order upon

a flat dish, and set in the open oven while you poach the eggs.

Pour about a quart of boiling water into a deep saucepan. Salt

slightly, and add the vinegar. Break the eggs into a saucer, one at a

time, and, when the water is at a hard boil, slide them singly into

the saucepan. If the yolk be broken in putting it in, the effect of

the dish is spoiled. When the whites begin to curdle around the edges,

lessen the heat, and cook slowly until they are firm enough to bear

removal. Take them out with a perforated skimmer, trim each dexterously

into a neat round, and lay within the bread-cup described above. When

all are in their places, pour over them the gravy, which should be well

seasoned and boiling hot.

EGGS POACHED WITH MUSHROOMS. +

6 eggs.

1 tea-cupful of cold chicken or other fowl, minced fine.

2 table-spoonfuls of butter.

About a cupful of good gravy,—veal or poultry.

2 dozen mushrooms of fair size, sliced.

Some rounds of fried bread.

1 raw egg beaten light.

Mince the cold meat very fine and work into it the butter, with the

beaten egg. Season with pepper and salt, and stir it over the fire in

a saucepan until it is smoking-hot. Poach the eggs as in preceding

receipt, and trim off the ragged edges. The fried bread must be

arranged upon a hot, flat dish, the mince of chicken on this, and

the eggs upon the chicken. Have ready in another saucepan the sliced

mushrooms and gravy. If you use the French _champignons_—canned—they

should have simmered in the gravy fifteen minutes. If fresh ones, you

should have parboiled them in clean water as long, before they are

sliced into the gravy, and stewed ten minutes in it. The gravy must be

savory, rich and rather highly seasoned. Pour it very hot upon the eggs.

If you will try this receipt, and that for “Eggs _à la bonne femme_”

for yourself, your family and your guests will be grateful to you, and

you to the writer.

ANCHOVY TOAST WITH EGGS.

6 eggs.

1 cupful drawn butter—drawn in milk.

Some rounds of stale bread, toasted and buttered.

A little anchovy paste.

Pepper and salt to taste.

Spread the buttered toast thinly with anchovy paste, and with this

cover the bottom of a flat dish. Heat the drawn butter to boiling

in a tin vessel set in another of hot water, and stir into this the

eggs beaten very light. Season to taste, and heat—stirring all the

time—until they form a thick sauce, but do not let them boil. Pour over

the toast, and send to table very hot.

FORCEMEAT EGGS. +

6 eggs boiled hard.

1 cupful minced chicken, veal, ham or tongue.

1 cupful of rich gravy.

½ cupful bread-crumbs.

2 tea-spoonfuls mixed parsley, onion, summer savory or sweet marjoram,

chopped fine.

Juice of half a lemon.

1 raw egg beaten light.

While the eggs are boiling, make the forcemeat by mixing the minced

meat, bread-crumbs, herbs, pepper and salt together, and working well

into this the beaten raw egg. When the eggs are boiled hard, drop

for a minute into cold water to loosen the shells. Break these away

carefully. With a sharp knife divide each egg into halves; cut a piece

of the white off at each end (that they may stand firmly when dished),

and coat them thickly with the forcemeat. Brown them by setting them in

a tin plate on the upper grating of a very hot oven, and heap neatly

upon a hot dish. Pour the boiling gravy, in which a little lemon-juice

has been squeezed at the last, over them.

A HEN’S NEST. +

6 or 8 eggs boiled hard.

1 cup minced chicken, or other fowl, ham, tongue, or, if more

convenient, any cold firm fish.

1 cup of drawn butter into which have been stirred two or three

table-spoonfuls of good gravy and a tea-spoonful of chopped parsley.

When the eggs are quite cold and firm, cut the whites from the yolks

in long thin strips, or shavings, and set them aside to warm in a very

gentle oven, buttering them, now and then, while you prepare the rest.

Pound the minced meat or fish very fine in a Wedgewood mortar, mixing

in, as you go on, the yolks of the eggs, the parsley, and pepper and

salt to taste. When all are reduced to a smooth paste, mould with your

hands into small, egg-shaped balls. Heap in the centre of a dish,

arrange the shred eggs around them, in imitation of a nest, and pour

over all the hot sauce.

A simple and delightful relish.

OMELETTES.

For omelettes of various kinds, please see “Common Sense in the

Household, No. 1,” page 259.

FISH.

ENTRÉES AND RELISHES OF FISH.

WHAT TO DO WITH COLD FISH. +

1 cup drawn butter with an egg beaten in.

2 hard-boiled eggs.

Mashed potato—(a cupful will do.)

1 cupful cold fish—cod, halibut or shad.

Roe of cod or shad, and 1 table-spoonful of butter.

1 teaspoonful minced parsley.

Pepper and salt to taste.

Dry the roe, previously well boiled. Mince the fish fine, and season.

Work up the roe with butter and the yolks of the boiled eggs. Cut the

white into thin rings. Put a layer of mashed potato at the bottom of

a buttered deep dish—then, alternate layers of fish, drawn butter

(with the rings of white embedded in this), roe,—more potato at top.

Cover the dish and set in a moderate oven until it smokes and bubbles.

Brown by removing the cover for a few minutes. Send to table in the

baking-dish, and pass pickles with it.

FRIED ROES OF COD OR SHAD. +

2 or three roes. If large, cut them in two.

1 pint of boiling water.

1 table-spoonful of vinegar.

Salt and pepper.

1 raw egg, well beaten.

½ cup fine bread-crumbs.

3 table-spoonfuls sweet lard, or dripping.

Wash the roes and dry with a soft, clean cloth. Have ready the boiling

water in which should be put the vinegar, salt, and pepper. Boil the

roes in this for ten minutes, then plunge at once into very cold water,

slightly salted. Wipe dry again; when they have lain about two minutes

in this, roll in the beaten egg, then the bread-crumbs, and fry to a

fine brown in the fat.

_Sauce for the above._

1 cup drawn butter, into which beat a teaspoonful of anchovy sauce,

juice of half a lemon, and a pinch of cayenne pepper, with a little

minced parsley. Boil up once, and send around in a gravy-boat.

ROES OF COD OR SHAD STEWED.

Wash the roes, and parboil in water with a little vinegar, pepper,

and salt added. It should be at a hard boil when the roes go in. Boil

five minutes, lay in very cold water for two, wipe, and transfer to a

clean saucepan, with enough melted butter to half cover them. Set it

in a vessel of boiling water, cover closely, and let it stew gently

ten minutes. Should it boil too fast the roes will shrink and toughen.

While they are stewing prepare the—

_Sauce._

1 cup of boiling water.

2 teaspoonfuls corn-starch, or rice flour, mixed in cold water.

1 table-spoonful of butter.

1 teaspoonful chopped parsley.

1 teaspoonful anchovy sauce, or good catsup.

Juice of half a lemon.

Beaten yolks of two eggs.

Salt and cayenne pepper.

Stir the corn-starch smoothly into the boiling water, and set it over

the fire, stirring constantly until it thickens up well. Add pepper,

salt, butter, and parsley; mix well together, put in the lemon-juice

and catsup, lastly the roes, which should have been frequently turned

in the melted butter. Set within a vessel of boiling water for about

eight minutes, but do not let the roes and sauce boil fast. Take them

up, lay on a flat, hot dish; add to the sauce the beaten yolks, stir

fast and well over the fire for two minutes, pour over the roes, and

serve.

Should the receipt for so simple a dish seem needlessly prolix, I beg

the reader to remember that I have made it minute to save her time and

trouble.

SCALLOPED ROES. +

3 large roes.

1 cup of drawn butter and yolks of 3 hard-boiled eggs.

1 teaspoonful anchovy paste or essence.

1 teaspoonful of parsley.

Juice of half a lemon.

1 cup of bread-crumbs.

Salt and cayenne pepper to taste.

Boil the roes in water and vinegar, as directed in former receipts;

lay in cold water five minutes, then wipe perfectly dry. Break them

up with the back of a silver spoon, or in a Wedgewood mortar, but not

so fine as to crush the eggs. When ready, they should be a granulated

heap. Set aside while you pound the hard-boiled eggs to a powder. Beat

this into the drawn butter, then the parsley and other seasoning;

lastly, mix in, more lightly, the roes. Strew the bottom of a buttered

dish with bread-crumbs, put in the mixture, spread evenly, and cover

with very fine crumbs. Stick bits of butter thickly over the top, cover

and bake in a quick oven, until bubbling hot. Brown, uncovered, on the

upper grating of the oven.

FISH-BALLS. +

2 cupfuls cold boiled cod—fresh or salted.

1 cupful mashed potato.

½ cup drawn butter, with an egg beaten in.

Season to taste.

Chop the fish when you have freed it of bones and skin. Work in the

potato, and moisten with the drawn butter until it is soft enough to

mould, and will yet keep in shape. Roll the balls in flour, and fry

quickly to a golden-brown in lard, or clean dripping. Take from the fat

so soon as they are done; lay in a cullender or sieve and shake gently,

to free them from every drop of grease. Turn out for a moment on white

paper to absorb any lingering drops, and send up on a hot dish.

A pretty way of serving them is to line the dish with clean, white

paper, and edge this with a frill of colored tissue paper—green or

pink. This makes ornamental that which is usually considered a homely

dish.

STEWED EELS _à l’Allemande_.

1 cup of boiling water.

1 cup rather weak vinegar.

1 small onion, chopped fine.

A pinch of cayenne pepper.

½ saltspoonful mace.

1 saltspoonful salt.

About 2 pounds of eels.

3 table-spoonfuls melted butter.

Chopped parsley to taste.

Make a liquor in which to boil the eels, of the vinegar, water, onion,

pepper, salt and mace. Boil—closely covered—fifteen minutes, when

strain and put in the eels, which should be cleaned carefully and cut

into pieces less than a finger long. Boil _gently_ nearly an hour.

Take them up, drain dry, and put into a sauce made of melted butter

and chopped parsley. Set the vessel containing them in another of hot

water, and bring eels and sauce to the boiling point, then serve in a

deep dish.

EELS STEWED _à l’Americain_. +

3 pounds eels, skinned and cleaned, and all the fat removed from the

inside.

1 young onion, chopped fine.

4 table-spoonfuls of butter.

Pepper and salt to taste, with chopped parsley.

Cut the eels in pieces about two inches in length; season, and lay in a

saucepan containing the melted butter. Strew the onion and parsley over

all, cover the saucepan (or tin pail, if more convenient) closely, and

set in a pot of cold water. Bring this gradually to a boil, then cook

very gently for an hour and a half, or until the eels are tender. Turn

out into a deep dish.

There is no more palatable preparation of eels than this, in the

opinion of most of those who have eaten it.

FRICASSEED EELS.

3 pounds fresh eels, skinned, cleaned, and cut into pieces about two

inches long.

1 small onion, sliced.

Enough butter, or good dripping, to fry the eels.

1 cup good beef or veal gravy, from which the fat has been skimmed.

Season with wine, catsup and lemon-juice.

Pepper and salt with minced parsley for seasoning.

A little flour.

Flour the eels and fry in the dripping, or butter, until brown. Take

them out and set aside to cool while you fry the sliced onion in the

same fat. Drain this, also the eels, from every drop of grease. When

the eels are almost cold, lay them in the bottom of a tin pail or

farina-kettle, sprinkle the onion, parsley and other seasoning over

them. Add to your gravy a little anchovy sauce, or flavorous catsup;

the juice of half a lemon, and a glass of brown sherry. Pour over

the eels, cover closely, and set in a pot of _warm_ water. Bring to

a gentle boil and simmer, after the contents of the inner vessel are

heated through, about twenty minutes. Too much, or hard cooking, will

spoil them.

Serve upon a chafing-dish.

CUTLETS OF HALIBUT, COD OR SALMON. +

3 pounds fish, cut in slices three-quarters of an inch thick, from the

body of the fish.

A handful of fine bread-crumbs, with which should be mixed pepper and

salt with a little minced parsley.

1 egg beaten light.

Enough butter, lard or dripping to fry the cutlets.

Cut each slice of fish into strips as wide as your two fingers. Dry

them with a clean cloth; rub lightly with salt and pepper; dip in the

egg, then the bread-crumbs, and fry in enough fat to cover them well.

Drain away every drop of fat, and lay upon hot white paper, lining a

heated dish.

CUTLETS OF COD, HALIBUT OR SALMON _à la reine_.

Prepare the fish as in the last receipt until after frying it, when

have ready the following sauce:

1 cup strong brown gravy—beef or veal.

1 teaspoonful anchovy sauce or mushroom catsup.

Pepper, salt, a pinch of parsley and a _very_ little minced onion.

1 glass brown sherry and juice of half a lemon.

Thicken with browned flour.

Lay the fried cutlets evenly in a broad saucepan with a top, cover with

the gravy and heat slowly all through, _but do not let them boil_. Take

up the cutlets with care, and arrange upon a chafing-dish. Pour the

gravy over them.

These are very nice, and well worth the additional trouble it may cost

to prepare the sauce.

BAKED COD OR HALIBUT. +

A piece of fish from the middle of the back, weighing four, five or six

pounds.

A cupful of bread-crumbs, peppered and salted.

2 table-spoonfuls _boiled_ salt pork, finely chopped.

A table-spoonful chopped parsley, sweet marjoram and thyme, with a mere

suspicion of minced onion.

1 teaspoonful anchovy sauce, or Harvey’s, if you prefer it.

½ cupful drawn butter.

Juice of half a lemon.

1 beaten egg.

Lay the fish in very cold salt-and-water for two hours; wipe dry; make

deep gashes in both sides at right angles with the back-bone and rub

into these, as well as coat it all over with a force-meat made of the

crumbs, pork, herbs, onion and seasoning, bound with raw egg. Lay in

the baking-pan and pour over it the drawn butter (which should be quite

thin), seasoned with the anchovy sauce, lemon-juice, pepper and a pinch

of parsley. Bake in a moderate oven nearly an hour,—quite as long if

the piece be large, basting frequently lest it should brown too fast.

Add a little butter-and-water when the sauce thickens too much. When

the fish is done, remove to a hot dish, and strain the gravy over it.

A few capers or chopped green pickles are a pleasant addition to the

gravy.

BAKED SALMON WITH CREAM SAUCE. +

A middle cut of salmon.

4 table-spoonfuls of butter melted in hot water.

Butter a sheet of foolscap paper on both sides, and wrap the fish up

in it, pinning the ends securely together. Lay in the baking-pan, and

pour six or seven spoonfuls of butter-and-water over it. Turn another

pan over all, and steam in a moderate oven from three-quarters of an

hour to an hour, lifting the cover, from time to time, to baste and

assure yourself that the paper is not burning. Meanwhile, have ready in

a saucepan a cup of cream, in which you would do well to dissolve a bit

of soda a little larger than a pea. This is a wise precaution whenever

cream is to be boiled. Heat this in a vessel placed within another of

hot water; thicken with a heaping teaspoonful of corn starch, add a

tablespoonful of butter, pepper and salt to taste, a liberal pinch of

minced parsley, and when the fish is unwrapped and dished, pour half

slowly over it, sending the rest to table in a boat. If you have no

cream, use milk, and add a beaten egg to the thickening.

SALMON STEAKS OR CUTLETS (FRIED).

Cut slices from the middle of the fish, an inch thick.

1 table-spoonful butter to each slice, for frying.

Beaten egg and fine _cracker_ crumbs, powdered to dust, and peppered

with cayenne.

Wipe the fish dry, and salt slightly. Dip in egg, then in cracker

crumbs, fry very quickly in hot butter. Drain off every drop of grease,

and serve upon a dish lined with hot, clean paper, fringed at the ends.

Sprinkle green parsley in bunches over it.

The French use the best salad-oil in this receipt, instead of butter.

SALMON STEAKS OR CUTLETS (BROILED).

Three or four slices of salmon.

1 table-spoonful melted butter.

½ cup drawn butter, thickened with browned flour, and seasoned with

tomato catsup.

Pepper and salt to taste.

Rub the steaks with the butter, pepper and salt slightly. Broil upon a

gridiron over a very clear fire, turning often, and rubbing each side

with butter as it comes uppermost. When nicely browned, lay on a hot

dish, and pour the sauce over them.

SALMON CUTLETS EN PAPILLOTE.

Dry and lay in melted butter ten minutes. Dust lightly with cayenne

pepper, and wrap securely in well buttered or oiled white paper,

stitching down the ends of each cover. Fry in nice dripping or sweet

lard. They will be done in ten minutes, unless very thick. Have ready

clean, _hot_ papers, fringed at both ends. Clip the threads of the

soiled ones when you have drained them free from fat, slip dexterously

and quickly, lest they cool in the process, into the fresh covers, give

the fringed ends a twist, and send up on a heated dish.

Salmon _en papillote_ is also broiled by experts. If you attempt this,

be careful that the paper is so well greased and the cutlets turned so

often that it does not scorch. The least taste of burnt paper ruins the

flavor of the fish, which it is the object of the cover to preserve.

SALMON IN A MOULD. (_Very good._) +

1 can preserved salmon or an equal amount of cold, left from a company

dish of roast or boiled.

4 eggs beaten light.

4 table-spoonfuls butter—melted, but not hot.

½ cup fine bread-crumbs.

Season with pepper, salt and minced parsley.

Chop the fish fine, then rub it in a Wedgewood mortar, or in a bowl

with the back of a silver spoon, adding the butter until it is a smooth

paste. Beat the bread-crumbs into the eggs and season before working

all together. Put into a buttered pudding-mould, and boil or steam for

an hour.

_Sauce for the Above._

1 cupful milk heated to a boil, and thickened with a table-spoonful

corn-starch.

The liquor from the canned salmon, or if you have none, double the

quantity of butter.

1 great spoonful of butter.

1 raw egg.

1 teaspoonful anchovy, or mushroom, or tomato catsup.

1 pinch of mace and one of cayenne.

Put the egg in last and very carefully, boil one minute to cook it, and

when the pudding is turned from the mould, pour over it. Cut in slices

at table.

A nice supper-dish.

STEWED SALMON. +

1 can preserved fresh salmon, or remains of roast or boiled.

1 cup drawn butter.

2 eggs well beaten.

1 teaspoonful anchovy or Harvey’s sauce.

Cayenne and salt to taste.

2 hard-boiled eggs, chopped fine.

Some capers or minced green pickles.

Stew the salmon in the can liquor, or a very little water, slightly

salted, ten minutes. Have ready, in a larger saucepan, the drawn butter

thickened with rice-flour or corn-starch. Season and stir in cautiously

the beaten raw eggs, then the salmon. Let it come to a gentle boil, add

the chopped eggs and pickles and turn into a covered deep dish.

_Or—_

Add the hard-boiled eggs and capers to the salmon, with a

table-spoonful of butter, toss up lightly with a fork, pepper slightly,

and heap in the centre of a hot flat dish, then pour the boiling sauce

over all.

It is very appetizing served in either way.

MAYONNAISE OF SALMON.

If you use canned salmon, drain it very dry and pick into coarse flakes

with a silver fork. If the remnants of roast or boiled fish, remove all

bits of bone, skin and fat, and pick to pieces in the same way.

1 bunch of celery, or 2 heads of lettuce.

_For Dressing._

1 cup boiling water.

1 table-spoonful corn-starch.

2 table-spoonfuls best salad-oil.

1 teaspoonful made mustard.

½ cup vinegar.

1 small teaspoonful black pepper, or half as much cayenne.

1 teaspoonful salt.

1 table-spoonful melted butter.

2 raw eggs—yolks only,—beaten light.

2 hard-boiled eggs, yolks only.

2 teaspoonfuls powdered sugar.

Wet the corn-starch with cold water and stir into the boiling water

until it thickens well; add half of pepper, salt, sugar, and all the

butter. Remove from the fire, and beat in the raw yolks while still

scalding hot. Set aside to cool, while you cut the celery or lettuce

into small pieces, tearing and bruising as little as may be. Mix this

lightly with the fish in a deep bowl. Rub the boiled yolks to a powder,

add the salt, sugar and pepper, then the oil, little by little, beating

it in with a silver spoon; next, the mustard. When the thick egg sauce

is quite cold, whip the other into it with an egg-beater, and when

thoroughly incorporated, put in the vinegar. Mix half the dressing

through the fish and celery, turn this into a salad-dish, mounding it

in the centre, and pour the rest of the dressing over it.

Garnish with rings of boiled white-of-egg or whipped raw whites, heaped

regularly on the surface, with a caper on top of each.

Do not be discouraged at the length of this receipt. It is easy and

safe. Your taste may suggest some modification of the ingredients, but

you will like it, in the main, well enough to try it more than once.

DEVILLED SALMON. +

½ pound smoked salmon, cut into strips half an inch wide and an inch

long.

4 table-spoonfuls good beef gravy, seasoned with onion.

1 table-spoonful tomato or walnut catsup.

1 table-spoonful vinegar.

2 table-spoonfuls melted butter or best salad-oil.

1 teaspoonful made mustard.

Cayenne to taste.

Boil the salmon ten minutes in clear water. Have ready in a saucepan

the gravy and seasoning, hot and closely covered, but do not let it

boil. Lay the salmon for ten minutes more in the melted butter, turning

it several times. Then put into the hot gravy, cover and simmer five

minutes. Pile the fish upon a hot platter; pour the sauce over it, and

serve with split Boston crackers, toasted and buttered.

SMOKED SALMON (_Broiled_). +

½ pound smoked salmon, cut into narrow strips.

2 table-spoonfuls butter.

Juice of half a lemon.

Cayenne pepper.

Parboil the salmon ten minutes; lay in cold water for the same length

of time; wipe dry, and broil over a clear fire. Butter while hot,

season with cayenne and lemon-juice, pile in a “log-cabin” square upon

a hot plate, and send up with dry toast.

SALT COD _an maître d’hôtel_. +

About a pound of cod which has been soaked over night, then boiled,

picked into fine flakes.

1 cup milk.

2 table-spoonfuls butter.

Bunch of sweet herbs.

Juice of half a lemon.

1 table-spoonful corn-starch.

Pepper to taste.

Heat the milk to boiling, stir in the butter, then the corn-starch;

stir until it thickens, when add the fish; pepper and cook slowly

fifteen minutes. Turn out upon a dish, strew thickly with chopped green

herbs—chiefly parsley; squeeze the lemon-juice over all and serve.

Mashed potato is an improvement to this dish.

SALT COD WITH EGG SAUCE. +

1 pound salt cod, previously soaked, then boiled and allowed to cool,

picked or chopped fine.

1 small cup milk or cream.

1 teaspoonful corn-starch or flour.

2 eggs beaten light.

2 table-spoonfuls of butter.

A little chopped parsley.

Half as much mashed potato as you have fish.

Pepper to taste.

Heat the milk, thicken with the corn starch; then the potato, rubbed

very fine; next the butter, the eggs and parsley, lastly the fish. Stir

and toss until smoking hot all through, when pour into a deep dish.

_Or,_

Make a sauce of all the ingredients except the fish and potato. Mix

these well together, with a little melted butter. Heat in a saucepan,

stirring all the while; heap in the centre of a dish, and pour the

sauce over all.

SALT COD WITH CHEESE.

1 pound boiled codfish, chopped fine.

1 cup drawn butter.

Pepper and parsley.

2 table-spoonfuls grated cheese.

Bread-crumbs.

Heat the butter to boiling, season and stir in the fish, then the

cheese; put into a baking-dish; strew fine bread-crumbs on the top, and

brown in the oven.

SALT COD SCALLOPED.

Boiled cold cod, minced fine.

1 cup oyster liquor.

1 table-spoonful rice-flour or corn-starch.

3 table-spoonfuls butter.

Chopped parsley and pepper.

3 hard-boiled eggs, chopped fine.

1 cup fine, dry bread-crumbs.

Boil the oyster liquor, thicken and stir in two tablespoonfuls of

butter with seasoning. Let it cool. Put a handful of bread-crumbs on

the bottom of a buttered baking-dish, cover these with the oyster

sauce, next comes a layer of fish; one of chopped egg; then more sauce,

and so on, leaving out the bread-crumbs until the dish is full, when

put a thick layer, with bits of butter set closely in it. Bake covered

until hot through, then brown.

FRICASSEED LOBSTER. +

Meat of a good-sized lobster, boiled.

1 cup rich veal, or chicken broth—quite thick.

½ cup cream.

Juice of half a lemon.

1 table-spoonful of butter.

Pepper and salt to taste.

Cut the lobster-meat in pieces half an inch square; put with the gravy,

pepper and salt, into a saucepan. Cover and stew gently for five

minutes. Add the cream, and just as it is on the point of boiling, stir

in the butter. When this is melted, take the saucepan from the fire,

and stir in, very quickly, the lemon-juice.

Serve in a covered dish.

Boston crackers, split, delicately toasted, and buttered while hot, are

a nice accompaniment to this fricassee.

Canned lobster may be used if you cannot procure fresh.

LOBSTER RISSOLES. +

1 large lobster—boiled.

2 table-spoonfuls of butter.

Yolks of 3 eggs.

Handful of bread-crumbs.

1 table-spoonful of anchovy sauce.

Cayenne, salt, and chopped parsley to liking.

Pick the meat from the boiled lobster, and pound it in a Wedgewood

mortar with half the coral, seasoning with salt and cayenne pepper.

When you have rubbed it to a smooth paste with the butter, add a

table-spoonful of anchovy sauce and the yolk of an egg, well beaten.

Flour your hands well and make the mixture into egg-shaped balls. Roll

these in beaten egg, then in bread-crumbs, and fry to a light brown in

sweet lard, dripping, or butter.

_For the Sauce._

The coral of the lobster rubbed smooth.

1 teaspoonful anchovy sauce.

4 table-spoonfuls melted butter.

1 table-spoonful of cream.

Have ready in a saucepan 4 table-spoonfuls of melted butter; the

remainder of the coral of the lobster pounded fine, and stirred in

carefully, and a teaspoonful of anchovy sauce. Let this heat almost to

boiling; add the cream, and pour hot over the rissoles when you have

arranged these upon a heated dish.

Garnish with parsley or cresses.

LOBSTER CUTLETS +

Are made precisely as is the paste for rissoles, except that enough

flour is added to it to enable you to roll it out into a sheet about as

thick as your finger. Cut this into strips about three inches in length

and one in width. Fry these quickly and drain dry before arranging them

in the dish.

Pour the sauce over them. If properly made and fried, they are light

and palatable.

LOBSTER CROQUETTES. +

1 fine lobster, well boiled, or a can of lobster.

2 eggs, well beaten.

2 table-spoonfuls of butter, melted, but not hot.

½ cup bread-crumbs.

Season with salt and cayenne pepper.

Pound the lobster-meat, coral and all, in a Wedgewood mortar. Mix with

this the bread-crumbs, then the seasoning and butter. Bind with the

yolk of one egg. Flour your hands and make into oblong croquettes. Dip

in beaten egg, then in bread-crumbs, and fry quickly to a light-brown

in sweet lard or butter. Drain off fat, by laying upon a hot, clean

paper, before dishing them.

Make a border of parsley close about them when you have piled them

tastefully in the dish.

LOBSTER PUDDING.

1 large lobster well boiled, or a can of preserved lobster.

½ cup fine bread-crumbs.

½ cup cream or rich milk.

Cayenne pepper and salt.

1 teaspoonful of Worcestershire or Harvey’s sauce.

¼ pound fat, salt pork, or corned ham, cut into _very_ thin slices.

3 eggs.

Pound the meat and coral to a paste. Mix into this two eggs well

beaten, the seasoning, the bread-crumbs, and one table-spoonful of

cream. Stir all together until light. Line the pudding-mould with the

sliced ham. Pour the mixture into this and fit on the top. Set into a

pot or pan of boiling water, and boil steadily for one hour.

_Sauce for Pudding._

½ cup drawn butter.

The remainder of the cream.

A little chopped parsley.

1 teaspoonful anchovy sauce.

Heat almost to boiling; stir in a beaten egg, and so soon as this

begins to thicken, take from the fire.

Turn the pudding out carefully upon a hot dish, and pour the sauce over

it. Cut with a sharp thin knife.

Send around lemon cut into eighths, to be squeezed over each slice,

should the guests wish to do so.

CURRIED LOBSTER.

1 large lobster, boiled.

1 large cup of strong veal or chicken broth.

1 shallot.

1 great spoonful of butter.

1 great spoonful chopped thyme and parsley.

Juice of 1 lemon.

1 table-spoonful corn-starch.

1 teaspoonful anchovy sauce.

1 table-spoonful curry-powder.

Pick the meat very fine and set aside in a cool place. Mince the onion,

and put it with the chopped herbs, the butter and a table-spoonful of

hot water, into a small covered saucepan. Set this over the fire until

it begins to simmer, then add the broth. Boil all together for five

minutes, strain as for soup, stir in the curry powder and corn-starch,

and stew gently ten minutes longer, stirring often. Season as directed,

and add the picked lobster. Let the saucepan stand in a pan of boiling

water ten minutes, but do not let the contents of the inner vessel

boil. Pour into a deep dish.

Send around wafery slices of toast buttered while hot, and pieces of

lemon to be added if necessary.

DEVILLED LOBSTER. +

1 lobster, well boiled.

3 table-spoonfuls butter.

1 teaspoonful made mustard.

1 teaspoonful anchovy sauce.

1 wine glass of vinegar.

Cayenne pepper and salt.

2 hard-boiled eggs.

Pick the meat carefully from the shell, breaking it as little as may

be. Rub the coral to a smooth paste with the back of a silver spoon.

Chop the meat fine. Stir into this the butter, melted, but not hot, the

yolks of the eggs, rubbed smooth with the coral, the pepper, mustard

and salt, and put all together in a saucepan over the fire. Stir until

it is smoking hot, then turn into the shell, which should be washed and

heated.

STEWED LOBSTER.

1 large lobster, well boiled.

1 cup good gravy—veal is best.

1 blade of mace.

2 table-spoonfuls of melted butter.

Juice of half a lemon.

Cayenne and salt to liking.

1 glass sherry.

1 teaspoonful chopped parsley.

Cut the meat of the lobster into pieces an inch long and half as

wide, keeping the coral until the last. Put the meat, with the broth

and seasoning, into a saucepan and heat gently, stirring frequently

until it is near boiling. Then add the coral and butter (which should

previously be well rubbed together) and the chopped parsley. When the

mixture again nears the boiling point, add the wine and lemon-juice and

turn into a deep dish.

SCALLOPED LOBSTER (No. 1).

1 boiled lobster.

4 table-spoonfuls of cream.

2 eggs well beaten.

½ cup bread-crumbs.

2 tablespoonfuls butter.

1 tea-spoonful anchovy sauce.

Season to taste with cayenne, salt and nutmeg.

Juice of half a lemon.

Rub the meat of the lobster, including the coral, a little at a time,

in a Wedgewood mortar with the butter, until it is a soft paste. Put

this into a saucepan with the seasoning, and heat to boiling, stirring

constantly. Remove from the fire, and add the cream and lemon-juice,

stirring in well. Fill the lobster shell with this mixture. Strew

bread-crumbs over the top, and set on the upper grate of a quick oven

until the crumbs begin to brown.

Send to table in the shell, laid upon a hot dish.

You can scallop crab in the same manner.

SCALLOPED LOBSTER (No. 2).

1 lobster, well boiled.

3 table-spoonfuls of butter.

1 teaspoonful of anchovy sauce.

½ cup of bread-crumbs.

½ cup of cream.

2 eggs well beaten.

Season with cayenne pepper and salt.

Cut the lobster carefully into halves with a sharp knife. Pick out the

meat carefully, and set aside while you prepare the sauce. This is

done by rubbing the coral and the soft green substance, known as the

“pith,” together in a mortar or bowl, adding, a little at a time, a

table-spoonful of butter. Put this on the fire in a covered saucepan,

and stir until it is smoking hot. Then, beat in the anchovy sauce,

pepper and salt before adding the cream. Heat quickly to a boil, lest

the cream should curdle, put in the picked meat, and again stir up well

from the sides and bottom until very hot. The eggs, whipped to a froth,

should now go in. Remove the saucepan from the fire so soon as this is

done.

Have the upper and lower halves of the shell ready buttered, strew

bread-crumbs thickly in the bottom of each, moisten these with cream,

and pour in the lobster mixture while still very hot. Put another layer

of bread-crumbs, well moistened with the remainder of the cream, on the

top. Stick bits of butter all over it, and brown on the upper grating

of a hot oven.

In either of these preparations of scalloped lobster, should the canned

lobster be used, or should you chance to break the shell in getting

out the meat, you may bake the mixture prepared, as directed, in a

pudding-dish or small _paté_ pans.

CRABS

Are so near of kin to the lobster family that the same receipts may

easily be used for both. Only, bear in mind that the lesser and tougher

shell-fish needs more boiling than does the aristocratic lobster. If

underdone, crabs are very unwholesome. Also, in consideration of the

crab’s deficiency in the matter of the coral which lends lusciousness

and color to lobster salads and stews, use more butter and cream in

“getting him up” for the table.

Cayenne pepper is regarded by many as necessary in dishes of lobster or

crab, because of its supposed efficacy in preventing the evil effects

which might otherwise follow indulgence in these delicacies.

SOFT CRABS.

For a receipt for preparing these, please see “Common Sense in the

Household, No. 1,” page 71.

TURTLE FRICASSEE. +

3 pounds turtle steak.

1 large cup strong veal gravy.

4 hard-boiled eggs—the yolks only.

1 teaspoonful anchovy sauce.

1 teaspoonful Harvey’s sauce.

Juice of half a lemon.

2 dozen mushrooms.

1 small onion, minced fine.

1 bunch sweet herbs, minced.

1 glass wine, and butter for frying.

Browned flour for thickening, with cayenne and salt.

Cut the steak in strips as wide and as long as three of your fingers;

fry brown (when you have floured them) in butter. Take up; drain off

the grease; put with the gravy, which should be ready heated, into a

tin vessel with a close cover and set in a pot of hot water. It must

not boil until you have put in the rest of the ingredients. Slice the

onion and mushrooms, and fry in the same butter; add with the herbs and

other seasoning to the meat in the pail, or inner saucepan. Cover and

set to stew gently. To the butter left in the frying-pan, add three

spoonfuls of browned flour (large ones) and stir to a smooth unctuous

paste, without setting it on the range. Add the lemon-juice to this,

and set aside until the turtle has simmered half an hour in the broth.

Take up the meat, and arrange upon a covered hot-water dish; transfer

the gravy to a saucepan, and boil hard five minutes uncovered. Put in

the brown flour paste; stir up until it thickens well; add the wine and

yolks of eggs, each cut in three pieces, and pour over the turtle.

PANNED OYSTERS. +

1 quart of oysters.

Rounds of thin toast, delicately browned.

Butter, salt and pepper.

Have ready several small pans of block tin, with upright sides. The

ordinary “patty-pan” will do, if you can get nothing better, but it

is well, if you are fond of oysters cooked in this way, to have the

neat little tins made, at a moderate price, at a tinsmith’s. Cut stale

bread in thin slices, then round—removing all the crust—of a size that

will just fit in the bottoms of your pans. Toast these quickly to a

light-brown, butter and lay within your tins. Wet with a great spoonful

of oyster liquid, then, with a silver fork, arrange upon the toast as

many oysters as the pans will hold without heaping them up. Dust with

pepper and salt, put a bit of butter on top and set the pans, when

all are full, upon the floor of a quick oven. Cover with an inverted

baking-pan to keep in steam and flavor, and cook until the oysters

“ruffle.” Eight minutes in a brisk oven, should be enough. Send very

hot to the table in the tins in which they were roasted.

Next to roasting in the shell, this mode of cooking oysters best

preserves the native flavor of the bivalves.

FRICASSEED OYSTERS. +

1 pint good broth—veal or chicken—well strained.

1 slice of ham—corned is better than smoked.

3 pints oysters.

1 small onion.

2 table-spoonfuls of butter.

½ cup of milk.

1 table-spoonful of corn-starch.

1 egg beaten light.

A little chopped parsley and sweet marjoram.

Pepper to taste and juice of a lemon.

If the ham be raw, soak in boiling water for half an hour before

cutting it into very small slices, and putting it into the saucepan

with the broth, the oyster liquor, the onion minced _very_ fine, the

herbs and pepper. Let these simmer for fifteen minutes, and boil fast

for five, then skim and put in the oysters. Boil up once briskly,

keeping the contents of the saucepan well stirred. Have ready the

corn-starch, rubbed smoothly into the milk. Stir this in and heat

carefully, using the spoon constantly until it boils and begins to

thicken, when the butter should go in. So soon as this is melted take

out the oysters with a skimmer; put into a hot covered dish, heat the

broth again to a boil, remove the saucepan from the fire, and stir in

cautiously the beaten egg. A better way is to cook the latter gradually

by beating in with it a few tablespoonfuls of the scalding liquor,

before putting the egg into the saucepan.

Turn the gravy over the oysters, and serve at once. Squeeze in the

lemon-juice after the tureen is on the table, as it is apt to curdle

the mixture if left to stand.

Send around cream crackers, and green pickles or olives with this

savory dish.

OYSTERS BOILED IN THE SHELL.

Large shell-oysters, washed very clean and scraped, but not opened.

Pot of boiling water over a hot fire.

Sauce of melted butter with chopped or powdered parsley.

A lemon, cut in half.

Put the oysters, one by one, quickly and carefully into the water,

which must be kept at a hard boil all the time. In five minutes, turn

off every drop of the water by inverting the pot over a cullender, dry

the shells rapidly with a soft cloth and send to table upon a hot dish.

Squeeze a few drops of lemon-juice upon each oyster, and put a little

hot melted butter with pepper over it before eating it from the shell.

The epicurean oyster-lover may consider boiled oysters insipid, but

they are liked by many.

SCALLOPED OYSTERS (No. 1). +

Large, fine shell-oysters.

Butter.

Fine bread-crumbs, or rolled cracker.

Minced parsley, pepper and salt.

Lemon-juice.

Open the shells, setting aside for use the deepest ones. Have ready

some melted butter, _not_ hot, seasoned with minced parsley and pepper.

Roll each oyster in this, letting it drip as little as may be, and lay

in the shells, which should be arranged in a baking-pan. Add to each a

little lemon-juice, sift bread-crumbs over it, and bake in a quick oven

until done.

Serve in the shells.

SCALLOPED OYSTERS (No. 2). +

1 quart of oysters.

1 teacupful very dry bread-crumbs, or pounded cracker.

2 great spoonfuls butter.

½ cup of milk, or cream, if you can get it.

Pepper to taste.

A little salt.

Cover the bottom of a baking-dish (well buttered) with a layer of

crumbs, and wet these with the cream, put on spoonful by spoonful.

Pepper and salt, and strew with minute bits of butter. Next, put

in the oysters, with a little of their liquor. Pepper them, stick

bits of butter in among them, and cover with dry crumbs until the

oysters are entirely hidden. More pieces of butter, very small, and

arranged thickly on top. Set in the oven, invert a plate over it to

keep in the flavor, and bake until the juice bubbles up to the top.

Remove the cover, and brown on the upper grating for two or three

minutes—certainly not longer.

Send to table in the bake-dish.

This is a good intermediate course between fish and meat, and is always

popular.

BROILED OYSTERS. +

1 quart of the finest, firmest oysters you can procure.

½ cup very dry bread-crumbs, or pounded crackers, sifted almost as fine

as flour.

Pepper to taste.

½ cup melted butter.

Dry the oysters by laying them on a clean cloth and covering them with

another. Dip each in the melted butter, which should be peppered,

roll over and over in the cracker-crumbs, and broil upon one of the

wire gridirons, made for this purpose, over a clear fire. These wire

“broilers” hold the oysters firmly, and can be safely turned when one

side is done. Five or six minutes should cook them. Butter and pepper a

hot dish, lay in the oysters, and serve immediately.

DEVILLED OYSTERS. +

1 quart fine oysters.

Cayenne pepper.

Lemon-juice.

Some melted butter.

1 egg, beaten light.

½ cup rolled cracker.

Wipe the oysters dry, and lay in a flat dish. Cover with a mixture of

melted butter, cayenne pepper (or pepper-sauce), and lemon-juice. Let

them lie in this for ten minutes, turning them frequently; roll in the

crumbs, then in the beaten egg, again in the crumbs, and fry in mixed

lard and butter, made very hot before the oysters are dropped in.

OYSTERS IN BATTER.

1 quart of oysters.

2 eggs, whipped light.

1 cup of milk.

Flour to make a good batter.

Pepper and salt.

Dry the oysters with a soft cloth, dip in the batter twice, turning

each one dexterously, that it may be thickly coated, and fry in a

mixture of butter and lard.

STEWED OYSTERS.

1 quart of oysters.

1 cup of milk.

Salt very slightly, and pepper to taste.

1 great spoonful butter.

Drain the liquor from the oysters into a saucepan and heat to a boil.

At the same time, put on the milk to heat in another vessel set within

a pot or pan of boiling water. When the liquor in the saucepan boils

up, put in the oysters and stew until they begin to ruffle or crimp at

the edges. Stir in the butter, and when this is quite dissolved, turn

the stew into a tureen. Add the milk immediately (which should be

boiling hot), cover closely, and send to table. Send around pickles, or

olives, and crackers with them. There is no danger, when oysters are

stewed in this way, of the milk curdling.

OYSTER PATÉS.

1 quart of oysters, minced fine with a sharp knife, with a thin

blade,—not a “chopper.”

1 great spoonful butter “drawn” in a cupful of milk, or cream, if

you can get it, and thicken with a teaspoonful of corn-starch or

rice-flour, previously wet up with cold milk.

Salt and pepper to taste.

Drain the liquor from the oysters, and chop them as directed. When the

milk has been boiled and thickened, and the butter well incorporated

with it, stir in the minced oysters, and stew about five minutes,

stirring all the while. Have ready some shapes of nice pastry, baked,

and fill with the mixture. Set in the oven about two minutes to heat

them well, and send to table.

_Or,_

You can heat the chopped oysters in a very little of their own liquor

before adding to the thickened milk. Unless you are sure that the

latter is quite fresh, this is a prudent precaution.

CREAM OYSTER PIE.

Line a pie-plate with good puff paste; fill it with slices of _stale_

bread, laid evenly within it; butter that part of the crust lining

the rim of the dish, and cover with a top crust. Bake quickly in a

brisk oven, and while still hot, dexterously and carefully lift the

upper crust. The buttered rim will cause it to separate easily from

the lower. Have ready a mixture of minced oysters and thickened cream,

prepared according to the foregoing receipt, and having taken out the

stale bread (put there to keep the top crust in shape), fill the pie

with the oyster cream. Replace the cover, set in the oven for two

minutes, or until hot, and serve. This is a nice luncheon dish, and not

amiss for supper.

BREAKFAST.

He was a shrewd Cœlebs who restrained his loverly impatience to throw

himself, in unconditional surrender, at the feet of his beloved, by

the resolution to see her first at the breakfast-table. It is to be

regretted that his admiring biographer has not recorded the result of

the experiment. Let us hope, for the sake of preserving the “unities of

the drama,” that Cecilia was “in good form” on the momentous occasion;

not a thread ironed awry in bib or tucker; not a rebellious hair in her

sleek locks. Cœlebs—Hannah More’s Cœlebs—and every other that I ever

read or heard of, was a pragmatical prig; the complacent proprietor of

a patent refrigerator, very commodious and in excellent repair, but

which ought never, even by his conceited self, to have been mistaken

for a heart.

Knowing you, my reader, as I do, I would not insult your good sense by

intimating that the husband of your choice resembles him in any leading

trait. Being a sensible (and avowedly a fallible) man, therefore, John

does not expect you to appear at the breakfast-table in the flowing

robes and elaborate laces that belong to the leisure hours of the day.

If he does, he should don dress-coat and white cravat to keep you in

countenance. He will not find fault with a neat _peignoir_ (if it

_be_ neat), or a plainly-trimmed dress, or a white apron before the

same. He ought to look for, and to see a clean collar put on straight

and fastened snugly at the throat, or a white ruffle and cuffs, or

wrist-ruffles, to correspond, and hair in irreproachable order. I have

seen women who called themselves ladies, who could never find time to

give their hair what they called “a good combing,” until afternoon.

And time and patience would fail me, and I fear the equanimity of your

diaphragm as well, were I to attempt even a partial recapitulation

of the many and disgustful varieties of morning toilettes, of which

I have been the unwilling spectator. You should hear my John,—whose

profession takes him into what the renowned Ann Gale styles the

“buzzom of families,” at all sorts of unconventional hours,—dilate

upon this theme. Not invalid attire. When the work of wearing the robe

of flesh becomes a matter of pain and difficulty, he must be indeed

hypercritical who notes the ill-fitting wrapper, or roughened hair.

“But the queens of the breakfast-table!” he says, with lifted eyebrows.

“The grimy chrysalids of the afternoon butterflies! It is not a casual

glimpse of Cinderella on sweeping-day, or during house-cleaning week,

that I complain of; but my heart swells with sincerest pity for the

husbands before whose eyes the play is enacted three hundred and

sixty-five times every year; to whom the elf-locks and collarless neck,

the greasy, lank, torn dressing-gown of dark calico appear as surely

and regularly as the light of each new day.”

I do not say that you should bring to the breakfast-table a face like

a May morning. I hate stereotyped phrases and stereotyped smiles. But

try to look as gracious as though a visitor sat between you and the

gentleman at the foot of the board. It is not always easy to appear

even moderately cheerful at breakfast-time. An eminent physician told

me once, as the result of many years’ study and observation, that no

woman should be up in the morning more than an hour before breaking

her fast. My own experience has so far corroborated the wisdom of the

advice that I always strive to impress upon my domestics, especially

the not strong ones, the expediency of eating a slice of bread and

drinking a cup of tea during the interval that must elapse between

their rising-hour and the kitchen breakfast. I practise the like

precaution against faintness and headache, in my own case, when I have

to give my personal superintendence to the morning meal, or when it

is later than usual. But with all precautionary measures, I believe

“before breakfast” to be the most doleful hour of the twenty-four to

a majority of our sex. In winter, the house is at a low temperature;

dressing, a hurried and disagreeable business; the children are drowsy,

lazy, and cross; John “doesn’t want to seem impatient, but would like

to have breakfast on time, to-day, my dear, as I have an important

engagement.” While the mother, who has slept with one ear quite open

all night, and one eye half shut, because she fancied, at bed-time,

that baby’s breathing was not quite natural, fights twenty battles with

bodily discomfort and spiritual irritability before she takes her seat

behind the coffee-urn, and draws her first long breath at the beginning

of the “blessing,” that reminds her of the mercies, new every morning,

which are still hers. For all this, try womanfully to launch John upon

the day’s voyage with a smile and word of cheer. Think twice before you

tell him of the cook’s indolence and stupidity, and the housemaid’s

petulance. In the hope that the nauseating pain in your head may yield

to a “good cup of tea”—(bless it, with me, O my sisters, one and all!)

it is as well to withhold the fact of its existence from him. If he

_will_ read the morning paper over his coffee, his cakes growing cold

meanwhile, and thereby obliges the cook to bake twice as many as would

be necessary for the meal were all to partake of it at the same time,

restrain the censure that trembles on your tongue, and chat merrily

with the children. A silent, hasty breakfast is one of the worst things

imaginable for their digestion and tempers.

You would often rather have “a comfortable cry” in a corner than act

thus, but persuade yourself bravely that nine-tenths of your miserable

sensations are hysterical, and, therefore, ephemeral. If we women do

not know what the “morning cloud” is, nobody does. Still, remember it

“passeth away.”

If possible, let your eating-room be light and pleasant,—warm in

winter, breezy in summer. Not only should the table be neat, orderly,

and, so far as you can make it so, pretty, but guard against what I

have mentally characterized, in some very grand _salles-à-manger_, as

the “workshop look”—the look that says to all who enter—“This is the

place where you must eat.” There are tall beaufets with loads of plate

and glass, side-tables with reserves of implements for the labors of

the hour and place; pictures of game, fish and fruit;—more eating;—and

if the walls are frescoed, more game, sheep and oxen, or, at the best,

hunting, seem to reassure the consumers of to-day that there will be

more creatures killed in season for to-morrow’s dinner. Therefore,

eat, drink and be solemn while doing it, as befits the season and

surroundings. There is nothing like having a single eye to business.

Do not fret yourself if your dining-room boasts neither paintings nor

frescoes. Throw open all the shutters in the morning, and coax in

every available ray of sunlight. Press the weather into service to

adorn the repast. If fine, remark upon the blueness of the sky and the

enjoyment of the outer world in the glory of the day. If stormy, make

the best of home-cheer, and promise something attractive as an evening

entertainment, should the weather continue wet, or snowy. A canary-bird

in the sunniest window is a good thing to have in a breakfast-room if

you like his shrill warbling. A pot of English ivy, brave and green,

twisting over the face of the old clock, and festooning the windows,

is a choice bit of brightness in the winter time. In summer, when

flowers are cheap and plentiful, never set the table without them if

you can get nothing more than a button-hole bouquet to lay on John’s

napkin. Insist that the children shall make themselves tidy before

coming to the table, whatever may be the meal, even if they will meet

nobody except yourself there. Teach them early that it is a disgrace to

themselves and to you to eat with unclean hands and faces. Inculcate,

further, the propriety of introducing, while at table, topics that

will interest and please all. Let wrangling, fault-finding and

recrimination be never so much as named among them. These are little

things, but whatever detracts from the idea that the family repast

is a tri-daily festival, and should be honored and enjoyed as such,

is a wrong to those whose happiness it is your mission to guard and

maintain. A wrong to health as to heart. Food swallowed in bitterness

of spirit engenders dyspepsia and bile as surely as do acrid fruit

and heavy bread. A sharp reprimand will take away sensitive Mamie’s

appetite, and a frown between the eyes that, when serene, seem to John

to mirror heaven itself, will beget in his bosom that indescribable

sinking of heart we know as “goneness,” which is yet not physical

faintness.

I have jotted down these hints under the heading of “Breakfast,”

although most of them are applicable to all meals, because, as a rule,

people bring less keenness of hunger to this than to any other. It is

as if the longest fast that separates our stated time of eating from

another were the hardest to break; as if we had got out of the habit of

desiring and receiving food. It behooves us, then, as wise housewives,

to make provision against mortifying rejection of our viands by various

and artful devices to tempt the dull or coy appetite. Especially should

we study to avoid sameness in our breakfast bills of fare; an easy

thing to compass by a moderate exercise of foresight and ingenuity on

the part of the housewife.

The American breakfast should be a pleasing medium between the heavy

cold beef and game pie of the English and the—for our climate and

“fast” habits of life—too light morning refreshment of the French.

That in order to accomplish these ends it is not necessary greatly

to increase the market bills of the household, or the cares of the

mistress, I have tried to prove in these pages, while I have not deemed

it well to specify, in all cases, which are exclusively breakfast

dishes. Very many of those I have described might appear with equal

propriety at breakfast, at luncheon, at what is spoken of in provincial

circles as “a hearty supper,” or as an _entrée_ or side-dish at dinner.

PATÉS.

No form of meat, _entrée_, or made dish is more popular, and, if

rightly prepared, more elegant than the _paté_. It is susceptible of

variations, many and pleasant, chiefly in the form of the crust and the

nature of its contents. The celebrated _patés de foie gras_, imported

from Strasbourg, are usually without the paste enclosure, and come to

us in hermetically sealed jars.

PATÉ OF SWEETBREADS. +

Make a good puff paste, basting two or three times with butter, and

set in a cold place for at least half an hour. The best _paté_ covers

I have ever made were from paste kept over night in a cool dry safe,

before it was rolled into a sheet for cutting. When the paste is crisp

and firm, roll quickly, and cut into rounds about a quarter of an

inch thick. Reserving one of these whole for the bottom crust of each

_paté_, lay it in a floured baking-pan, cut the centre from two or

three others, as you desire your _paté_ to be shallow or deep, and lay

these carefully, one after another, upon the whole one, leaving a neat

round well, a little over an inch in diameter, in the middle. Bake in a

quick oven, and when lightly browned, glaze by brushing each over with

white of egg and returning to the oven for a minute. Make ready as

many sweetbreads as you need (two of fair size will make a good dish),

previously prepared by boiling fifteen minutes in hot water, then made

firm by plunging into very cold. Cut them into slices, season with

pepper and salt, put into a covered saucepan with a great spoonful of

butter and a _very_ little water, and simmer gently until tender all

through. Cut these in turn into very small squares, and mix with less

than a cupful of white sauce. Return to the saucepan and heat almost

to boiling, stirring carefully all the time. Fill the _patés_, arrange

upon a hot dish, and send up at once.

_White Sauce for the above._

1 small cupful of milk, heated to boiling in a custard-kettle, or tin

pail set in hot water.

1 heaping teaspoonful corn-starch, wet with cold milk.

Salt and pepper to taste.

1 table-spoonful butter.

A little chopped parsley.

Stir the corn-starch into the boiling milk until it thickens well, then

the butter and seasoning.

This mixture is useful in all similar preparations, but should be a

little thicker for oysters than for meats.

CHICKEN PATÉS. +

Line small _paté_-pans with good puff paste, let this get crisp in

a cool place, and bake in a brisk oven. Stir minced chicken, well

seasoned, into a good white sauce, heat through, fill the shells, set

in the oven to brown _very_ slightly, and serve.

_Or,_

Thicken the gravy left from the roast chicken with browned flour,

add to the minced meat the yolk of one or two hard-boiled eggs,

mashed fine; stir all together in a saucepan until hot, and fill the

paste-shells. This is a brown mixture, and if not over-cooked, is very

savory.

The remains of cold fowls, of any kind of game, and of veal, can be

served up acceptably in this way. The _patés_ should be small, that

each person at table may take a whole one. If preferred, the paste can

be cut round, as before directed, and baked without the tins.

PATÉS OF FISH.

The cold remains of baked or boiled salmon, fresh cod or halibut.

Some good white sauce, richer than if intended for meat.

About one-fourth as much mashed potato as you have fish.

Yolks of two or three hard-boiled eggs rubbed to a paste with a

spoonful, or so, of butter. This paste should be smooth and light.

Pepper and salt to taste, and a little chopped parsley.

Shells of good puff paste, baked quickly to a delicate brown and glazed

with beaten egg.

Rub the sauce gradually into the mashed potato until both are free from

lumps. When mixed, beat together to a cream. Season and stir in the

fish (which should be “picked” very fine) with a silver fork, heaping

it as you stir, instead of beating the mixture down. Do this quickly

and lightly, fill the shells, set in the oven to heat through, and when

smoking-hot draw to the oven door, and cover with the paste of egg and

butter. A little cream may be added to this paste if it be not soft

enough to spread easily. Shut the oven-door for two minutes, to heat

the paste.

Serve the dish very hot, and send around sliced lemon with it, as some

persons like to squeeze a few drops over the _paté_ before eating.

Canned lobster and salmon are very good, thus prepared. Smoked salmon

can be made palatable for this purpose by soaking over night, and

boiling in two waters.

SWISS PATÉS.

Some slices of stale bread.

A little good dripping or very sweet lard mixed with the same quantity

of butter.

Two or three eggs beaten light.

_Very_ fine cracker-crumbs.

Minced fowl or veal mixed with white sauce, and well seasoned. Cut

_thick_ slices of stale bread—baker’s bread is best—into rounds with

a cake-cutter. With a smaller cutter extract a piece from the middle

of each round, taking care not to let the sharp tin go quite through

the bread, but leaving enough in the cavity to serve as a bottom to

the _paté_. Dip the hollowed piece of bread in the beaten egg, sift

the pulverized cracker over it, and fry in the dripping, or lard and

butter, to a delicate brown. Drain every drop of fat from it. Arrange

upon a hot dish when all are done, heap up with the “mince,” and eat

without delay.

Devilled crab or lobster is nice served in this style.

Bread _patés_ are a convenience when the housekeeper has not time to

spare for pastry-making. You can, if you like, fry them without the egg

or cracker; but most persons would esteem them too rich.

STELLA PATÉ.

3 cups minced veal or lamb—either roast or boiled. If underdone, it is

an advantage, and if lamb be used, every particle of fat must be left

out.

1 can French mushrooms, or a pint of fresh ones.

4 hard-boiled eggs cut into slices, and a sliced onion.

4 table-spoonfuls melted butter, or a cupful strong veal, lamb or fowl

gravy.

3 cups fine bread-crumbs soaked in a cup of milk.

2 raw eggs beaten light and mixed with the milk.

Fry the mushrooms brown in dripping, or butter, with the onion, then

chop rather coarsely. Work the crumbs, milk and raw eggs into a thick,

smooth batter, with which line the bottom and sides of a well-greased

mould or baking dish. Within this put a layer of the minced meat,

seasoned to taste, wet with gravy or a little melted butter, and lay

sliced egg over it. Next should come a layer of mushrooms, then another

of meat, and so on, repeating the order given above until all your

materials are used up, or the mould is full. The upper layer should be

of the soaked crumbs. Cover closely and bake in a moderate oven half

an hour, or until the outer crust is well “set.” Then set the mould,

still covered, in a baking-pan half full of _boiling_ water. Keep in

the oven, which should be hotter than at first, fifteen minutes longer.

Pass a thin sharp knife around the inside of the mould to loosen the

_paté_ from the sides, and turn out with care upon a hot flat dish.

You should have a little brown gravy ready to pour over it.

If veal be the only meat used in preparing this dish, a layer of minced

ham will improve the flavor.

If these directions be strictly followed, the _entrée_ will be pleasing

to both eye and palate.

PATÉ OF BEEF AND POTATO.

This is made according to the foregoing receipt, but substituting for

the bread-crumb crust one of mashed potato beaten soft and smooth

with a few spoonfuls of cream and raw egg. In place of mushrooms, put

a layer of chopped potatoes (previously boiled), mixed with a boiled

onion also chopped. Season with beef gravy, from which the fat has been

skimmed.

IMITATION PATÉ DE FOIE GRAS. +

Livers of four or five fowls and as many gizzards.

3 table-spoonfuls melted butter.

A chopped onion.

1 table-spoonful Worcestershire, or other pungent sauce.

Salt and white pepper to taste.

A few truffles, if you can get them.

Boil the livers until quite done, drain and wipe dry, and when cold,

rub them to a paste in a Wedgewood mortar. Let the butter and chopped

onion simmer together very slowly at the side of the range for ten

minutes. Strain them through thin muslin, pressing the bag hard to

extract the full flavor of the onion, and work this well into the

pounded liver. Turn into a larger vessel, and mix with it the rest of

the seasoning, working all together for a long while. Butter a small

china or earthen-ware jar or cup, and press the mixture hard down

within it, interspersing it with square bits of the boiled gizzards to

represent truffles. Of course, the latter are preferable, but being

scarce and expensive, they are not always to be had. If you have them,

boil them and let them get cold before putting them into the _paté_.

Cover all with melted butter and set in a cool, dry place. If well

seasoned it will keep for a fortnight in winter, but should be kept

closely covered.

This _paté_ is a delicious relish, and is more easily attainable than

would at first appear. The livers of a turkey and a pair of chickens

or ducks will make a small one, and these can be saved from one

poultry-day to another by boiling them in salt water, and keeping in a

cool place. Or, one can often secure any number of giblets by previous

application at the kitchen of a restaurant or hotel.

_Or,—_

A fair imitation of the foregoing dish can be made from the liver of a

young calf, with bits of the tongue for mock truffles.

CROQUETTES.

THESE popular little _roulettes_, although comparatively new to the

tables of most private families in America, hold their place well where

they have been once introduced. Like the _paté_, their name is Legion

as regards shape, nature and quality.

In a housewifely conversation with a lady a few months since, the word

“croquette” chanced to escape me, and I was caught up eagerly.

“Now,” with an ingenuous blush, “do you know, I was offered some at a

dinner-party the other day, and was completely nonplussed! I thought

croquet was a game.”

“Croq_uette_!” I interposed, making the most of the final _t_, and _e_.

“The gentleman who sat next me said ‘cro_quay_,’ very plainly, I assure

you. But never mind the name. What are they made of? Hominy?”

“Yes,” returned I. “Or rice, or potato, or lobster, crab, salmon,

halibut, cod, chicken, turkey, duck, game, veal, lamb, or beef. In

short, of all kinds of fish, flesh, fowl, and vegetable. The smaller

varieties are familiarly known to readers of cookery-books as ‘olives’

of meat, poultry, or game; the larger as _rissoles_ or _croquettes_,

the largest as _cannelons_ or _mirotons_.”

“Good gracious!” uttered my overwhelmed friend. “Before I would bother

my brain with such puzzling nonsense, I would set my family down to

cold meat three times a day three days in a week!”

I believed she meant what she said. But not the less is it a “good”

and a “gracious” thing for the housewife to conjure out of such

unconsidered and unsightly trifles as the mutilated cold fowl from

which half the breast and both legs are missing, or the few chops

“left over,” or “that bone” of lamb or veal, or three square inches of

cold fish, a pretty _plat_ for breakfast or luncheon, of golden-brown

croquettes, imbedded in parsley, or in a ruby setting of pickled beets,

that shall quicken John’s flagging appetite, and call from the little

ones the never stale plaudit, “Mamma can always get up something nice.”

“Gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost,” is a text

from which the thoughtful house-mother may preach to herself, as well

as to her servants. That no opportunity of making home fairer, and even

one hour of the day a little brighter, be lost or overlooked. That no

possibility of proving her constant, active love for the least of her

flock be passed by. These daily cares and hourly assiduities are the

rivets in the chain that binds her best beloved ones unto THE FAMILY.

Lacking them, the relation, instituted by law and continued by custom,

has no stancher securities than habit and convenience—a hay-rope that

will shrivel at the first touch of Passion, be rent by one resolute

wrench of Expediency.

“A serious view to take of croquettes?” do I hear you say. Then hearken

to something positive and practical.

_Unpalatable food is not wholesome._ It may be medicinal. Nothing

forced upon an unwilling appetite, and that does not gratify the

palate, can impart that freshness of animal spirit and vigor which we

call Life—spontaneous vitality. Indifferent fuel—green or sodden wood,

or slaty coal—may keep a fire from going out. There is not begotten

from these the leaping flame that gladdens, while it warms. And cold

meat and bread, dried into sawdusty innutrition, should no more form

the staple of John’s meals, even three times a week, than his grate be

filled, on December nights, with coke-dust and mica.

CHICKEN CROQUETTES. +

Minced chicken.

About one-quarter as much fine bread-crumbs as you have meat.

1 egg, beaten light, to each cupful of minced meat.

Gravy enough to moisten the crumbs and chicken. Or, if you have no

gravy, a little drawn butter.

Pepper and salt, and chopped parsley to taste.

Yolks of two hard-boiled eggs, rubbed fine with the back of a silver

spoon, added to the meat.

Mix up into a paste, with as little handling as may be. Nor must the

paste be too wet to mould readily. Make, with floured hands, into

rolls, or ovate balls, roll in flour until well coated, and fry, a few

at a time, lest crowding should injure the shape, in nice dripping, or

a mixture, half lard and half butter. As you take them out, lay in a

hot cullender, that every drop of fat may be drained off. Serve in a

heated dish, and garnish with cresses or parsley.

Turkey, duck, and veal croquettes can be made in the same manner. They

are even nicer if dipped in egg and cracker-crumbs before frying.

BEEF CROQUETTES. +

Minced cold roast or boiled beef.

One-quarter as much potato.

Gravy enough to moisten meat and potato, in which an onion has been

stewed and strained out. Season also with catsup.

Pepper and salt to taste, and a pinch of marjoram.

Beaten egg to bind the whole, and one or two more beaten in a separate

bowl.

Powdered cracker-crumbs.

Mash the potatoes, while hot, very smooth, or, if cold mashed potato

be used, be careful that no lumps remain in it. Mix in the meat,

gravy, and one raw egg, season, and form into the desired shape. Dip

each croquette in beaten egg, then roll in the cracker-crumbs, and fry

quickly to a light brown. Drain carefully, and lay upon a hot dish.

VENISON OR MUTTON CROQUETTES.

Some slices of cold roast venison, or roast or boiled mutton—the lean

only, if mutton be used—minced.

One-fifth as much stale bread, crumbed fine.

Some good gravy or drawn butter, thickened with browned flour.

Beaten egg for a _liaison_.

A pinch of mace, a very little grated lemon-peel, and chopped parsley

to taste.

Some currant jelly, in the proportion of a small teaspoonful to each

cup of gravy.

Stir the jelly well into the gravy, season and wet up with this the

meat and crumbs, add the beaten egg, make into rolls, and flour these,

or dip in egg and cracker-crumbs before frying.

_A Nice Breakfast Dish_

May be made of these by piling them in the centre of a flat dish,

within a wall, about two inches high, of mashed potato, moulded to fit

the inside of the dish, and browned in the oven. You had best use the

platter of a chafing-dish for this purpose, or one of stone china. You

can, if you like, brush the “wall” over with beaten egg before setting

in the oven. Have ready some good, brown gravy, with a little currant

jelly stirred into it; also, a small glass of claret. Thicken with

browned flour, boil up once, and pour over the croquettes.

_Or,_

This is still nicer, if you add to the gravy some mushrooms, previously

fried in butter, and chopped up. If you use these, you may, if you

like, omit the potato wall, garnishing the pile instead, with triangles

of fried bread.

FISH CROQUETTES.

Some cold fish—boiled, baked or fried—from which all fat, bones and

skin have been removed, chopped fine.

One-third as much mashed potato, rubbed to a cream with a little melted

butter.

A little white sauce, made of butter “drawn” in milk and thickened with

corn-starch, and a beaten egg.

Chopped parsley, salt, pepper, and anchovy sauce, or walnut catsup, for

seasoning.

Mix all well together, make into balls, which may be rolled in flour,

or in beaten egg, and then cracker-crumbs before they are fried.

Send around sliced lemon with these, which are not good unless eaten

hot.

These are, as will be seen, a modification of the well-known and

time-honored “fish-ball,” but, if properly made, will be found much

better.

CROQUETTES OF LOBSTER OR CRAB. +

Meat of one fine lobster, or six crabs well boiled.

2 eggs.

2 table-spoonfuls of butter.

½ cup fine bread-crumbs.

1 teaspoonful anchovy sauce.

Yolks of two eggs, boiled hard and rubbed to a powder, then beaten into

the butter.

1 good teaspoonful lemon-juice.

Season well with salt and cayenne pepper; also, a pinch of mace and

lemon-peel.

Yolks of two raw eggs, beaten very light.

Mince the meat, work in the butter—melted, but not hot; then the

seasoning, the raw eggs, and lastly, the bread-crumbs. Make into

oblong balls, and fry quickly in sweet lard, dripping, or half lard,

half butter. Drain them of every drop of fat by rolling each, for an

instant, very lightly upon a hot, clean cloth. Be sure your dish is

well heated.

These are very delicious, and should be accompanied by milk or cream

crackers, with slices of lemon passed to such guests as would like the

additional relish.

CROQUETTES OF GAME. +

Remains of cold grouse, quail, etc.

Giblets of the same, or of poultry, boiled and cold.

Gravy.

One-fourth the quantity of fine bread-crumbs that you have of meat.

Season with pepper and salt.

Raw egg, beaten, for binding the mixture together, also some in a

separate vessel for coating the croquettes.

Fine cracker-crumbs.

Mince the meat, and pound the giblets in a Wedgewood mortar, when you

have removed skin and cartilage from the gizzards. Moisten with gravy

as you pound, until all are smooth. Mix into this the raw egg and

seasoning, then the meat, lastly the bread-crumbs. Mould, dip in egg,

then in cracker-powder and fry in _boiling_ fat. The dripping from

roast poultry may be used for this purpose. _Not_ that from beef or

mutton, as it spoils the flavor of the game.

It is easy to reserve giblets for this dish by a little foresight, and

in no other shape are they more useful.

VEAL AND HAM CROQUETTES.

Cold roast or stewed veal, the remnants of cutlets or chops, freed

from bone, skin and gristle, and minced fine.

Half the quantity of cold boiled ham. A little fat on a slice, now and

then, is an improvement.

Gravy or drawn butter thickened with browned flour to moisten the meat.

One-fourth as much fine bread-crumbs as you have meat.

Yolks of one or two eggs, boiled hard and powdered, then beaten into

the gravy.

Season with chopped parsley and pepper. The ham usually supplies

sufficient salt.

Beaten egg and powdered cracker.

Raw egg for the _liaison_.

Mix veal and ham well together; wet with the gravy and season before

putting in the raw egg. Stir up well, but do not beat, and add the

crumbs.

Boll in egg and cracker, and fry.

Mem. _The fat in which croquettes are fried must be boiling, yet must

not burn._

Try a bit of the mixture before risking the well-being of your whole

dish.

HOMINY CROQUETTES. +

2 large cups of fine-grained hominy, boiled and cold.

2 eggs, well beaten.

2 table-spoonfuls melted butter.

Salt to taste.

Work the butter well into the hominy until the latter is smooth and

soft, then the eggs, beating hard for two or three minutes with a

wooden spoon, season, and make into balls or rolls with floured hands.

Roll each in flour, and fry to a yellow-brown in sweet lard.

POTATO CROQUETTES. +

2 cups mashed potato, cold and free from lumps.

2 eggs beaten to a froth.

1 table-spoonful melted butter.

Salt and pepper to taste.

1 egg beaten in a separate vessel.

1 teacupful cracker-crumbs.

Mix as you do hominy croquettes, roll in egg and cracker, and fry in

boiling lard. Take up as soon as they are done, and drain perfectly dry.

This is an excellent preparation of potato, and particularly acceptable

at breakfast or luncheon.

RICE CROQUETTES. +

2 cups cold boiled rice.

2 table-spoonfuls melted butter.

3 eggs, beaten light.

A little flour.

1 raw egg and half a cup of powdered cracker.

2 table-spoonfuls white sugar.

A large pinch of finely grated lemon-peel, and salt to taste.

Beat eggs and sugar together until light, and work the butter well into

the rice. Next, stir up with this the beaten eggs. Season and make into

croquettes of whatever shape you may fancy. They are pretty, moulded

into the form of pears, with a clove blossom, end outward, at the large

end, and the stalk of another projecting from the small, to represent

the pear-stem. You may find it advisable to use a little flour in

working the rice paste, but be careful not to get it too stiff,

in which event the croquette, of whatever composed, ceases to be a

delicacy. Roll in flour, then in the beaten egg, lastly in the powdered

cracker, and fry, a few at a time, in sweet lard or butter.

Rice croquettes are sometimes eaten, with powdered sugar sprinkled

thickly over them, as a dessert, or sweet sauce is served with them.

They are delicious when properly mixed and cooked.

* * * * *

CANNELON OF VEAL. +

2 pounds of cold roast or stewed veal. The remains of a stewed and

stuffed fillet are good for this purpose, especially if underdone.

1 pound cold boiled ham.

1 large cupful gravy. If you have none left over, make it of the refuse

bits of the cold meat, such as fat, skin, etc.

1 small teaspoonful finely minced lemon-peel, the same of mace, and a

table-spoonful chopped parsley.

Salt and pepper.

1 cupful bread-crumbs, dry and fine.

Yolks of 3 eggs beaten light, reserving the whites for glazing the

cannelon when done.

Chop the meat very well, season it and stir in the beaten yolks; wet

with half the gravy, and mix in the bread-crumbs. It should be just

soft enough to handle without running into a shapeless mass. Flour your

hands and make it into a roll about three times as long as it is broad.

Flour the outside well and lay it in a greased baking-pan. Cover and

set in the oven until it is smoking hot, when remove the cover and

brown quickly. Draw to the oven-door and brush over with white of egg,

shut the door for one minute to set this, and transfer the cannelon,

by the help of a cake-turner or a wooden paddle, to a hot dish. Lay

three-cornered pieces of fried bread close about it, and pour a rich

gravy over all.

You can make a really elegant dish of this by adding to the gravy a

half-pint of sliced mushrooms, and stewing them in it until they are

tender and savory, then pouring them over the _rouleau_ of meat.

A savory and inexpensive dish, and a good _entrée_ at a family dinner.

Of course you can vary the size to suit the remnants of meat.

CANNELON OF BEEF

Is made precisely like one of veal, except that mashed potato is

substituted for bread-crumbs, and an onion is stewed in the gravy

before the latter is strained over the baked roll of meat.

Green pickles or olives are a palatable accompaniment to it.

A PRETTY BREAKFAST DISH

May be made of croquettes of fish, lobster, fowl or meat in the shape

of hen’s eggs, heaped upon a dish and surrounded by very thin strips of

fried potato, arranged to look as much as possible like straw. If sauce

is poured over the croquettes, be careful not to let it deluge the

potato that forms the nest.

SWEETBREADS.

IT is usually necessary to bespeak sweetbreads several days in

advance, as they are both scarce and popular. But if your butcher be

accommodating, and yourself a valued customer, there is seldom much

difficulty in procuring enough to make a dish for a family of ordinary

size.

Keep sweetbreads in a cold, dry place, and cook as soon as possible

after getting them, as they soon spoil. Be careful, moreover, in

cooking them, to see that they are thoroughly done.

BROWN FRICASSEE OF SWEETBREADS. (No. 1.) +

4 sweetbreads.

2 cups brown veal gravy, strong and well-seasoned.

4 table-spoonfuls of butter.

Pinch of mace, and twice as much cloves.

Browned flour for thickening.

1 teaspoonful chopped onion, stewed in, and then strained out of the

gravy.

Wash the sweetbreads carefully in warm water, removing every bit of

skin and gristle. Lay them in a saucepan, and cover with _boiling_

water. Boil them ten minutes hard, turn off the hot water, and plunge

them instantly into very cold, in which you have dissolved a little

salt. Leave them in this about fifteen minutes, or until they are

cool, white and firm. Cut each crosswise into slices nearly half an

inch thick. Have ready the butter in the frying-pan, and fry the

slices, turning frequently, until they are a good brown, but do not

dry them up. Drain off the fat through a cullender, lay the sliced

sweetbreads within a saucepan, pour the hot brown gravy, already

seasoned, over them, cover closely, and simmer, not boil, fifteen

minutes longer.

BROWN FRICASSEE. (No. 2.) +

4 sweetbreads.

2 cups good brown gravy—veal is best. Spice with mace and cloves.

1 onion.

½ cup butter.

1 pint mushrooms.

Prepare the sweetbreads by boiling and blanching as in previous

receipt. Slice the onion and mushrooms, and fry quickly to a fine brown

in half the butter. Strain the fat from these, and return it to the

frying-pan, adding the rest of the butter. When hissing hot, put in the

sliced sweetbreads. Turn over and over in the fat for three minutes.

Meanwhile, let the fried onions and mushrooms be stewing in the gravy.

Pour this gravy, when the sweetbreads are ready, into a jar or tin pail

with a closely-fitting top; set it in a pot of boiling water, taking

care there is not enough to bubble over the top, put in the sliced

sweetbreads, cover, and stew _gently_ at the side of the range for

twenty minutes—half an hour, should the sweetbreads be large. Arrange

the slices symmetrically upon a hot platter, pour the gravy over them,

when you have added a thickening of browned flour, and serve.

There is no more palatable preparation of sweetbreads than this,

especially if you add to the gravy a glass of brown sherry. Garnish

with triangles of fried bread.

WHITE FRICASSEE OF SWEETBREADS. +

3 fine sweetbreads.

3 eggs.

4 table-spoonfuls of cream.

1 great spoonful of butter.

1 teaspoonful chopped parsley.

A good pinch of nutmeg.

1 cup strong veal or lamb broth—never mutton.

Wash the sweetbreads well. Soak them in very cold or ice-water,

slightly salted, for half an hour. Blanch by plunging them for an

instant into boiling water, after which lay for five minutes in

ice-water. This process makes them white and firm. Put them into a

covered saucepan with the broth, which must be well seasoned with

pepper and salt, and, if you like, a very slight touch of onion.

Sprinkle with nutmeg, cover closely, and stew steadily for an hour, if

the sweetbreads are of a fair size, and you mean to serve them whole.

If they have been sliced, three-quarters of an hour is sufficient.

Heat the cream in another saucepan until scalding hot, but not boiling.

Take it from the fire, and stir carefully, a little at a time, into the

beaten eggs. Just before the sweetbreads are taken from the fire, add

this mixture slowly, stirring all the time. Leave it in the saucepan

just long enough to cook the eggs, but do not let it boil. Stir in the

parsley at the same time. Turn out in a hot covered dish.

LARDED SWEETBREADS STEWED.

3 fine sweetbreads.

¼ pound fat salt pork, cut into long narrow strips.

1 cup good veal gravy.

1 small pinch of cayenne pepper.

1 table-spoonful of mushroom catsup.

Juice of half a lemon.

Parboil the sweetbreads for five minutes. The water should be boiling

when they are put in. Plunge immediately into very cold salt water. Let

them lie in this for five minutes, wipe them dry with a soft, clean

cloth, and lay upon a cool dish until perfectly cold. Lard them closely

with the strips of salt pork. Stew gently for twenty-five minutes in

the gravy, which must be rich and thick. Add lemon-juice, catsup,

cayenne, and, if needed, a little salt. Lay the sweetbreads in order on

a flat dish, pour the gravy over them, and garnish with sliced lemon

laid in the triangular spaces left between three-cornered bits of fried

toast.

N.B. A pleasant addition to this dish, as to the brown fricassee of

sweetbreads, is force-meat of chopped beef or veal very finely minced

and worked to a paste with hard-boiled yolk of egg, a little crumbed

bread, a spoonful or two of gravy or butter. Season very highly, work

in the beaten yolk of a raw egg to bind the mixture, and make into oval

balls a little larger than olives. Flour these, and lay on a floured

plate, so as not to touch one another. Set in a quick oven until they

are firm and hissing hot, garnish the dish with them instead of the

sliced lemon, and pour the hot gravy over them and the triangles of

toast as well as the sweetbreads. An outer circle of parsley looks well

with these.

LARDED SWEETBREAD—FRIED. +

3 or 4 sweetbreads.

4 or 5 slices very fat salt pork.

A little pepper.

Parboil, blanch and lard, as in preceding receipt. Have ready a

clean, hot frying-pan barely greased with a little butter. Put in the

sweetbreads, and fry without other fat than that of the pork lardoons

which should project half an inch on each side of the sweetbreads.

Cook steadily, turning the sweetbreads frequently, until they are of a

nice brown. Cut into one with a small sharp knife, to assure yourself

that it is done. Remove to a hot, well-buttered dish, and garnish with

sprigs of parsley, which have been crisped, but not burned, in a little

boiling butter.

BROILED SWEETBREADS. +

Parboil and blanch, as already directed, by putting first into hot

water, and keeping it at a fast boil for five minutes, then plunging

into ice-cold, a little salted. When the sweetbreads have lain in this

ten minutes, wipe them very dry, and with a sharp knife split each in

half, lengthwise. Broil over a clear, hot fire, turning every minute as

they begin to drip. Have ready upon a deep plate some melted butter,

well salted and peppered, mixed with catsup or pungent sauce. When the

sweetbreads are done to a fine brown lay them in this, turning them

over several times, and set, _covered_, in a warm oven.

Lay rounds of fried bread or toast within a chafing-dish, and a piece

of sweetbread on each. Pour the rest of the hot butter, in which they

have been lying, over them, and send to table.

ROASTED SWEETBREADS.

3 sweetbreads.

1 cup brown gravy—veal, if you can get it.

2 eggs, beaten light.

2 table-spoonfuls of butter, melted.

Large handful of bread-crumbs.

1 table-spoonful mushroom or tomato catsup.

1 small glass brown sherry.

A very little onion, minced fine, and stewed in the gravy.

Soak the sweetbreads in tepid water for half an hour; then boil in

hot water ten minutes, plunging into very cold at the end of this

time. Wipe perfectly dry, coat with the beaten egg, then with the

bread-crumbs. Repeat this until they are thickly and closely covered.

Lay upon a baking-pan, put the butter, a little at a time, over them,

that it may soak into the crumbs; set in a moderate oven, turn another

pan over them, and bake, covered, three-quarters of an hour, if of fair

size, basting from time to time with the veal gravy. Dish them upon

toast or fried bread, give the gravy a boil-up when you have added the

catsup and wine, and strain it over the sweetbreads.

SWEETBREADS SAUTÉS AU VIN. +

3 sweetbreads.

1 table-spoonful of butter.

1 table-spoonful chopped onion and parsley, mixed.

1 cup brown gravy—veal or fowl.

1 glass brown sherry or fresh champagne.

Salt and pepper to taste.

1 table-spoonful mushroom, or tomato catsup.

Parboil and blanch the sweetbreads, as usual; let them get perfectly

cold; cut lengthwise into slices about a quarter of an inch thick. Have

the butter hot in a frying-pan, and lay them in. Cook ten minutes,

shaking, tossing and turning them all the while; then add the gravy,

catsup, onion, parsley and other seasoning previously heated together.

Shake all until they have stewed and bubbled at boiling-heat for five

minutes, put in the wine, boil up once, and pour into a hot dish.

KIDNEYS,

Although less liked generally, are yet esteemed a _bonne bouche_ by the

epicure whose appetite has been educated by what is commonly styled

“fancy” cookery. They are cheaper than sweetbreads, and less difficult

to keep, if less delicate in flavor.

FRIED KIDNEYS.

3 fine large kidneys—the fresher the better.

3 table-spoonfuls of butter.

½ cup of good brown gravy—veal, mutton or beef.

A teaspoonful of chopped parsley, and half as much minced onion.

Pepper and salt to taste.

Skin the kidneys, and cut crosswise into round slices a quarter of an

inch thick. Roll them in flour. Have ready in a frying-pan the butter

well seasoned with pepper, a little salt, the parsley and onion. When

it begins to simmer over the fire, lay in evenly and carefully the

slices of kidney. Fry gently for two minutes, turn, and let them fry

as long on the other side, or until they are of a light brown. If

cooked too much, or too fast, they become tough and tasteless. Remove

instantly from the frying-pan with an egg-beater or perforated skimmer,

and arrange in order on a hot dish. Add to the gravy in the pan, a few

tablespoonfuls of broth, thicken with browned flour, boil up once, and

pour over the kidneys.

_Or,_

You can substitute for the butter in the pan three or four

table-spoonfuls of chopped _fat_ salt pork. Let it heat to hissing,

put in the seasoning, stir up well and fry the kidneys with the bits

of pork. Then, proceed according to the latter part of the foregoing

receipt.

TOASTED KIDNEYS.

3 kidneys skinned and split lengthwise, each into 3 pieces.

¼ pound of fat salt pork, cut into slices.

Pepper and salt.

Slices or rounds of toasted bread from which the crust has been pared.

Lay the kidneys upon a _very_ hot plate (a tin one is best) in front

of, and on a level with a clear brisk fire. Toast the pork upon a fork,

slice by slice, holding it so that the gravy will drip upon the kidneys

beneath. When the pork is done, lay it upon another hot plate, and set

this in the place just occupied by the kidneys. Toast these in their

turn, so that the gravy which falls from them shall drop upon the pork.

Turn them frequently, and be careful not to lose a drop of the gravy

from kidneys or pork. When the gravy ceases to flow the kidneys are

done. Serve upon the toast on a hot dish; cut the pork into strips,

and lay along the sides of the dish. Pour the gravy over kidneys and

toast. This latter should either be fried previously in butter, or be

well buttered if toasted in the usual way. Pepper and salt just before

sending to table, as salt hardens and toughens the kidneys.

KIDNEYS STEWED WITH WINE.

3 kidneys.

3 table-spoonfuls of butter.

1 onion, minced.

1 table-spoonful mushroom, or walnut catsup.

3 table-spoonfuls rich brown gravy.

1 glass of claret.

Pepper and salt to taste.

Cut the kidneys into round slices. Heat the butter to a boil in a

frying-pan, stir in the chopped onion, then lay in the slices of

kidney, and fry two minutes. Have in another vessel the gravy, catsup

and wine, ready heated. Take up the kidneys, draining from them every

drop of fat, and transfer to this gravy. Cover closely, stew gently for

five minutes, or until tender, and serve directly.

BROILED KIDNEYS.

2 kidneys.

2 table-spoonfuls of melted butter.

Pepper and salt, and a little chopped parsley.

Skin the kidneys carefully, but do not slice or split them. Lay for

ten minutes in _warm_ (not hot) melted butter, rolling them over and

over, that every part may be well basted. Broil on a gridiron over a

clear fire, turning them every minute. They should be done in about

twelve minutes, unless very large. Sprinkle with salt and pepper, and

lay on a hot dish, with a bit of butter upon each. Cover and send up

immediately.

STEWED KIDNEYS.

3 kidneys.

3 table-spoonfuls melted butter.

Juice of half a lemon, and a pinch of grated lemon-peel.

A very little mace, and pepper and salt to taste.

1 teaspoonful chopped onion.

1 cup good brown gravy.

Cut each kidney lengthwise into three pieces; wash these well and wipe

dry. Warm the butter in a frying-pan; put in the kidneys before this is

really hot, with the seasoning and gravy. Simmer all together, closely

covered, about ten minutes. Add the lemon-juice; take up the kidneys

and lay upon a hot dish, with fried or toasted bread underneath.

Thicken the gravy with browned flour, boil up once, pour over all, and

serve.

KIDNEYS À LA BROCHETTE.

4 kidneys—those of medium size are preferable to large.

2 great spoonfuls of butter.

1 great spoonful chopped parsley, onion, and very fine bread-crumbs.

Juice of half a lemon.

Pepper and salt to taste.

Split the kidneys lengthwise, but not quite through, leaving enough

meat and skin at one side to act as a sort of hinge. Rub them well

inside with melted butter, and lay them open, as you would small birds,

the back downward, upon a buttered gridiron, over a bright fire. They

should be done in about eight minutes. Turn often while broiling.

Have ready the stuffing of crumbs, parsley, onion, and butter, well

seasoned. Heat in a saucepan, stirring until smoking hot. Add the

lemon-juice; dish the kidneys, put some of this mixture inside of each,

close the two sides upon it, butter and pepper them, and serve.

A few bits of fat salt pork, minced very fine, gives a good flavor to

the stuffing. The pork should have been previously cooked.

HASTE OR WASTE?

“AH! you forget my sedan-chair,” said Madame de Staël, when, at the

height of her social and literary fame some one wondered how she found

time for writing amid her many and engrossing engagements.

The sedan-chair was the fashionable conveyance for ladies, at that day,

in their round of daily calls or evening festivities, and the brilliant

Frenchwoman secured within its closed curtains the solitude and silence

she needed for composition.

An American authoress who wrote much and with great care—never sending

her brain-bantlings into the world _en déshabille_—replied to a similar

question: “My happiest thoughts come to me while I am mixing cake. My

most serious study-hours are those devoted apparently to darning the

family stockings.”

I entered a street-car, not many days ago, and sat down beside a

gentleman who did not lift his eyes from a book he was reading,

or show, by any token, his consciousness of others’ presence. A

side-glance at the volume told me it was Froude’s “History of England,”

and I cheerfully forgave his inattention to myself. The conductor

notified him when he reached his stopping-place, and, with a readiness

that betrayed admirable mental training, he came out of the world

through which the fascinating historian was leading him, pocketed his

book, recognized me with a pleasant word, and stepped to the pavement

in front of his store, the thorough business man.

“That is an affected prig,” said a fellow-passenger, by the time

the other had left the car. “He and I take this ride in company

every morning and afternoon. It takes him half an hour to go from

his house to his store; and, instead of amusing himself with his

newspaper, as the rest of us do, he always has some heavy-looking book

along—biography, or history, or a scientific treatise. He begins to

read by the time he is seated, and never leaves off until he gets out.

It is in wretched taste, such a show of pedantic industry.”

After this growl of disapprobation, the speaker buried himself anew

in the advertising columns of the _Herald_, and I lapsed into a

brown study, which had for its germ the query, “Is it, then, more

respectable, even among men, to kill time than to save it?”

I knew the reader of Froude well. He was, as I have intimated, a

successful and a busy merchant; and I had often marvelled at his

familiarity with English _belles-lettres_, and graver literature, the

study of which is usually given up to so-called professional men.

That hour a day explained it all. The crowded street-car was his

sedan-chair. I also knew his critic; had seen him placed at such a

woful disadvantage in the society of educated men and women, that my

heart ached and my cheeks burned in sympathy with his mortification;

had heard him deplore the deficiencies of his early training, and

that the exigencies of his business-cares now made self-improvement

impracticable. He would have protested it to be an impossibility that

he could find a spare hour a day to devote to the neglected task;

six hours a week—a whole day in a month, two weeks in a year. Yet a

fortnight of newspaper-reading and idle gossip would be a sorry entry

in his year-book. For this lazy murder of time cannot, by any stretch

of conscience, be classed as healthful recreation, any more than can

the one, two, three, ten hours a week during which Mrs. Neverthink sits

with folded hands, discussing fashions and her neighbors’ frailties,

the while her work is steadily doubling itself up, snowball-like,

before the lever of each idle minute. All work and no play would make

Mrs. Neverthink a dull and a diseased woman; but the fact is, she is

not playing any more than she is working, as she sits, or stands to

parley about trifles. She is only wasting time, making inevitable

the haste. Oh! these “few words more,” with which the Neverthink

tribe prolong the agony of their would-be-if-they-could industrious

sisters, and heap up the burden of their own coming cares! The words

which mean nothing, the driblets of a shallow, sluggish stream that

meanders into anybody’s meadow, and spreads itself harmfully over the

nearest pastures, instead of being directed into a straight, beneficent

channel! “I haven’t a bit of system about me!” wails the worried

creature, when the ponderous snow-ball has finally to be heaved out of

the way by her own hands.

It would be a matter of curious interest could I recount how often I

have heard this plaint from those of my own sex who are thus straining

and suffering. From some it comes carelessly—a form of words they

have fallen into the habit of repeating without much thought of what

they mean. With a majority (I wish I were not obliged to say it!) it

is rather a boast than a lament. The notable housekeeper who would

be ashamed to admit that she does not look narrowly after paper and

twine, bits of cold meat and scraps of butter, does not calculate

wisely concerning coal, candle-ends and crusts—confesses, without a

blush, that she takes no thought of the gold-dust, known among us as

minutes and seconds, sifting through her lax fingers. By and by, she

is as truly impoverished as if she had thrown away the treasure in

nuggets, and then comes the lament, not repentance. She is “run to

death with work, but she doesn’t see how it is to be helped. All other

housekeepers are the same. She never could economize time; has no

genius for arranging her labors to advantage.”

The building of such an one is the heaping together of boulders

with crevices between, through which the winds of disappointment

whistle sharply. System,—by which we mean a sagacious and economical

apportionment of the duty to the hour and the minute; an avoidance of

needless waste of time; a courageous putting forth of the hand to the

plough, instead of talking over the work to be done while the cool

morning moments are flying,—“System,” then, is not a talent! I wish

I could write this in terms so strong and striking as to command the

attention, enforce the belief of those whom I would reach. It is not

a talent. Still less is it genius. It is a duty! and she who shirks

it does herself and others wrong. If you cannot order your household

according to this rule, the fault is yours, and the misfortune theirs.

“We are living too fast!” is the useless note of alarm sounded from

press, and pulpit, and lecture-room; echoed in a thousand homes, in

various accents of regret and dismay; most fearfully by the rattling

clods upon the coffin-lid, that hides forever the careworn face of wife

and mother, who has been trampled to death by the press of iron-footed

cares. Is not this haste begotten by waste?

Is there any good reason why, in our homes—yours and mine, my toiling

sister—and in those of our neighbors to the right and left of us,

should not reign such method as prevails in our husbands’ places of

business? Why, instead of meeting the morning with uplifted hands and

the already desponding cry, “I have so much to do I cannot decide what

to lay hold of first!” we should not behold our path already mapped

out by our provident study over-night—its certain duties; its probable

stumbling-blocks; recreation, devotion and rest—each in its proper

place? Why we should not be ready, “heart within and God o’erhead,”

to make the new day an event in our lives, a stepping-stone to higher

usefulness to our kind and toward heaven? Why we should not bring

to hindrance, as to duty, the resolute, hopeful purpose with which

the miner bends over his pickaxe, the gardener over his spade, the

book-keeper over his ledger? Why, in short, we should not magnify

our office—make of housewifery, and child-tending, and sewing a

profession—to be studied as diligently and pursued as steadily as are

the avocations of the other sex?

I should not dare ask these questions, were I not already convinced, by

years of patient examination of the subject, that it is feasible for a

clear-headed, conscientious woman to do all this, and more. Would not

“dare,” because I know by what a storm of indignant protest the queries

will be met, not only from those who pride themselves upon the amiable

foible of “having no system,” but on the part of deep-hearted women who

are really anxious to do their share of this world’s great work.

The pale-faced mother over the way will tell me of the clutch of

baby-fingers upon her garments whenever she essays to move steadily

onward, and how the pressure of the same holds her eyes waking through

the night-watches; how the weight of baby-lips upon the breast saps

strength and vitality together. Dear and precious cares she esteems

these; but they leave little time or energy for anything else. The

matron, whose younglings have outgrown childhood, is ready with her

story of the toils and distractions of a family of merry girls who

are “in society,” and inconsiderate, unpunctual “boys,” who look to

“mother” to supply, for the present, the place of the coming wife

to each of them. Martha, wedded and middle-aged, but childless, is

overpowered by cares, “put upon her by everybody,” she relates, with

an ever-renewed sense of injury wearing into her soul, “because it is

believed that women without children have nothing to do.”

One and all, they are eloquent upon the subject of unforeseen

vexations, the ever-hindering “happenings” that, like the knots tied

in wire-grass across the path by mischievous fairies, are continually

tripping them up.

“Moreover,” says Mrs. Practical, “there is little use in attempting to

be methodical and to save the scraps of time unless other people do.

We are liable to have our precious hoard stolen at any moment. If my

next-door neighbor persists in ‘dropping in’ whenever she feels lonely,

or wants a receipt, or has a morsel of news she cannot keep, and cannot

withdraw her unseasonable foot from my house under an hour at each

visit, of what avail are my watchfulness and diligence?”

With her accustomed shrewdness, Mrs. Practical has put her finger upon

the hardest knot of the tangle. Says that other model of sterling,

every-day sense, Miss Betsy Trotwood, touching Mr. Micawber’s

difficulties: “If he is going to be continually arrested, his friends

have got to be continually bailing him out—that is all!”

The family of Neverthinks (“may their tribe _de_crease!”) act upon the

reverse principle. If their acquaintances will be continually working

themselves into line with the flying hours, they—the Neverthinks—must

be zealous in pulling them to the rear. They are like an army of

mice scampering through the tidy cupboards of Mesdames Practical

and Notable. They claim, like Death, all seasons for their own.

Against such there is no recognized law, and no redress except in the

determined will and wise co-operation of their victims.

Dropping the fictitious personages, let us talk of this matter plainly,

as face-to-face, dear reader! Why have women, as a class, such an

imperfect conception of the value of time to themselves and to others?

To Mrs. Trollope belongs, I believe, the credit of bringing into

general use a word which, if not elegant, is so expressive that I

cannot do without it in this connection. Why do women _dawdle_ away

seconds and minutes and hours in playing at work, or affecting to play?

A clever young girl was once showing me a set of chairs embroidered by

herself. Knowing that she was her mother’s efficient aid in the cares

entailed by a large family, I asked her how she had made the time for

the achievement.

“O! I did it in the _betweenities_!” she returned, gayly. “Between

prayers and breakfast; between the children’s lessons; between the

spring and fall sewing; between morning and evening calls, and in a

dozen other gaps. I had a piece of it always within reach, and every

stitch taken was a gain of one.”

We all need play—recreation, wholesome and hearty diversion. I would

guard this point carefully. God-willing, we will talk of it, more at

length, some time, but to make the day’s work even and close, our

life’s work rich and ample, we must look well after the “betweenities.”

Let me probe a little more deeply yet. Have not the prejudices and

gallantries of generations had their effect upon the formation of

feminine opinions on this head? begotten in many minds the impression

that we are unjustly dealt with in being obliged to take up and carry

forward as a life-long duty any business whatsoever? Is not the

unspoken thought of such persons one of impatient disappointment at

finding that earth is not a vast pleasure-ground and existence one

long, bright holiday? If men will speak of and treat women as pretty

playthings, they at least should not complain when the dainty toy

proves to be an unserviceable domestic machine. A man who acknowledges

that he dislikes the business by which he earns his living is looked

upon with instant distrust, as silly, indolent, or, at the best,

unphilosophical. If his auditor has occasion to avail himself of the

services of one of the craft to which the unwilling workman belongs,

he will assuredly seek a man who would be likely to do himself and

his employer more credit than can be given by his half-hearted labor.

But housewives confess freely that they loathe housekeeping and all

pertaining thereto. I speak that which I do know when I say that where

you find one who works _con amore_ in her profession, there are two who

drudge on grumblingly, and consider themselves aggrieved because the

morning brings labor and the evening care. The fault begins very far

back.

“If girls knew when they were well off, they would never marry.”

“A butterfly before marriage—a grub afterward.”

“Let well enough alone.”

“She who weds may do well. She who remains single certainly does

better.”

These are specimens of the choice maxims shouted from the reefs

of matrimony to the pleasure-shallops gliding over the summer sea

beyond the breakers. By the time the boy begins to walk and talk, the

sagacious father studies his tastes and capacity in selecting a trade

for him; puts him fairly in training for the same so soon as he is well

embarked in his teens; sees for himself that his drill is thorough and

his progress satisfactory. Of the lad’s sisters their mother will tell

you, with tears in her eyes, that she “cannot bear to tie the dear

girls down to regular duties. Let them take their pleasure now, for

when they marry, trouble and responsibility must come.”

Not seeing that to the unskilled apprentice the practice of his art

must be cruelly hard; that her own loving hands are making tight the

lashings of the load which the tender shoulders must bear until death

cuts the sharp cords; that in her mistaken indulgence she is putting

darkness for light, and light for darkness; bitter for sweet, and sweet

for bitter.

MEATS, INCLUDING POULTRY AND GAME.

CALF’S LIVER _à l’Anglaise_. +

2 pounds fresh liver.

¼ pound fat salt pork.

2 table-spoonfuls of butter.

1 small shallot, minced very fine.

1 teaspoonful chopped parsley.

Cut the liver into slices half an inch thick. Lay these smoothly in a

saucepan in which the butter has already been melted, but not allowed

to get hot. Chop the pork into very small bits, and spread upon the

liver. Sprinkle over this the minced parsley and onion, and season

to your fancy with salt and pepper. Cover the saucepan closely, and

set it where it will heat so moderately that the juices will be drawn

out without simmering. Care must be taken to observe this direction

exactly, as both the tenderness and flavor of the liver are impaired by

stewing. At the end of an hour and a half increase the heat gradually

until the contents of the saucepan begin to bubble. Remove from the

fire; arrange the liver neatly upon a hot chafing-dish, and keep this

covered while you boil up and thicken with a little browned flour the

gravy left in the saucepan. Pour over the liver and serve.

This process renders calf’s liver tender and juicy to a degree that

would seem incredible to those who know the much-abused edible only

through the medium of the usual modes of cookery.

Try it, when you are at a loss for something new, yet not expensive.

CALF’S LIVER _au Domino_.

2 pounds liver.

½ pound fat salt pork.

2 table-spoonfuls of butter.

Seasoning of pepper, parsley and onion.

Cut the liver in pieces less than half an inch thick, and rather more

than an inch square. String these evenly upon a slender skewer (an old

knitting-needle will do) alternately with bits of fat pork of the same

shape and width. When the skewer is full, lay for ten minutes in the

melted butter, season with pepper (the pork salting it sufficiently),

minced onion, and parsley, then lay in a baking-pan, and cover with a

tin plate or shallow pan. Cook slowly in a moderate oven until the pork

begins to crisp. Remove to a hot dish, draw out the skewer carefully,

so as to leave the liver in the form in which it was cooked; add a

little hot water and butter to the gravy, thicken with browned flour,

boil up once, and pour over the _dominoes_ of pork and liver.

OLLAPODRIDA OF LAMB. (_Good._)

The sweetbreads, liver, heart, kidneys, and brains of a lamb. (Your

butcher can easily procure all with timely notice.)

Handful of bread-crumbs.

1 raw egg, beaten light.

One small, young onion, minced.

1 table-spoonful currant jelly.

Season with salt, pepper, and parsley.

1 cup good broth.

Parboil the sweetbreads for five minutes, then simmer for ten in the

gravy. Take them up, and set aside to cool, while you boil the brains

in the same broth. When both brains and sweetbreads are cold and firm,

slice, dip in the egg, then the crumbs, and fry in good dripping or

butter. After the brains are taken from the broth, put in the slices of

heart, and stew very gently for at least half an hour. Let them cool,

then fry with the minced liver in dripping seasoned with the onion,

minced fine. Slice the kidneys, and having strained the useful broth

from the liver, return it to the saucepan, and stew the kidneys in it

for five minutes. Next, fry these for two minutes—no more—in butter.

Arrange all in a hot dish; add to the fat left in the frying-pan the

broth, thicken with browned flour and the jelly, season to taste, and

pour over the sweetbreads, etc.

You can make a larger stew—or fry—of calf’s sweetbreads, liver, heart,

and brains, and by most people this would be relished more than the

lamb ollapodrida.

It is a good plan to stew the various articles the day before you mean

to eat them, and have them all cold to your hand, ready for frying.

CALF’S LIVER _sauté_. +

2 pounds calf’s liver, cut into slices half an inch thick.

2 small young onions, minced.

1 small glass of sherry.

1 table-spoonful mushroom or tomato catsup.

Salt, pepper, and parsley, with juice of a lemon.

Good dripping or butter for frying.

Slice the liver, when you have washed and soaked it well, and fry it,

turning often, to a light-brown. Drain and lay in a hot chafing-dish.

Mix with the dripping or butter the onions, seasoning, lemon-juice, and

browned flour for thickening. Boil up, put in the catsup and wine, heat

almost to boiling again, and pour over the liver.

FRICASSEE OF CALF’S LIVER. +

2 pounds liver, cut into strips more than half an inch thick, and as

long as your finger.

2 young onions, minced.

1 glass wine.

Pepper, salt and parsley.

Butter or dripping for frying.

½ cup good gravy.

Dredge the sliced liver with flour, and fry to a light-brown, quickly,

and turning often. Mince the onions and parsley, and heat them in the

gravy in a saucepan; put in the fried liver, let all stew together

gently for ten minutes, when pour in the wine, and as soon as this is

hot, serve—the liver piled neatly and the gravy poured over it.

CALF’S LIVER _à la mode_. +

1 fine liver, as fresh as you can get it.

½ pound fat salt pork, cut into lardoons.

3 table-spoonfuls of butter.

2 young onions.

1 table-spoonful Worcestershire or Harvey’s sauce.

2 table-spoonfuls vinegar and a glass of wine.

½ teaspoonful cloves.

½ teaspoonful allspice.

½ teaspoonful mace.

1 table-spoonful sweet herbs, cut fine.

Pepper and salt to taste—very little of the latter, as the pork should

salt it sufficiently.

Wash the liver in two waters and soak ten minutes in cold water,

slightly salted. Wipe dry, make incisions in it about half an inch

apart, and insert the lardoons, allowing them to project slightly on

each side. Have ready in a frying-pan the sliced onion, butter, sweet

herbs and spice. Put in the liver and fry to a good brown. Turn all

into a saucepan, add the vinegar and just enough water to cover the

liver. Cover closely, and simmer slowly an hour and a half. Take out

the liver and lay on a hot dish, add the wine and sauce to the gravy,

thicken with browned flour; let it boil up once, pour about the liver,

and send up the surplus in a boat.

This is good cold as well as hot, cut in thin slices.

RAGOÛT OF CALF’S HEAD, OR IMITATION TURTLE. +

Half of a cold boiled calf’s head.

1 cup good gravy.

4 hard-boiled eggs.

About a dozen force-meat balls made of minced veal with bread-crumbs

and bound with beaten egg, then rolled in flour.

1 teaspoonful sweet herbs, chopped fine.

A very little minced onion.

Browned flour for thickening; pepper and salt for seasoning.

1 glass brown sherry.

Cut the meat of the calf’s head evenly into slices of uniform size.

Heat the gravy almost to a boil, with the seasoning, herbs and onion.

Put in the meat, simmer, closely covered, for fifteen minutes; add the

force-meat balls, wine and the eggs sliced. Let all become smoking hot;

take up the meat; pile neatly on a hot dish, lay the eggs on it; the

force-meat balls at the base of the heap, and pour a cupful of gravy

over all, sending up the rest in a boat.

This ragoût is very nice, and easily provided for by setting aside

enough meat for it, on the day you have calf’s head soup, if the head

be large.

It is also a cheap dish, as even a large head seldom costs more than a

dollar, and half will make a good ragoût.

RAGOÛT OF CALF’S HEAD AND MUSHROOMS. +

Half a cold boiled calf’s head, sliced and free from bones, also the

tongue cut in round slices.

1 can French mushrooms (_champignons_).

1 onion sliced.

1 cup strong gravy—beef, veal, game or fowl.

Season with pepper, salt and sweet herbs.

Browned flour for thickening.

½ teaspoonful mixed allspice and mace.

Juice of a lemon.

1 glass wine—claret or sherry.

3 table-spoonfuls butter for frying, unless you have very nice dripping.

Drain the liquor from the mushrooms and slice them. Fry the slices

of meat five minutes in the hot butter or dripping. Take them out and

put into a tin pail or inner compartment of a farina kettle. Pour

warm, not boiling, water into the outer vessel, cover the inner and

set over the fire while you fry the mushrooms, then, the onion, in the

fat left in the frying-pan. Drain them and lay upon the meat in the

inner sauce-pan. Have ready in another the broth, spiced and seasoned,

and now pour this hot upon the meat and mushrooms. Cover closely and

_simmer_ for fifteen minutes. Strain off the gravy into a saucepan,

thicken; let it boil up once; add wine and lemon-juice, and when it is

again smoking hot, pour over the meat and mushrooms in a deep dish.

Some strips of fried toast are an acceptable addition to this ragoût.

These should be laid on the heap of meat.

I have also varied it satisfactorily, by putting in sliced hard-boiled

eggs. It is a good _entrée_ at dinner, and a capital luncheon or

breakfast-dish.

A MOULD OF CALF’S HEAD. +

A cold boiled calf’s head freed from bones and cut into thin slices—or

so much of it as you need for your mould.

6 hard-boiled eggs—also sliced.

Five or six slices of cold boiled ham—corned is better than smoked.

1 large cupful of the liquor in which the head was boiled, stewed down

to a rich gravy and well seasoned with pepper, salt, mace and minced

onion. Strain before using.

Line the bottom of a buttered mould with the slices of egg also

buttered on the outer side, that they may easily leave the mould.

Salt and pepper them, then fill the mould with alternate layers of

sliced calf’s head, ham, sliced eggs, seasoning, etc., pouring in the

gravy last. If you have no top for the mould, make a stiff paste of

flour and water to close it in and preserve flavor and juices.

When done, set it, still covered, in a cool place. When cold and firm,

slice for luncheon or tea.

_Or,_

You can chop both kinds of meat fine, also the eggs, and pack in

successive layers within your mould.

A little lemon-juice and minced parsley, with a touch of catsup, will

improve the gravy.

CALF’S BRAINS FRIED.

The brains, well washed, and scalded in _boiling_ water for two

minutes, then laid in very cold.

2 eggs well beaten.

A little flour and butter.

Salt and pepper.

Beat the brains, when perfectly cold, into a paste; season, add

the eggs and enough flour to make a good batter, with less than a

teaspoonful of butter to prevent toughness. Have ready some good

dripping in the frying-pan, and when it is hissing hot, drop in the

batter in spoonfuls and fry.

_Or—_

You can fry on the griddle, like cakes.

They are very palatable either way when cooked quickly and freed of

every clinging drop of grease.

CALF’S BRAINS ON TOAST.

The brains.

3 eggs, beaten light.

Salt, pepper and parsley.

Six or eight rounds of fried bread.

2 table-spoonfuls butter.

Soak the brains fifteen minutes; free from skin and fibre; then drop

them into boiling water in which you have put a little salt and a

teaspoonful of vinegar. Boil hard for ten minutes, then throw the

brains into ice-cold water. When well cooled break them up with

a wooden or silver spoon; and stir into the beaten eggs with the

seasoning. Have ready the butter in a hot frying-pan, pour in the

mixture and stir rapidly for two minutes, or until it is a soft mass

like stirred eggs. Lay the toast upon a hot dish and heap the brains

upon it.

This dish is rendered yet more savory, if you will pour some good

well-seasoned gravy over the mounds of brains and the toast.

VEAL CUTLETS (_Stewed_). +

2 pounds veal cutlets, nicely trimmed.

1 small onion, sliced.

4 table-spoonfuls strained tomato sauce.

Enough butter or clear dripping to fry the cutlets.

Salt and pepper with a bunch of sweet herbs.

½ cup gravy.

Fry the cutlets to a light brown, but not crisp; take them out and put

into a covered saucepan. Have ready the gravy in another, with the

tomato sauce stirred into it. Fry the onion in the fat from which you

have taken the cutlets, and add with the fat to the gravy. Pour all

over the cutlets and simmer, covered, twenty minutes.

MOCK PIGEONS. +

3 or 4 fillets of veal.

Force-meat of bread-crumbs and minced pork, seasoned.

½ cup mushrooms and a little minced onion.

1 sweetbread.

A dozen oysters.

½ cup strong brown gravy.

1 glass of wine.

Take the bone, if there be any, out of the fillets (or cutlets, or

steaks) of veal; spread each thickly with the force-meat, and roll up

tightly, binding with packthread. Put into a baking-pan with enough

cold water to half-cover them; turn another pan over them and bake

from three-quarters of an hour to an hour in proportion to their size.

Meanwhile, boil the sweetbread fifteen minutes, blanch in cold water;

cut into dice, and put into a saucepan with the gravy, which let simmer

on the hob. Cut the mushrooms into small pieces and fry with the onion

in a little butter, then add to the heating gravy. In still another

vessel, when the veal is nearly done, heat the oysters, also chopped

fine, seasoning with salt and pepper. When the “pigeons” are tender

throughout, uncover, baste generously with butter, and brown. Transfer

to a hot flat dish; clip the packthread and gently withdraw it, not to

injure the shape of the rolled meat. Let the gravy in which they were

roasted come to a fast boil, thicken with browned flour and pour into

the saucepan containing the sauce, sweetbreads, etc. Boil up once, add

the wine; take from the fire and put in the chopped oysters. Stir all

together well in the saucepan, pour a dozen spoonfuls, or so, over the

“pigeons,” taking up the thickest part; send the rest to table in a

gravy tureen.

You can make a simpler sauce by leaving out the sweetbreads, etc., and

seasoning the gravy in the baking-pan with tomato sauce.

These “pigeons” will make an attractive variety in the home bill of

fare, and do well as the _pièce de résistance_ of a family dinner.

A VEAL TURNOVER. +

Remains of roast veal—cold, minced fine, and seasoned.

2 or 3 eggs.

1 cup milk.

Flour to make a good batter—about 4 table-spoonfuls.

2 table-spoonfuls of butter.

Chopped parsley, pepper, and salt.

Heat the butter to a boil in the frying-pan. Mix the eggs, milk,

flour, parsley, pepper, and salt into a batter, and pour it into the

frying-pan. Lay in the middle, as soon as it begins to “form,” the

minced meat. Fry rather slowly, taking care that the batter does not

burn. When done on one side, fold the edges of the pancake over to the

middle, enclosing the meat, and turn with a cake spatula. When both

sides are of a delicate brown, put the cake “turner” under it, and slip

over to a hot dish.

Send around a little gravy in a boat.

MEAT AND POTATO PUFFS. +

Slices of cold roast beef or mutton, and as many of corned ham.

2 eggs.

1 cup milk.

Enough potatoes and flour to make a good paste.

Pepper, salt, and mustard, or catsup.

Mash the potatoes, mix with them the eggs, well beaten, and whip up to

a cream, adding the milk gradually. Add flour enough to enable you to

roll it out into a sheet. Cut into squares, and in the centre of each

lay a slice of beef or mutton, well seasoned with pepper and salt,

and spread with made mustard or catsup. Lay on this a slice of ham of

the same shape and size; fold the paste into a triangular “turnover,”

printing the edges deeply with a jagging-iron, and fry in butter or

beef-dripping to a nice brown. Take up so soon as they are done; lay on

white paper for a moment to absorb the grease, and serve hot.

SCALLOPED CHICKEN. +

Cold roast or boiled chicken—chiefly the white meat.

1 cup gravy.

1 table-spoonful butter, and 1 egg, well beaten.

1 cup of fine bread-crumbs.

Pepper and salt.

Rid the chicken of gristle and skin, and cut—_not_ chop—into pieces

less than half an inch long. Have ready the gravy, or some rich drawn

butter, in a saucepan on the fire. Thicken it well, and stir in the

chicken, boil up once, take it off, and add the beaten egg. Cover the

bottom of a buttered dish with fine bread-crumbs, pour in the mixture,

and put another thick layer of crumbs on top, sticking bits of butter

all over it. Bake to a delicate brown in a quick oven.

_Or—_

Instead of the gravy make a white sauce, as follows:

1 cup cream or rich milk.

2 table-spoonfuls butter and 1 beaten egg.

1 table-spoonful corn-starch, wet in cold milk.

Pepper, salt and parsley.

Heat the cream to a boil, stir in the corn-starch until it thickens;

then the butter, seasoning and egg. Take at once from the fire, add the

minced chicken, and proceed as already directed.

Turkey may be used instead of chicken; also veal.

SCALLOPED BEEF (_Very good_). +

Some minced beef or lean mutton.

1 young onion, minced.

½ cup gravy.

Some mashed potato.

1 table-spoonful of butter to a cup of potato.

1 table-spoonful of cream to the same.

Pepper and salt.

Catsup, if mutton be used; made mustard for beef.

1 beaten egg for each cupful of potato.

Mash the potato while hot, beating _very_ light with the butter and

cream—lastly, the egg. Too much attention cannot be paid to this part

of the work. Fill a buttered baking-dish, or scallop shells with the

minced meat, seasoned with onion, pepper, salt and mustard or catsup,

moisten with gravy, and cover with the mashed potato at least half an

inch thick if your dish be large. Smooth this over and bake to a light

brown. Just before you draw them from the oven glaze by putting a bit

of butter on the top of each scallop.

MINCE OF VEAL OR LAMB. +

1 cup gravy, well thickened.

The remains of cold roast meat—minced, but not very fine.

2 table-spoonfuls cream, or rich milk.

1 saltspoonful mace.

Pepper and salt to taste, with chopped parsley.

1 small onion.

1 table-spoonful butter.

3 eggs well whipped.

Heat the gravy to a boil, add the milk, butter, seasoning, onion,

lastly the eggs, and so soon as these are stirred in, the minced meat,

previously salted and peppered. Let it get smoking hot, but it must not

boil. Heap in the middle of a dish, and enclose with a fence of fried

potato or fried triangles of bread.

If well cooked and seasoned, this is a savory _entrée_.

WHITE FRICASSEE OF RABBIT. +

1 young rabbit.

1 pint weak broth.

¼ pound fat salt pork.

1 onion, sliced.

Chopped parsley, pepper and salt.

A very little mace.

1 cup of milk or cream.

1 table-spoonful corn-starch or rice flour.

1 table-spoonful butter.

Joint the rabbit neatly and cut the pork into strips. Put on the rabbit

to boil (when it has lain in salt-and-water half an hour) in the broth,

which should be cold. Put in the pork with it, and stew, closely

covered, and very gently, an hour, or, until tender, before adding the

onion, seasoning and parsley. When you do this, take out the pieces of

rabbit, put in a covered dish to keep warm and boil down the gravy very

fast, for fifteen minutes. Take out the pork, then strain the gravy

through your soup-strainer. Let it stand five or six minutes in a cold

place that the fat may rise. Skim this off; return the gravy to the

saucepan, and when it is almost on the boil, stir in the cream or milk

in which the corn-starch has been dissolved. Stir until it thickens,

put in the butter, then the pieces of rabbit and the pork. All must

simmer together five minutes, but not boil. When it is smoking hot, lay

the rabbit neatly on a dish, pour over the gravy, garnish with parsley

and sliced lemons and serve.

BROWN FRICASSEE OF RABBIT, _or_ “JUGGED RABBIT.” +

1 young but full-grown rabbit, or hare.

½ pound fat salt pork, or ham.

1 cup good gravy.

Dripping or butter for frying.

1 onion, sliced.

Parsley, pepper, salt and browned flour.

1 glass of wine.

1 table-spoonful currant jelly.

Let the rabbit lie, after it is jointed, for half an hour in cold

salt-and-water. Wipe dry, and fry to a fine brown with the onion. Have

ready a tin pail, or the inner vessel of a farina-kettle; put in the

bottom a layer of fat salt pork, cut into thin strips; then, one of

rabbit, seasoning well with pepper, but scantily with salt. Sprinkle

the fried onion over the rabbit, and proceed in this order until your

meat is used up. Cover the vessel, and set in another of warm water.

Bring slowly to a boil, and let it stand where it will cook steadily,

but not fast, for three-quarters of an hour, if the rabbit be large.

Take out the meat, arrange it on a dish, add the jelly, beaten up with

the browned flour, to the gravy, then the wine. Boil up quickly and

pour over the rabbit.

Do not fail to give this a trial.

CURRIED RABBIT.

1 rabbit, jointed.

½ pound fat salt pork.

1 onion, sliced.

½ cup cream.

1 table-spoonful corn-starch.

Pepper, salt and parsley, and 2 eggs well beaten.

1 dessert spoonful good curry-powder.

Soak the jointed rabbit half an hour in cold salt-and-water, then put

into a saucepan with the pork cut into strips, the onion and parsley,

and stew steadily, not fast, in enough cold water to cover all, for

an hour, or until the rabbit is tender. Take out the meat and lay on

a covered chafing-dish to keep warm, while you boil the gravy five

minutes longer. Let it stand a few minutes for the fat to rise, skim it

and strain. Return to the fire; let it almost boil, when put in the

corn-starch. Stir to thickening, put in the curry-powder, the rabbit

and pork, and let all stand covered, in a vessel of boiling water,

fifteen minutes. Take up the meat, pile upon the chafing-dish; add to

the gravy the cream and eggs, and stir one minute before pouring over

the meat. All should stand, covered, in the hot-water chafing-dish

about five minutes before going to table.

No arbitrary rule can be given as to the length of time it is necessary

to cook game before it will be tender, since there are so many degrees

of toughness in the best of that recommended by your reliable provision

merchant as “just right.”

Hence, my oft-reiterated clause, “or, until tender.”

You can curry chicken in the same manner as rabbit.

DEVILLED RABBIT.

1 rabbit, jointed, as for fricassee.

3 table-spoonfuls butter.

A little cayenne, salt and mustard.

1 teaspoonful Worcestershire sauce, and 1 table-spoonful vinegar.

Parboil the rabbit, and let it get perfectly cold; then score to the

bone, the gashes about half an inch apart. Melt together in a saucepan

the butter and seasoning. Stir up well, and rub each piece of the

rabbit with the mixture, working it into the gashes. Broil over a clear

fire, turning as soon as they begin to drip. When they are brown lay

on a hot dish, and pour melted butter over them. Let them lie in this,

turning several times, for three or four minutes. Put the rest of the

mixture on them, if any be left, and serve.

DEVILLED FOWL.

Use only the legs and upper part of the wings of roasted or boiled

fowls. Treat precisely as you do the rabbit in the foregoing receipt.

SALMI OF GAME. +

An underdone roast duck, pheasant, or grouse.

1 great spoonful of butter.

2 onions, sliced and fried in butter.

1 large cup strong gravy.

Parsley, marjoram and savory.

Pepper and salt.

A pinch of cloves, and same of nutmeg.

Cut your game into neat joints and slices, taking all the skin off.

Put refuse bits, fat, skin, etc., into a saucepan with the gravy, the

fried onions, herbs, spice, pepper and salt. Boil gently one hour; let

it cool until the fat rises, when skim it off and strain the gravy.

Return it to the saucepan, and, when it heats, stir into it the butter

and thicken with browned flour. Boil up sharply for five minutes and

put in the pieces of duck. After this, the salmi _must not boil_.

Neglect of this rule ruins most of the so-called salmis one sees upon

private as well as upon hotel tables. Set the saucepan in a vessel of

boiling water, and heat it through, letting it stand thus ten minutes.

Arrange the meat upon a hot dish, and pour the gravy over it. Garnish

with triangles of fried bread, and serve a piece to each guest with the

salmi.

ROAST RABBITS. +

A pair rabbits.

½ pound fat salt pork, cut into thin slices.

2 table-spoonfuls butter, and 1 glass of wine.

Bread-crumbs, chopped pork, parsley, grated lemon-peel, salt and pepper

for the stuffing.

1 egg, beaten light, and 1 onion, sliced.

Skin and clean the rabbits (or hares), and lay in cold salt-and-water

half an hour. Prepare the dressing as above directed, binding with

the egg. Wipe the rabbits dry inside and out, stuff with the prepared

mixture, and sew them up closely. Cover the backs of the rabbits with

the sliced pork, binding it in place with packthread wound around and

around the bodies. Lay them in the baking-pan, backs uppermost; pour

into it about two cupfuls of cold water, cover closely, and steam for

an hour, raising the upper pan now and then to pour a few spoonfuls of

the boiling water about the rabbits over their backs, that the pork may

not crisp; then remove the cover, clip the packthread, and take off

the pork. Brown the rabbits, basting bountifully and frequently with

butter. Chop the pork, and crisp in a frying-pan with the sliced onion.

When the rabbits are done transfer to a hot dish; pour the gravy into

a saucepan with the pork and onion. Boil up once, and strain before

thickening with browned flour. Add the wine, give a final boil, and

pour over and about the rabbits, sending up the surplus in a tureen.

Pigeons and grouse are very fine roasted in this way, also partridges.

BRAISED WILD DUCK OR GROUSE. +

A pair of ducks or grouse.

1 onion, minced fine.

Bread-crumbs, pepper and salt, a pinch of sage, and a little chopped

pork for stuffing.

4 table-spoonfuls of butter, or good dripping.

1 cup gravy.

Browned flour.

Prepare and stuff the fowls as for roasting. Have ready the butter or

dripping hot in a large frying-pan, and fry first one fowl, then the

other in this, turning as it browns below. Then lay them in a large

sauce-pan and pour the gravy, previously heated, in with them. Cover

closely and stew gently for an hour, or until the game is tender.

Transfer the fowls to a hot dish and cover it, to keep in flavor and

warmth while you strain the gravy. Let it cool a little to throw up the

grease. Skim, thicken with browned flour, and boil up well for five

minutes. Skim again, put back the duck into the gravy, and let all

stand heating—_not_ boiling—five minutes more, before dishing. Pour

a few spoonfuls of gravy over the ducks on the dish; the rest into a

tureen.

Send around green peas and currant jelly with them.

ROAST QUAILS. +

6 plump quails.

12 fine oysters.

3 table-spoonfuls butter.

Pepper and salt, and fried bread for serving.

Clean the quails and wash out very carefully with cold water in which

been dissolved a little soda. Cleanse finally with pure water and wipe

dry, inside and out. Place within the body of each bird a couple of

oysters or one very large one, sew it up and range all, side by side,

in a baking-pan. Pour a very little boiling water over them to harden

the outer skin and keep in the juices, and roast, covered, about half

an hour. Then uncover and baste frequently with butter while they are

browning. Serve upon rounds of fried bread, laid on a hot dish. Put a

spoonful of gravy upon each, and send up the rest in a boat, when you

have thickened and strained it.

If you like, you may add a glass of claret and a table-spoonful of

currant jelly to the gravy after the quails are taken up.

Be careful to sew up small game with fine cotton that will not tear the

meat when it is drawn out.

FRICASSEED CHICKEN _à l’Italienne_ (_Fine_).

Pair of chickens.

½ pound fat salt pork, cut into strips.

2 sprigs of parsley.

1 sprig thyme.

1 bay leaf.

A dozen mushrooms.

1 small onion.

1 clove.

1 table-spoonful of butter.

1 table-spoonful of salad oil.

2 glasses wine—white, or pale sherry.

Cut the chickens into joints; put them with the pork into a saucepan

with a very little water, and stew, covered, until tender. Remove the

chicken to a hot-water chafing-dish and keep warm while you prepare

the gravy. Turn the liquor in which the chickens were cooked into a

frying-pan, thicken with browned flour; put into it the herbs, onion,

clove and the mushrooms chopped very fine. Boil up sharply; add the

butter and stew fast half an hour. Then add the wine and oil. Simmer a

few minutes, and strain through a coarse cullender over the chicken.

I have understated the merits of this admirable fricassee by styling

it “fine.” The dear friend upon whose table I first saw it, will, I am

sure, earn the thanks of many other housewives, with my own, by giving

the receipt.

MINCED CHICKEN AND EGGS. +

Remains of roast or boiled chicken.

Stuffing of the same.

1 onion cut fine.

½ cup of cream.

1 table-spoonful flour or corn-starch.

Parsley, salt, and pepper.

6 or 8 eggs.

½ cup gravy, and handful of bread-crumbs.

Cut the meat of the fowls into small, neat squares. Put the bones, fat,

and skin into a saucepan, with the onion and enough cold water to cover

them, and stew gently for an hour or more. Strain, let it stand for a

little while that the fat may rise, skim, and return to the saucepan.

When hot to boiling, add the cream and thickening, with the seasoning.

When it thickens, put in the chicken, after which it must not boil.

Butter a deep dish; cover the bottom with the stuffing of the fowls,

crumbled or mashed up; wet with gravy; pour in the mince; strew fine,

dry bread-crumbs over this, and break the eggs carefully upon the

surface. More, and if possible, finer crumbs should cover these; put a

bit of butter on each egg, pepper and salt, and bake in a quick oven

until the top begins to bubble and smoke. The whites of the eggs should

be well “set,” the yolks soft.

I can safely recommend this receipt. Few “pick-up” dishes are more

popular with those for whom it is my duty and delight to cater.

A mince of veal can be made in the same way, in which case a little ham

is an improvement, also two or three hard-boiled eggs, cut into dice,

and mixed with the meat.

QUENELLES. +

Some cold, white meat of fowls or veal.

1 cup fine bread-crumbs.

3 table-spoonfuls cream or milk.

2 table-spoonfuls melted butter.

1 egg, well beaten.

1 cup well-flavored gravy.

Pepper and salt.

Chop the meat very fine. Wet the crumbs with milk, and drain as dry as

you can. Work into this paste the meat and egg, seasoning well. Flour

your hands, and make the mixture into round balls, rolling these in

flour when formed. Have ready the gravy hot in a saucepan; drop in the

quenelles, and boil fast five minutes. Take them up and pile upon a hot

dish; thicken the gravy with browned flour; boil up once and pour over

them.

_Or,_

After making out the quenelles, roll them in beaten egg, then in

cracker-crumbs, and fry in good dripping seasoned with onion. Dry every

drop of grease from them by rolling them upon paper, and serve with the

gravy poured over them.

These quenelles are nice served up with fricasseed sweetbreads, or as a

garnish for them, or game.

RECHAUFFÉE OF VEAL AND HAM.

Cold veal (if underdone all the better) and ham.

2 eggs, beaten light.

Handful of very fine bread-crumbs.

A little tart jelly.

Dripping or butter for frying.

Pepper, salt, and made mustard, or catsup.

Cut the veal and ham into rather thick slices of exactly the same size.

Spread one side of a slice of veal with jelly, one side of the ham

with mustard or thick catsup. Press these firmly together, that they

may adhere closely, dip in the beaten egg, and roll in the bread (or

cracker) crumbs, which should be seasoned with pepper and salt. Fry

very quickly; dry off the grease by laying them on soft paper, and pile

upon a dish.

ROULADES OF BEEF.

Some slices of rare roast beef.

Some slices of boiled ham.

2 eggs, beaten light.

Butter or dripping for frying.

Pepper and mustard.

A little thick gravy.

Cut the beef into even, oblong slices, the ham rather thinner and

smaller. Spread one side of the beef with mustard, and pepper the ham.

Lay the ham upon the beef and roll up together as tightly as possible;

roll in the egg, then the cracker, and pierce with a slender steel, tin

or wooden skewer in such a manner as to keep the roll pinned together.

Put several on each skewer, but do not let them touch one another. Fry

brown; lay on a dish, and gently withdraw the skewers. Pour the gravy

boiling hot over them.

Small _roulades_ are a convenient and toothsome garnish for game and

roast poultry.

ROULADES OF MUTTON.

Can be made in the same way, but leaving out the ham, and spreading the

inside of each slice with currant jelly.

FRIED CHICKEN. +

1 tender young chicken, cut into joints.

2 eggs, beaten light.

½ cup of cracker-crumbs.

Sweet lard, dripping, or the best salad-oil for frying.

Lay the chicken in salt-and-water fifteen minutes; wipe dry, pepper and

salt, dip in the egg, then in the cracker-crumbs, and fry slowly in

hot lard or dripping. Drain dry, pile on a hot dish, and lay sprigs of

parsley over it.

CHICKEN FRIED WHOLE.

1 young, tender chicken, trussed as for roasting, but not stuffed.

Butter or _very_ nice dripping for frying.

Clean the chicken, wash out well, and dry, inside and out. Put it in

your steamer, or cover in a cullender over a pot of boiling water,

keeping it at a fast boil for fifteen or twenty minutes. Have ready the

boiling hot fat in a deep frying-pan, or cruller-kettle. It should half

cover the chicken, when having floured it all over, you put it in. When

one side is a light brown, turn it. When both are cooked, take up, put

into a covered kettle or tin pail, and set in a pot of hot water, which

keep at a _slow_ boil, half an hour. If you like a delicate flavor of

onion, put a few slices in the bottom of the kettle before the chicken

goes in. Anoint the chicken plentifully, after laying it on a hot dish,

with melted butter in which you have stirred pepper and chopped parsley.

This is a new and attractive manner of preparing chickens for the

table. None but tender ones should be fried in any way.

“SMOTHERED” CHICKEN. +

2 tender chickens, roasting size, but not very large.

Pepper, salt and browned flour for gravy.

Clean and wash the chickens, and split down the back as for broiling.

Lay flat in a baking-pan, dash a cupful of boiling water upon them;

set in the oven, and invert another pan over them so as to cover

_tightly_. Roast at a steady, but moderate heat, about half an hour,

then lift the cover and baste freely with butter and a little of the

water in which the fowls are cooking. In ten minutes more, baste again

with gravy from the baking-pan. In five more, with melted butter and

abundantly, going all over the fowls, which should now begin to brown.

Increase the heat, still keeping the chickens covered. A few minutes

before dishing them, test with a fork to ascertain if they are tender.

When done they should be of a mellow brown hue all over the upper

part—a uniform and pleasing tint. Dish, salt and pepper them; thicken

the gravy left in the pan with browned flour, adding a little water, if

necessary, season with pepper, salt and parsley, and send up in a gravy

boat.

The flavor of “smothered” chicken—so named by the Virginia housewife of

the olden time—is peculiar, and to most palates delightful.

SMOTHERED CHICKEN WITH OYSTERS. +

1 fine, fat chicken.

1 pint of oysters, or enough to fill the chicken.

Dressing of chopped oysters, parsley and crumbs.

1 table-spoonful butter.

3 table-spoonfuls cream.

1 table-spoonful corn-starch.

Yolks of 3 hard-boiled eggs.

Pepper and salt to taste, with chopped parsley for sauce.

Clean the chicken, washing it out with two or three waters. Fill the

“craw” with the prepared stuffing, tying up the neck very securely.

Then, pack the main cavity of the body with oysters and sew up the

vent. Have ready a clean tin pail with a closely-fitting top. Put the

fowl, neatly trussed, into it, cover and set in a pot of cold water.

Bring to a boil, and cook slowly for more than an hour after the water

in the outer vessel begins to boil. If the fowl be not young, it may

be needful to keep it in two hours. _Do not open the inner vessel in

less than an hour._ Having ascertained that the chicken is tender

throughout, take it out and lay on a hot dish, covering immediately.

Turn the gravy into a saucepan, thicken with the corn-starch, add the

cream, parsley, seasoning and the boiled yolks chopped fine. Boil

up once; pour a little over the chicken, and serve the rest in a

sauce-boat.

FONDU OF CHICKEN OR OTHER WHITE MEAT.

Some cold chicken, veal, or turkey minced fine.

1 cupful bread-crumbs—baker’s bread is best.

1 cupful boiling milk.

1 table-spoonful butter.

1 slice cold boiled ham—minced.

½ onion boiled in, and then strained out of the milk.

2 eggs, beaten very light.

A pinch of soda, dissolved in the milk.

Pepper and salt to taste.

Soak the crumbs in the boiling milk, stir in the batter, and beat very

light. Let the mixture cool, while you mince the meat and whip the

eggs. Stir in the meat first when the bread is nearly cold, season,

and lastly put in the beaten eggs. Beat all up well and pour into a

well-greased baking-dish. Set in a brisk oven. When the fondu is a

light, delicately-browned puff, send at once to table in the dish in

which it was baked.

GALANTINE. +

“A sort of glorified head-cheese—isn’t it?” said a blunt collegian at

the height of his vacation-appetite, in passing his plate for a third

reinforcement from the dish in front of his hostess.

The phrase always recurs to me, when I taste or see a galantine, for

this was the foreign name of the spicy relish aptly characterized by

the youth. If spicy and appetizing, it is also a convenient stand-by

for the lunch or supper-table, since it keeps well and pleases most

people, even those who do not affect “head-cheese” proper.

A rind of fat salt pork, about six inches wide and eight long.

A little sausage, some minced ham, and odds and ends of game and

poultry, with giblets of all kinds, chopped up.

Salt, pepper, cloves, allspice, mace and cinnamon; sweet marjoram,

savory, thyme, a little grated lemon-peel; a pinch of cayenne.

1 small onion, minced very fine.

1 cup rich gravy, thick and savory.

A little butter and bits of fat meat cut into dice.

A pint of weak broth, seasoned with pepper, salt and onion.

Cut from a piece of fat salt pork (the loin or sides) the rind in one

piece, leaving on about a half-inch of fat. Soak in water over night

to make it more pliable. Spread, next day, upon a flat dish, and lay

on it layers of sausage (_or_, if you have it, potted ham or tongue),

game, poultry, giblets—minced meat of almost any kind, although

these named are most savory—well seasoned with the condiments above

enumerated, and sprinkled sparsely with onion. Moisten as you go on,

with the rich broth; put in occasional bits of butter and fat meat,

else it will be dry. Fold all up in the pork rind, joining the edges

neatly.

About the roll wrap a stout cloth, fitting closely and sew it up

on all sides. Bind, for further security, stout tape all about the

bundle. Put the weak broth into a pot, and while it is still cold,

drop the galantine into it, and boil slowly for five hours. The broth

should cover it entirely all the time. Let it get perfectly cold in

the liquor; then take it out, and without removing tape or cloth, put

it under heavy weights between two plates, and do not touch it for

twenty-four hours. At the end of that time, cut tape and threads,

remove the cloth carefully, trim the ragged edges of the galantine,

and send to table whole. Cut as it is asked for, with a keen knife, in

smooth, thin slices.

JELLIED TONGUE. +

1 large boiled tongue (cold).

2 ounces of gelatine dissolved in

½ pint of water.

1 tea-cup of browned veal gravy.

1 pint of liquor in which the tongue was boiled.

1 table-spoonful sugar.

1 table-spoonful burnt sugar for coloring.

3 table-spoonfuls of vinegar.

1 pint boiling water.

Put together the gravy, liquor, sugar, vinegar and a table-spoonful of

burnt sugar dissolved in cold water.

Add the dissolved gelatine and mix well—then the boiling water, and

strain through flannel. Cut the tongue in slices as for the table. Let

the jelly cool and begin to thicken. Wet a mould with cold water, put a

little jelly in the bottom, then a layer of tongue, more jelly, and so

on, until the mould is full. Cover and set in a cool place.

To turn it out, dip the mould in hot water for an instant, invert upon

a dish, and garnish with celery-sprigs, and nasturtium-flowers. Cut

with a thin, sharp knife, perpendicularly.

This is a handsome and delicious dish, and easily made.

GAME OR POULTRY IN SAVORY JELLY. +

A knuckle of veal, weighing 2 pounds.

1 slice of lean ham.

1 shallot, minced.

Sprig of thyme and one of parsley.

6 pepper-corns (white), and one teaspoonful salt.

3 pints of cold water.

Boil all these together until the liquor is reduced to a pint, when

strain without squeezing, and set to cool until next day. It should

then be a firm jelly. Take off every particle of fat.

1 package Coxe’s gelatine, soaked in

1 cup cold water for 3 hours.

1 table-spoonful sugar.

2 table-spoonfuls strained lemon-juice.

2 table-spoonfuls currant jelly, dissolved in cold water, and strained

through a muslin cloth.

Nearly a quart of _boiling_ water.

Pour the boiling water over the gelatine, stir swiftly for a moment;

add the jellied “stock,” and when this is dissolved, the sugar,

lemon-juice and coloring. Stir until all are mixed and melted together.

Strain through a flannel bag until quite clear. Do not shake or squeeze

the bag.

Have ready—4 or 5 hard-boiled eggs.

The remains of roast game, roast or boiled poultry, cut in neat thin

slices, with no jagged edges, and salted slightly.

Wet a mould with cold water, and when the jelly begins to congeal, pour

some in the bottom. Cut the whites of the eggs in pretty shapes—stars,

flowers, leaves, with a keen penknife. If you have sufficient skill,

carve the name or initials of some one whom you wish to honor. Unless

you can do this, however, content yourself with smooth thin rings

overlapping one another, like a chain, when they are arranged on the

lowest stratum of jelly, which, by the way, should be a thin one, that

your device may be visible. Pour in more jelly, and on this lay slices

of meat, close together. More jelly, and proceed in this order until

the mould is full, or all the meat used up.

Set in a cool place until next day, when turn out upon a flat dish.

An oblong or round mould, with smooth, upright sides, is best for this

purpose.

There is no need for even a timid housekeeper to be appalled at the

suggestion of attempting a task such as is described above, or

below. The very minuteness with which I have detailed the by-no-means

difficult process should encourage, not daunt the tyro. “Nothing

venture, nothing have,” is a telling motto, in this connection.

A TONGUE JELLIED WHOLE.

Make the jelly and stock as in preceding receipt, leaving out the

currant jelly, and coloring with a little burnt sugar, dissolved in

cold water. This gives an amber tinge to the jelly. Should it not be

clear after first straining, run it through the bag—a clean one—again.

Trim a small tongue—boiled and perfectly cold—neatly, cutting away the

root and paring it skilfully from tip to root with a sharp, thin-bladed

knife. Wet an oblong mould (a baking-pan used for “brick” loaves of

bread will do) with cold water, and put a thin layer of the congealing

jelly in the bottom. Upon this lay the tongue, bearing in mind that

what is the bottom now will be the top when the jelly is turned out.

Encircle it with a linked chain made of rings of white of egg, or, if

you prefer, let the rings barely touch one another, and fit in the

centre of each a round of bright pickled beet. The effect of this is

very pretty. Fill up the mould with jelly; cover and set in a cold

place for twelve hours.

This is a beautiful show-piece for luncheon or supper, and when it has

served the end of its creation in this respect, can easily be carved

with a sharp knife and remain, even in partial ruin, a thing of beauty.

GRAVY.

“PRESIDING over an establishment like this makes sad havoc with the

features, my dear Miss Pecksniffs,” said Mrs. Todgers. “The gravy alone

is enough to add twenty years to one’s age. The anxiety of that one

item, my dears, keeps the mind continually upon the stretch.”

Without following the worthy landlady further into the depths of her

dissertation upon the fondness of commercial gentlemen for the “item,”

I would answer a question addressed to me by a correspondent who

“believes”—she is so kind as to inform me—“in Common Sense.”

“I notice that many of your made dishes are dependent for savoriness

upon ‘a cup of good broth,’ or, ‘half a cup of strong gravy.’ Let me

ask, in the spirit of sincere desire for useful information, where is

the gravy or broth to come from?”

In return I plagiarize the words of a lady who accomplishes more with

less noise and fretting than any other person I ever saw.

“I don’t see how you find time for it all!” exclaimed an admiring

visitor.

“I _make_ it, if I can get it in no other way,” was the rejoinder.

Never throw away so much as a teaspoonful of gravy of any kind. Season

it rather highly, and set it away in a cool place until it is wanted.

For a while you will have some difficulty in impressing the importance

of this rule upon your cook, especially if she is allowed to have all

the “soap-fat” she can save as one of her “perquisites.” This is a

ruinous leak in any household, whether the oleaginous “savings” be

exchanged for soap (hard or soft), or for money. It is so easy to “let

it go into the fat-crock,” and when the cook is to gain anything for

herself by the _laisser-aller_ the temptation is cruelly strong—even if

she have a conscience. I have known the pile of unclean fat collected

for the soap-man to be swelled not only by the bits of butter left

upon the plates after meals, but by quarter and half-pounds abstracted

bodily from butter tub or pot, and the abstraction never, in the

phraseology of the “conveyer,” to be “scrupled.” “The wise convey it

call!” said honest Pistol, and to no other ethical motto has heartier

response been made by the comptrollers of culinary treasuries.

In a family of ordinary size nothing should find its way into the

buckets of the unsavory caller at basement-door or back-gate. The

drippings from most kinds of roast meat, if settled, strained and

skimmed, and kept in a clean vessel, answer for many purposes quite

as well as butter, and better than lard. Even that from mutton should

be “tried out,” strained through muslin, slightly salted, and, if you

choose, perfumed with rose-water, in which shape it is better than cold

cream, or glycerine for chapped hands, and is a useful cerate for cuts,

scratches, etc. The oil-cake should be removed from the top of all

gravies before they are used upon the table; for, be it understood,

_grease is not gravy_.

How often I have wished, from the depths of a loathing stomach, that

certain well-meaning housekeepers—at whose boards I have sat as guest

or boarder—who fry beefsteak in lard, and send ham to table swimming in

fat; upon the surface of whose soups float spheroids of oil that encase

the spoon with blubber, and coat the lips and tongue of the eater

with flaky scales—that these dear souls who believe in “old-fashioned

cookery,” understood this simple law of digestive gravity!

A “rich gravy,” or “a strong broth,” is not of necessity, then, one

surcharged with fat. Beef-tea—which is the very essence of the meat,

and contains more nourishment in small bulk than any other liquid

used in the sick-room—should be made of lean, but tender beef, and

every particle of suet be removed from the cooled surface before it is

re-heated for the patient’s use.

If you have no gravy ready when you wish to prepare ragoût, or other

dish requiring this ingredient, “make it.” Crack up the bones from

which you have cut the flesh, and put them into a saucepan with the

refuse bits of meat, gristle, skin, etc.; cover with cold water,

and stew very gently until you have extracted all the nourishment,

and from two cups of liquid in the pot when the boiling commenced,

you have one cup of tolerable gravy. A few minutes of thought and

preparation in your kitchen after breakfast will enable you to have

anything of this kind in season for a luncheon dish, or an _entrée_

at the early dinner. Foresight in these matters is to be forearmed.

Teach your cook, furthermore, never to toss “that carcass” of fowl,

or the ham, or mutton-bone, “with next to nothing upon it,” to the

dogs, or into the scavenger’s barrel. It will not, by itself, make

good soup, unless it be very much underdone, and even then the broth

will not be equal to that made from raw meat or marrow bones. But,

seasoned and thickened—adding sweet herbs and a dash of catsup to the

flavoring—it will be useful as gravy in many ways; always remembering

that it must be skimmed before it is used. It is also well worth your

while to see for yourself, when the meat comes home from market, that

it has been properly trimmed for the table. Much goes into the oven or

upon the spit to be roasted, or upon the gridiron to be broiled, that

is unfit to be eaten after it has been baked or grilled. All bits of

tough skin—all gristly portions, soft bones, and the cartilage known

as “whitleather” should be removed before cooking from roasts, chops,

and steaks, when this can be done without injuring the shape of the

meat. The place for these is the stew-pot. Cover them with cold water;

put in no seasoning until they have simmered slowly for a long time

in a close vessel, and the liquid is reduced to at most one-half of

the original quantity; then season, boil up once hard, strain, and set

aside until you want to try a receipt in which “a little good gravy” is

a desideratum.

If you buy meat for gravy—which you need not do very often, if you

(and your cook) are reasonably careful about “scraps,” cooked and

raw—get the coarser pieces and marrow-bones pounded to bits. Cut up

the meat fine, also. You cannot, by never so long boiling; extract the

strength so completely from a solid “chunk” of flesh as from the same

quantity shred into strips or cut into dice. It should be reduced to

rags for gravies and soups, and invariably put on in _cold_ water. Fast

boiling hardens the meat and injures the flavor of the gravy. For the

first hour, it should barely simmer. After that, stew very slowly and

steadily. The best gravy is like jelly when cold.

Are these details trivial to absurdity? If they seem so to you, pray

bear with my over-carefulness when I tell you how ignorant I was of

minute economies when I assumed the name, and, so far as I could, the

duties of a housewife, and how many others I have seen and talked with

who are as anxious as was I, to stop the deadly little drains from the

domestic system, yet know not where to begin.

SALADS.

THIS subject has been treated of so fully—so exhaustively, I

thought, then,—in No. 1 of the “Common Sense Series,”[A] that I have

comparatively few receipts to set down here. I can, however, heartily

endorse these as especially good of their kind. Indeed, the neatest

compliment ever paid any receipt in my _répertoire_ was when an

epicure—not a _gourmande_—styled the oyster salad made in obedience to

it, an “inspiration.”

OYSTER SALAD. +

1 quart oysters, cut—not chopped—into small pieces.

1 bunch celery, cut—not chopped—into small pieces.

2 hard-boiled eggs.

2 raw eggs, well whipped.

1 great spoonful salad oil.

1 teaspoonful powdered sugar.

1 small spoonful salt.

1 small spoonful pepper.

1 small spoonful made mustard.

Half cup best cider vinegar.

Drain the liquor well from the oysters and cut them with a sharp knife

into dice. Cut the celery, which should be white and crisp, into

pieces of corresponding size. Set them aside in separate vessels, in a

cold place while you prepare the dressing. Beat the eggs light (with

a “Dover” egg-beater, if you have one), mix in the sugar; then whip

in gradually the oil until it is a light cream. Have ready, rubbed

to a powder, the boiled yolks; add to _them_ the salt, pepper, and

lastly the mustard. Beat these into the oil and yolk, and then, two or

three drops at a time, the vinegar, whipping the dressing briskly, but

lightly for two or three minutes. It should, if properly managed, be

like rich yellow cream—or custard.

With a silver fork toss up the oysters and celery together in a glass

dish; pour half of the dressing over them; toss up—not stir it down—for

a minute, and pour the rest on the top.

Lay a border of light-green celery tufts close within the edge of the

bowl, with a cluster in the middle of the salad. Serve as soon as may

be, after it is mixed. Meanwhile, keep on the ice.

CABBAGE SALAD. (_Very good._) +

1 small firm head of cabbage—chopped or sliced fine.

1 cup of sweet milk, boiling hot.

A little less than a cup of vinegar.

1 table-spoonful butter.

2 eggs, well beaten.

1 table-spoonful white sugar.

1 teaspoonful essence of celery.

Pepper and salt to taste.

Heat the milk and vinegar in separate vessels. When the vinegar boils,

put in the butter, sugar and seasoning. Boil up once and stir in the

chopped cabbage. Heat to scalding, but do not let it actually boil. To

the hot milk add the eggs; cook one minute after they begin to thicken.

Turn the scalding cabbage into a deep bowl; pour the custard over it,

stir in quickly, tossing up the mixture with a silver fork, until the

ingredients are thoroughly incorporated; cover to keep in the strength

of the vinegar, and set where it will cool suddenly.

Serve perfectly cold, and garnish with some slices of cold boiled eggs

and cresses.

This will be found a vast improvement upon the old-fashioned

“coldslaw,” however prepared, and is more wholesome.

LOBSTER SALAD—WITHOUT OIL. +

1 fine lobster—boiled thoroughly, and carefully picked out. Cut into

small pieces; put in a broad dish, and sprinkle with a teaspoonful of

salt and one of pepper. Set aside in a cold place.

2 bunches of white crisp celery, also cut into small pieces. Toss up

lightly with the lobster.

_Dressing._

2 large table-spoonfuls of butter.

1½ large table-spoonfuls of flour or corn-starch.

1 pint boiling water.

Stir the flour, previously wet, into the boiling water; let it boil two

minutes and add the butter. Boil one minute longer and set aside to

cool. Meantime, mix well and smoothly.

1 large table-spoonful of mustard.

1 teaspoonful of sugar—(powdered).

½ teaspoonful of salt.

1 table-spoonful boiling water.

1 small cup of vinegar.

Beat this up well, then add to the drawn butter—beat to a cream and

pour over the lobster.

Garnish the dish with celery tops and hard-boiled eggs.

It gives me great pleasure to present this receipt to those who, from

prejudice or taste, do not like the presence of salad oil in any dish.

I have known many who would not knowingly partake of salad, fricassee,

or ragoût, that had oil, in however small quantity, as one of its

ingredients. And, unlike mince-pie, with the brandy left out, or

pie-crust, _minus_ shortening, this oil-less salad is really delicious.

Especially if a couple of raw eggs, well whipped, be added to the drawn

butter, when almost cold.

CHICKEN SALAD. (_Excellent._) +

2 full-grown chickens, boiled tender, and cold.

3 bunches of celery.

2 cups boiling water.

2 table-spoonfuls corn-starch, wet with cold water.

1 great spoonful fat, skimmed from liquor in which the fowls were

boiled.

2 table-spoonfuls oil.

1 cup of vinegar.

2 teaspoonfuls made mustard.

3 raw eggs, whipped light.

3 hard-boiled eggs.

1 table-spoonful powdered sugar.

1 teaspoonful salt, or to taste.

1 teaspoonful pepper.

1 teaspoonful Worcestershire sauce.

Remove from the chicken every bit of fat and skin. Cut the best

portions of the meat into dice with a sharp knife. Chopping is apt to

make it ragged and uneven in appearance. Cut the celery in like manner,

and set both aside in a cool place, when you have strewed a little salt

over the chicken. To the boiling water add the corn-starch, and boil

fast until it thickens well. Then stir in the chicken-essence, skimmed

from the top of the cold liquor in which the fowls were boiled. If the

pot is clean, it will be of a fine golden color. Take from the fire,

and begin to whip into the sauce the beaten eggs. Continue this until

the mixture is nearly cold. Rub the hard-boiled yolks to a fine powder

in a Wedgewood mortar or earthenware bowl; add the mustard, sugar,

pepper, and salt; the Worcestershire sauce; then, a few drops at a

time, the oil, lastly, also gradually, the vinegar. Strain through a

wire sieve, or coarse tartelane, rubbing through all that will pass

the net. Put the chicken and celery together in a glass salad-dish,

and wet up with half of the vinegar mixture. Be careful not to do more

than moisten it well, tossing up lightly with a silver fork. Then beat

the rest of the vinegar sauce into the thicker mixture, which should by

this time be perfectly cold. Pour over the salad; ornament the centre

of the dish with flower-cups made of the hollowed halves of the whites

of boiled eggs, with celery-tufts for petals. Lay a chain of sliced

whites nearer the edge of the bowl, with a tender-celery leaf in each

link, and set in a very cold place until wanted.

In obedience to this last injunction, I once left my salad on the shelf

of a “very cold” pantry, until it was slightly frozen all through—a

misadventure I did not suspect until it came to table. With a desperate

attempt at facetiousness, I introduced the compound as a novelty—“a

_salade glacée_”—and, to my relief and surprise, found in the accident

a parallel to the “Irish blackguard” snuff story. The spoiled dish was

pronounced by all far more delightful than the usual form of salad. I

do not advise a repetition of the adventure on the part of any of my

readers. Perhaps other guests might be less complaisant and flattering.

It is hardly worth while to risk a cut glass dish on the chances of

success.

Use the liquor in which the chickens were boiled for soup.

CREAM DRESSING FOR SALAD.

1 cup sweet cream. It must be perfectly fresh.

1 table-spoonful corn-starch, or very fine flour.

Whites of two eggs, beaten stiff.

3 table-spoonfuls vinegar.

2 table-spoonfuls best salad-oil.

2 tea-spoonfuls powdered sugar.

1 teaspoonful (scant) of salt.

½ teaspoonful pepper.

1 teaspoonful made mustard.

Heat the cream in a farina-kettle almost to boiling; then stir in the

flour, previously wet with cold milk. Boil for two minutes, stirring

all the time; add the sugar, and take from the fire. When half cold

beat in the whipped whites of egg with swift strokes, but not many. Set

aside to cool. When quite cold, whip in the oil, pepper, mustard and

salt, and if your salad is ready, add the vinegar, and pour at once

over it.

This dressing is especially nice for lettuce salad. If made for

chickens, only the white meat should be used.

GOLDEN SALAD-DRESSING. +

4 hard-boiled eggs.

3 table-spoonfuls of best salad oil.

4 table-spoonfuls vinegar.

Yolks of 2 eggs, well beaten.

1 teaspoonful powdered sugar.

1 teaspoonful essence of celery.

1 saltspoonful of salt.

1 saltspoonful pepper.

1 teaspoonful made mustard.

Rub the boiled yolks to a powder; add sugar, mustard, salt, pepper.

Work up well with the oil; put in gradually. Beat hard; stir in the

vinegar, and strain out all lumps, rubbing or squeezing the mixture to

get the full strength. Put over the fire and heat almost to boiling.

Take a spoonful at a time from the saucepan while still on the fire,

and beat into the whipped raw yolks. When all the ingredients are

mixed, return to the saucepan; simmer slowly for three minutes,

stirring all the time. Do not let it boil, as it will be apt to curdle.

Put in the celery-essence after withdrawing it from the range. Let it

get perfectly cold; pile up lobster and lettuce—the first cut into

dice, the latter pulled lightly apart—in a deep dish, and pour half

the dressing over it. Give a few tosses with a silver fork; mound up

neatly, and pour the rest of the sauce over all.

This dressing is very fine for a mayonnaise of fish. In this case, add

a teaspoonful of anchovy sauce after it comes from the fire.

POTATO SALAD DRESSING. +

2 large boiled potatoes.

1 teaspoonful powdered sugar.

1 table-spoonful oil.

1 saltspoonful made mustard.

1 saltspoonful salt, and same of pepper.

1 teaspoonful Harvey’s sauce.

1 egg, beaten light—white and yolk separate.

3 table-spoonfuls vinegar.

Boil the potatoes until mealy, drain every drop of water from them; let

them dry on the range for an instant, and _beat_ up (not mash) them

with a fork, tossing them into lightness and dryness. When fine and

dry, beat in the salt, oil, and egg; the yolk first, then the white,

which should be a stiff froth. In another vessel have ready mixed the

mustard, sauce, sugar, pepper, and vinegar. Add by degrees to the

potato-mixture until it is like thick cream. If not perfectly smooth,

rub through a coarse wire sieve or a bit of coarse lace, such as is

used for mosquito netting.

This, also, is peculiarly nice with salmon, or halibut mayonnaise,

although excellent with chicken or turkey salad.

VARIOUS PREPARATIONS OF CHEESE.

TOASTED CHEESE. +

½ pound cheese—dry—grated.

1 table-spoonful butter.

1 teaspoonful made mustard.

A pinch of cayenne pepper.

1 table-spoonful very fine, stale bread-crumbs—soaked in cream.

Rounds or slices of thin toast, from which the crust has been pared.

Rub the bottom of a heated frying-pan with a cut onion, then with

butter. Put the cheese into it, stirring fast to prevent burning. When

it has melted, put in the butter, the mustard, pepper; lastly the

bread-crumbs, which have been previously soaked in cream, then pressed

almost dry. Spread smoking hot upon the toast, and eat at once.

CHEESE TOASTED WITH EGGS. +

½ pound good English cheese.

3 eggs, beaten light.

3 table-spoonfuls bread-crumbs, soaked in cream.

1 table-spoonful of mustard.

Salt and pepper to taste.

A little minced parsley.

Slices of delicate toast.

3 table-spoonfuls butter—melted, but not hot.

Beat the soaked crumb into the eggs; the butter; seasoning; lastly, the

cheese. Beat very light; spread smoothly on the toast and brown quickly

upon the upper grating of the oven. Be sure the bars are perfectly

clean.

CHEESE WITH MACARONI. +

½ pound macaroni.

½ cup cream.

1½ table-spoonfuls butter.

Pepper, salt and parsley.

1 egg, beaten well, and 1 table-spoonful flour.

4 table-spoonfuls grated cheese, and a little crumbed bread.

Break the macaroni into inch lengths; boil in water slightly salted;

drain _perfectly_ dry in a cullender. Take out two table-spoonfuls of

cream, and put the rest into a farina-kettle or saucepan, set within

another of boiling water. When it is scalding hot, salt to taste; add

half a table-spoonful of butter, then the macaroni, and heat together

slowly. They should not boil. Meanwhile put the reserved cream into

a small saucepan. Heat, stir in the table-spoonful of butter, pepper

and parsley; the flour, wet with cold milk, the grated cheese, and

when this is dissolved, the beaten egg. Pour the macaroni into a neat

baking-dish, cover with the cheese mixture. Strew the top with _very_

fine bread-crumbs, and brown quickly on the upper grating of a hot oven.

This is very good.

CHEESE FINGERS.

Some good pie pastry, “left over” from pie-making.

3 or 4 table-spoonfuls best English cheese, dry and old—grated.

A little salt and pepper.

1 raw egg.

Roll the paste out thin; cut into strips about four inches long and

less than half as wide. Strew each with grated cheese, season with

pepper and salt, double the paste upon it lengthwise, pinch the edges,

and when all are ready, bake in a quick oven. Wash over with beaten

egg just before taking them up, and sift a little powdered cheese

upon the top. Shut the oven-door an instant to glaze them well; pile

log-cabin-wise upon a hot napkin in a warm dish, and eat at once, as

they are not good cold.

This will make a savory side-relish for John’s luncheon on a hurried

baking-day. Pastry is none the worse for standing a day or longer in a

cold, dry place, and this uses up the “odds and ends” satisfactorily

and economically.

CHEESE BISCUITS.

Some pie-paste.

Grated cheese.

1 beaten egg.

Pepper and salt.

Cayenne pepper, if you like.

Roll out the pastry thin; strew grated cheese, seasoned, over the

whole sheet and roll it up tightly. Roll out again, even thinner than

before; strew the rest of the cheese; roll up and set in a cold place,

half an hour, until crisp. Roll again into a sheet, cut into squares

or triangles with a cake-cutter, or your jagging-iron; prick with a

fork, and bake very quickly in a hot oven. Brush with beaten egg before

taking up, and sift raspings of cheese over the top, shutting up in

the oven for an instant to glaze the biscuits. Serve at once, on a hot

napkin.

These are, it will be seen, a modification of the “fingers,” and will

be preferred by some. Of course, to those who object to cooked cheese

as indigestible, none of the combinations that smell so appetizing and

taste so savory, will be a temptation. Cayenne is said to make these

more wholesome.

CHEESE FONDU. + (_Delicious._)

1 cup bread-crumbs—very dry and fine.

2 scant cups of milk—rich and fresh, or it will curdle.

½ pound dry old cheese, grated.

3 eggs—whipped very light.

1 small table-spoonful melted butter.

Pepper and salt.

A pinch of soda, dissolved in hot water and stirred into the milk.

Soak the crumbs in the milk; beat into these the eggs, the butter,

seasoning, lastly the cheese. Butter a neat baking-dish; pour the

_fondu_ into it, strew dry bread-crumbs on the top, and bake in a

rather quick oven until delicately browned. Serve immediately in the

baking-dish, as it soon falls.

The day on which this cheese-pudding first appeared on my table is

marked with a “very good.” It is a pretty, cheap and palatable

_entrée_, such as you need never be ashamed to set before any guest,

however fastidious.

Let me say, in this connection, in explanation not apology, for my

running commentary upon receipts like the above, that it is made—the

commentary, I mean, “with a purpose.” The unexpected guest is sometimes

an embarrassment, sometimes a horror to the inexperienced housewife.

“I remembered the cold duck in the pantry with exceeding joy; summed

up the contents of bread and cake box to a crumb, between the foot of

the stairs and the front-door,” confessed one to me. “By the time I had

said ‘How do you do?’ all around, and kissed the babies, I remembered,

with a sick thrill, that the butter was low and the coffee out (we

don’t drink it ourselves), and that the whole party of new-comers must,

at that hour of the evening, be ravenously hungry.”

It is wise and provident to arm oneself against such occasions by

practice in the manufacture of what may be called “surprise-dishes.”

With a crust of cheese in the larder, half a loaf of dry bread, an

egg, a few spoonfuls of milk and a bit of butter, one is tolerably

armed against an unlooked-for and unseasonable arrival. Give the

guest my _fondu_, with a good cup of coffee, or tea, or glass of ale;

bread-and-butter, cut thin, and your brightest smile, and he will not

complain, even inwardly, should the cold duck be wanting.

CREAM CHEESE. (No. 1.)

3 pints of cream, with a teaspoonful of salt put in after it sours.

An empty salt-box, and ¼ yard of very stout, coarse lace.

Knock top and bottom out of one of the small boxes used for holding

table-salt, and cleanse the broad and the narrow rims remaining,

thoroughly. When dry, fit over the bottom of the box itself a piece

of new strong net lace, or mosquito-netting. Fasten it in place

by pressing down over it the rim of the top. The net should be

drawn tightly and smoothly. Tack both rim and net to the outside

of the box with small tacks driven through the former, leaving the

heads protruding, that they may be easily withdrawn. This is your

cheese-press. If you can get a small wire sieve with _coarse_ meshes,

it will save you trouble. The cream should have been set aside until

it thickens or “loppers,” in a solid curd. Inside of your mould lay a

piece of clean white tarletane, fitted neatly to the sides and bottom,

and projecting all around above the press. Pour in the cream, opening

the flakes gently with a spoon to allow the whey to reach the bottom of

the press, but do not stir it. Set the mould upon two slender sticks

laid on a bowl, and let it drip two days. If the mould will not hold

all the cream, add it during the first day, as the curd sinks. By the

third day it will be a rich, smooth mass. If not quite firm, trim down

the round board you took out of the top, cover the cheese with a thin

cloth, and press the board firmly upon it. Lay a weight on this—not

heavy enough to break the net—and leave for some hours longer. A saucer

or small plate will do almost as well as the board. When the cheese is

ready to eat, which will be when it is firm, remove the oil from the

top by laying a piece of blotting or tissue paper upon it, and lift

from the mould by taking hold of the projecting edges of cloth. It will

be found very nice. This is the famous English cream cheese.

CREAM CHEESE. (No. 2.) +

Make cottage cheese as directed in “Common Sense in the Household,”

page 268, or, what is easier, buy two or three “pats” of the same from

some honest countrywoman in the market. To each little cheese allow a

table-spoonful of melted butter, and three or four of good sweet cream,

with a little salt and pepper. Work in the butter first with a silver

spoon, and very thoroughly, then the cream, until all is light and

smooth. Make into neat rolls, or shape into miniature cheeses upon a

plate; print as you would butter, and set in a cold place half an hour.

They should be eaten fresh.

CHEESE PATÉS. +

Rounds of bread, cut and fried as for Swiss patés.

5 table-spoonfuls grated cheese.

½ cup hot water.

2 eggs, yolks only.

Pepper and salt.

Handful bread-crumbs.

1 table-spoonful of butter.

Put the water on the fire, and, when it boils, stir in the butter

and seasoning, the cheese, and, when this is melted, the eggs. Heat

together one minute; put in the bread-crumbs and pour a good spoonful

of the mixture into each of the cavities left in the rounds of fried

bread. Brown very quickly in the oven, and serve on a folded napkin.

CHEESE SANDWICHES. +

¼ pound good English cheese—grated.

3 eggs, boiled hard—use the yolks only.

1 table-spoonful melted butter.

Thin slices of buttered bread.

Pepper and salt.

Rub the yolks to a smooth paste with the butter, season, and work in

the cheese. Spread the bread, and fold upon the mixture.

RAMAKINS.

3 table-spoonfuls grated cheese.

2 eggs, beaten light.

1 table-spoonful melted butter.

1 teaspoonful anchovy sauce.

Pepper—cayenne is best.

1 teaspoonful flour, wet with cream.

Rounds of lightly-toasted bread.

Beat the butter and seasoning in with the eggs; then the cheese; lastly

the flour; working until the mixture is of creamy lightness. Spread

thickly upon the bread, and brown quickly.

This is a Dutch compound, but eatable despite the odd name.

CHEESE PUDDING.

½ pound dry cheese, grated fine.

1 cup dry bread-crumbs.

4 eggs, well beaten.

1 cup minced meat—one-third ham—two-thirds fowl.

1 cup milk and one of good gravy—veal or fowl.

1 teaspoonful butter, and a pinch of soda in the milk.

Season with pepper and a very little salt.

Stir the milk into the beaten eggs, then the bread-crumbs, seasoning,

meat, lastly, the cheese. Beat up well, but not too long, else the milk

may, in spite of the soda, curdle.

Butter a mould; pour in the pudding, cover, and boil three-quarters of

an hour steadily. Turn out upon a hot dish, and pour the gravy over it.

POTATOES.

POTATOES À LA LYONNAISE. +

12 potatoes, _parboiled_, and when cold, sliced, or cut into dice.

1 onion, chopped.

Butter or dripping for frying.

Chopped parsley, pepper and salt.

Heat the butter in a frying-pan; put in the onion; fry one minute; then

the potatoes. Stir briskly and fry slowly five minutes. There should be

butter enough to keep them from sticking to the bottom of the pan; and

they should not brown. Add the seasoning just before you take them up.

Drain perfectly dry by shaking them to and fro in a heated cullender.

Serve in a hot dish.

STEWED POTATOES. +

12 fine potatoes.

1 egg, beaten light.

1 great spoonful of butter.

1 table-spoonful flour, wet with cold milk.

1 cup of milk.

Chopped parsley, salt and pepper.

Peel and lay the potatoes in cold water for half an hour. Then slice

or cut into dice into more cold water, just enough to cover them. Boil

gently in this until tender; but not until they are a paste. Drain

off nearly all the water; put pepper, salt, and the milk in with

the potatoes left in the saucepan, and heat again to boiling before

stirring in the flour. Cook two minutes, stirring up from the bottom

to prevent scorching; add the egg, parsley and butter, and pour into a

covered dish.

FRIED POTATOES. +

12 potatoes.

Butter or dripping for frying.

Salt to taste.

Peel the potatoes; cut from end to end in even strips, by first

halving, then quartering each; cutting into eighths, and if the potato

be large, into sixteenths. The more regular the shape and uniform the

size the better the dish will look. Lay these in cold—ice-water if you

have it—for at least half an hour; then upon a dry cloth, covering with

another and patting the upper gently to dry each piece. The butter or

dripping should be boiling hot. Fry the potatoes briskly, turning as

the lower side is done to a yellow-brown. As you take them out of the

fat—which should be done the instant they are of the right color—put

into a hot cullender set over a plate in the open oven, and sprinkle

with salt. Serve in a napkin laid within a hot dish and folded lightly

over them. A dish-cover would make them “soggy,” whereas they should be

crisp.

SCALLOPED POTATOES.

3 cups mashed potatoes.

3 table-spoonfuls cream.

2 table-spoonfuls butter.

Salt and pepper.

Yolks of four hard-boiled eggs.

1 raw egg, beaten well.

Handful dry, fine bread-crumbs.

Beat up the potatoes while hot, with the cream, butter and raw egg,

seasoning well. Put a layer in the bottom of a buttered baking-dish;

cover this with thin slices of yolk, salt and pepper; then another

layer of potato, and so on, until all the materials are used up. The

top layer should be potato. Strew bread-crumbs thickly over this. Bake

covered until hot through, then brown quickly. Serve in the baking-dish.

POTATOES À L’ITALIENNE. (_Extremely nice._) +

Enough mealy potatoes to make a good dish, boiled dry.

2 table-spoonfuls of cream.

1 table-spoonful of butter.

Salt and pepper.

2 eggs, yolks and whites beaten separately.

Whip up the potatoes, while hot, with a silver fork, instead of using

the potato-beetle. This is, by the way, a much better method of

mashing potato than that usually adopted. The potato is dried of all

superfluous moisture, made whiter and lighter than by pounding. When

it is fine and mealy, beat in the cream, the butter, salt, pepper, and

whip up to a creamy heap before mixing in, with few dexterous strokes,

the whites, which should be first whipped stiff. Pile irregularly upon

a buttered pie-dish; brown quickly in the oven; slip carefully, with

the help of a cake-turner, to a heated flat dish, and send up.

POTATOES À LA DUCHESSE. +

When you cook potatoes _à l’Italienne_ prepare more than will be needed

for one day. Cut the remnants, when perfectly cold, into squares or

rounds with a cake-cutter, wet in cold water. Grease the bottom of a

baking-pan and set these in it in rows, but not touching one another,

and bake quickly, brushing them all over, except, of course, on the

bottom, with beaten egg when they begin to brown. Lay a napkin, folded,

upon a hot dish, and range these regularly upon it.

They are very fine, and considered quite a fancy dish.

POTATO EGGS. +

2 cups cold (or hot) mashed potato.

¾ cup of cold ham, minced very fine.

2 eggs, beaten light.

1 table-spoonful melted butter.

2 table-spoonfuls cream or rich milk.

Pepper and salt, and dripping for frying.

1 cup good gravy.

Work the butter into the potato, the cream, seasoning, and, when the

mixture is free from lumps, the beaten eggs. Beat all up light before

the ham goes in. Flour your hands; make this paste into egg-shaped

balls; roll these in flour and fry in good dripping; turning them

carefully, not to spoil the shape. Pile upon a flat dish, and pour some

good gravy, hot, over them.

If you have nothing else of which gravy can be made, boil the ham-bone

or a few slices of ham in a little water; thicken with flour; add

a little butter, parsley, pepper and a beaten egg; boil up until it

thickens.

The above is a simple, but very good preparation of potato. You will

not grudge the little additional time and trouble required to make

pretty and palatable the remnants of ham and potato, that, served

plain, would tempt no one except a very hungry man.

For many other ways of cooking this invaluable vegetable, for breakfast

and luncheon, as well as for dinner, the reader is referred to the

section—“Potatoes,” in “Common Sense in the Household,” page 210.

LUNCHEON.

A YOUNG friend of mine who had not long been a wife and housekeeper,

on returning from a morning drive, one day, was met at the door by the

intelligence that her widower brother, who was a member of her family,

had brought three gentlemen home with him to dinner. Her husband had

not yet come in, and although not naturally nervous, she repaired

forthwith, and in some trepidation, to the kitchen, to see for herself

that the early dinner, which was then customary in the household,

because more convenient for the master’s business, was in satisfactory

progress.

The range was hot and the top empty; the tables clean and also empty;

ditto the cook’s hands, while her terrified face had the hue of her

whitest dish-towel.

“Don’t you think, ma’am,” was her salutation, “that the marketing has

never come home at all, at all, and not a bit of meat, nor so much as a

pertater in the house! Whatever will we do? and lashin’s of company in

onexpected!”

The mistress was equally dismayed when a glance at the clock showed

that it was past twelve. The market-house closed at noon; her residence

was out of the region of butchers’ and green-grocers’ shops. It was

evident that the plethoric hamper, she had seen filled by her usually

careful provision merchant and left at his stand in the market to be

delivered at her door early in the forenoon, had miscarried, or been

overlooked.

“Whatever shall we do?” The despairing cry rang through her like a

knell; a cold trembling seized her limbs, and she dropped helplessly

into a chair.

“Has nothing come, Mary? Not even the meat for soup?”

“Sorra a sup, ma’am.”

“Cannot you think of something that can be made quickly? You told me

you were a good hand at getting up nice dishes at short notice!”

The Celt’s _pose_ was tragic.

“An’ it was a thrue word I spake, whin I said it. But an angel couldn’t

make something out of nothing, or it’s meself that would thry!”

Matters were too serious for the poor lady to suffer her to smile at

the implied assumption of angelic relationship.

“Something must be done, nevertheless,” she uttered, desperately, and,

with a woman’s instinct of leaning upon rugged masculine strength when

deserted by feminine wit, she sought the billiard-room, whither the

inconsiderate brother had conducted his visitors, happily unsuspicious

as themselves of the poverty-stricken larder, or the qualms that were

racking the secretary of the interior.

He showed an exasperatingly good-humored face at the door in answer to

her knock.

“Come in!” he said blithely, and would have flung wide the door, but

for the agonized gesture that beckoned him into the entry.

In a whisper as agonized, she explained the situation. He reflected a

moment.

“Any pie, or cake in the house? fruit, fresh or preserved?”

“Yes, all,” impatiently. “But it isn’t a question of dessert. There is

literally nothing for _dinner_.”

“I understand! I have it! We’ll be fashionable for once. Set on

sardines, cheese, pie, cake, claret and sauterne, and a dish or two of

fruit. Make a royally strong cup of coffee to wind up with, and _call

it luncheon_!”

In fifteen minutes the guests were summoned to the dining-room, where

the pretty hostess, in a becoming _demi-toilette_, welcomed them as the

friends of her husband and brother, and presided over the collation

from which not one of them perceived that anything was lacking, like a

gracious little queen. A lisp of apology would have spoiled all, and

she had tact enough to avoid the danger.

“That man is a Napoleon in small matters!” said I, when she told me the

story. “If he never says another good thing, his—‘Call it luncheon,’

should win him lasting fame with all housekeepers who hearken to the

tale of his masterly strategy.”

I have given the anecdote at length, that the reader may have the

benefit of all the lessons it conveys.

First—Assure yourself, whenever it is practicable, that the materials

for dinner are in the house several hours before the time for serving

it arrives.

Secondly—It is a wise plan to keep sardines, canned salmon and lobster,

cheese, and potted meats on hand always, with preserved fruits, and not

to let the stores of cake and crackers run too low.

Thirdly—There is scarcely an imaginable domestic disaster on an

ordinary scale, that cannot be rectified, or, at least, modified

into passableness by presence of mind and energetic action. “Call it

luncheon,” is a capital motto in other and graver perplexities than

the non-arrival of a day’s marketing, and where higher interests are

concerned than the feasting or fasting of half a dozen people.

VEGETABLES.

FRIED EGG PLANT. +

1 fine egg-plant.

2 eggs.

½ cup milk.

A little salt.

Flour for thin batter, and lard, or dripping, for frying. Slice and

pare the egg-plant, and lay in salt-and-water one hour. Wipe perfectly

dry, make a batter as directed above, dip each piece in it, and fry to

a fine brown. Drain dry, and serve on hot, flat dish.

MOCK FRIED OYSTERS. +

1 bunch oyster-plant, or salsify.

2 eggs—well beaten.

½ cup milk.

Flour for thin batter, and lard or dripping for frying.

Pepper and salt.

Wash, scrape and grate the salsify, and stir into the batter, beating

hard at the last. It should be about as thick as fritter batter.

Season, and drop, by the spoonful, into the hot fat. Try a little, at

first, to see if batter and fat are right. As fast as they are fried,

throw into a hot cullender, set over a bowl in the oven. Send to table

dry and hot.

They are delicious if eaten at once.

MOCK STEWED OYSTERS. +

1 bunch oyster-plant.

4 table-spoonfuls butter.

A little flour or corn-starch.

Vinegar-and-water for boiling.

Pepper and salt.

½ cup milk.

Wash and scrape the oyster-plant very carefully; drop into weak

vinegar-and-water, bring quickly to a boil, and cook ten minutes; turn

off the vinegar-water; rinse the salsify in boiling water; throw this

out, and cover with more from the tea-kettle. Stew gently ten minutes

longer; add pepper and salt and two table-spoonfuls butter. Stew in

this until tender.

Meanwhile, heat, in a farina-kettle, the milk, thicken, add the

remaining butter, and keep hot until the salsify is done, when transfer

it to this sauce. Pepper and salt; let all lie together in the inner

kettle, the water in the outer at a slow boil, for five minutes. Pour

into a covered dish.

FRITTERS OF CANNED CORN. +

1 can sweet corn, drained in a cullender.

3 eggs—very light.

1 cup of milk.

Pepper and salt.

1 table-spoonful butter.

Flour for thin batter.

Dripping for frying.

A pinch of soda.

Beat up the batter well, stir in the corn and drop the mixture in

spoonfuls into the boiling fat. Drain off all the grease in a cullender.

_Or,_

You may fry on the griddle as you would cakes.

DEVILLED TOMATOES.

Fine, firm tomatoes—about a quart.

3 hard-boiled eggs—the yolks only.

3 table-spoonfuls melted butter.

3 table-spoonfuls vinegar.

2 raw eggs, whipped light.

1 teaspoonful powdered sugar.

1 saltspoonful salt.

1 teaspoonful made mustard.

A good pinch of cayenne pepper.

Pound the boiled yolks; rub in the butter and seasoning. Beat light,

add the vinegar, and heat almost to a boil. Stir in the beaten egg

until the mixture begins to thicken. Set in hot water while you cut the

tomatoes in slices nearly half an inch thick. Broil over a clear fire

upon a wire oyster-broiler. Lay on a hot chafing-dish, and pour the hot

sauce over them.

BAKED TOMATOES. +

1 quart fine smooth tomatoes. The “Trophy,” if you can get them.

1 cup bread-crumbs.

1 small onion, minced fine.

1 teaspoonful white sugar.

1 table-spoonful butter—melted.

Cayenne and salt.

½ cup good broth.

Cut a piece from the top of each tomato. With a teaspoon take out

the inside, leaving a hollow shell. Chop the pulp fine, mix with the

crumbs, butter, sugar, pepper, salt and onion. Fill the cavities of

the tomatoes with this stuffing; replace the tops; pack them in a

baking-dish and fill the interstices with the stuffing. Pour the gravy

also into these; set the dish covered in an oven, and bake half an

hour, before uncovering, after which brown lightly, and send to table

in the baking-dish.

BREAKFAST-ROLLS, MUFFINS, TEA-CAKES, ETC.

CORN CAKE. +

3 eggs, whipped light, yolks and whites separately.

2 cups sour, or buttermilk.

3 table-spoonfuls melted butter.

1 teaspoonful soda, dissolved in boiling water.

1 table-spoonful white sugar.

1 small teaspoonful of salt.

Corn-meal enough to make a rather thin batter. Bake in a shallow pan,

or in small tins 30 minutes in a hot oven.

ADIRONDACK CORN-BREAD. +

5 great spoonfuls Indian meal.

3 great spoonfuls wheat flour.

5 eggs, well-beaten—whites and yolks separately.

1 table-spoonful white sugar.

1 small teacupful melted butter.

1 teaspoonful soda, dissolved in hot water.

2 teaspoonfuls cream tartar, sifted into the flour.

1 pint milk, or enough to make batter about the consistency of

pound-cake.

Melt, but do not heat the butter; add to the milk and beaten yolks;

next, the soda; then, the meal, alternately with the whites; then,

the sugar, lastly the flour, through which the cream tartar has been

sifted, stirring it lightly and swiftly. Bake in a broad, shallow pan,

in a tolerably brisk oven,—or, if you prefer, in muffin-rings.

LOAF CORN-BREAD. (_Excellent._) +

2 heaping cups white Indian meal.

1 heaping cup flour.

3 eggs—whites and yolks beaten separately.

2½ cups of milk.

1 large table-spoonful of butter—melted, but not hot.

1 large table-spoonful white sugar.

1 teaspoonful soda, dissolved in hot water.

2 teaspoonfuls cream-tartar, sifted with the flour, and added the last

thing.

1 teaspoonful of salt.

Bake steadily, but not too fast, in a well-greased mould. Turn out,

when done, upon a plate, and eat at once, cutting it into slices as you

would cake.

After twelve years’ trial of this receipt, I have come to the

conclusion that there is no better or more reliable rule for the

manufacture of corn-bread. In all that time, there has hardly been a

Sunday morning, winter or summer, when the family was at home, on which

a loaf of this bread has not graced my breakfast-table, and unless

when, through negligence, it has been slightly scorched or underdone, I

have never known it to come short of excellence.

In cutting corn-bread, do not forget to hold the knife

_perpendicularly_, that the spongy interior of the loaf may not be

crushed into heaviness. Very good corn-bread is often ruined by neglect

of this precaution.

CORN-MEAL MUFFINS. (_Raised._) +

3 cups white Indian meal.

3 table-spoonfuls yeast.

1 cup flour.

1 quart scalding milk.

3 eggs, beaten to a froth, yolks and whites apart.

1 table-spoonful white sugar.

1 table-spoonful lard.

1 table-spoonful butter.

1 teaspoonful salt.

Pour the milk boiling hot upon the meal; stir well and leave until

nearly cold. Then beat in gradually the yeast, sugar and flour, and set

in a moderately warm place. It should be light enough in five or six

hours. Melt, without overheating, the butter and lard; stir into the

batter, with the salt, lastly the beaten eggs. Beat all together three

minutes; put in greased muffin-rings; let these rise on the hearth for

a quarter of an hour, with a cloth thrown lightly over them. Bake about

twenty minutes in a quick, steady oven, or until they are of a light

golden-brown.

Send at once to table, and in eating them, _break_, not cut them open.

CORN-MEAL MUFFINS. (_Quick._) +

2 cups Indian meal.

1 cup flour.

3 eggs, beaten very light.

3 cups milk.

2 table-spoonfuls melted butter.

1 table-spoonful white sugar.

1 teaspoonful soda, dissolved in hot water.

2 teaspoonfuls cream tartar, sifted with flour.

Mix quickly, beating all the ingredients well together; pour into

greased muffin-rings, or, better still, into the small round or oval

iron pans, now sold for baking corn-bread. Bake in a brisk oven, and

send directly to table. _All kinds of corn-bread are spoiled if allowed

to cool before they are eaten._

CHRISSIE’S CORN-BREAD.

1 cup white corn-meal.

1 cup flour.

½ cup white sugar.

1 cup cream and 1 egg, _or_ 1 cup half-milk, half-cream, and 2 eggs.

1 teaspoonful soda, dissolved in hot water.

2 teaspoonfuls cream tartar, sifted in the flour.

1 saltspoonful salt.

Bake in two loaves, or several small tins.

SOUTHERN BATTER-BREAD OR EGG-BREAD. +

2 cups white Indian meal.

1 cup cold boiled rice.

3 eggs, well beaten.

1 table-spoonful melted butter.

2½ cups milk, or enough for soft batter.

1 teaspoonful of salt.

A pinch of soda.

Stir the beaten eggs into the milk; the meal, salt, butter, last of all

the rice. Beat up well from the bottom for two or three minutes, and

bake quickly in a round, shallow pan.

BATTER BREAD. (No. 2.)

2 cups Indian meal.

3½ cups milk.

2 eggs, well beaten.

1 small cup stale, fine bread-crumbs.

1 teaspoonful salt.

1 table-spoonful melted lard.

½ teaspoonful soda, dissolved in hot water, and mixed with the milk.

1 teaspoonful cream tartar.

Soak the bread-crumbs in the milk, and rub to a smooth paste. Into this

stir the beaten eggs, the lard, the salt, and finally the meal, into

which the cream tartar has been sifted.

Bake in shallow pans in a hot oven.

BOILED MUSH, TO BE EATEN WITH MILK.

1 quart boiling water.

2 cups Indian meal.

2 table-spoonfuls flour.

1 teaspoonful salt.

Wet up meal and flour in a little cold water. Stir them into the hot

water, which should be actually boiling on the fire when they go in.

Boil at least half an hour, slowly, stirring deeply every few minutes,

and constantly toward the last. Send to table in a deep dish, but not

covered, or the steam will render it clammy.

Eat in saucers, with cream or milk poured over it.

OATMEAL PORRIDGE (_for breakfast_).

1 quart boiling water.

2 scant cups best Scotch or Irish oatmeal, previously soaked over night

in enough cold water to cover it well.

Salt to taste.

Stir the oatmeal into the water while boiling, and let it boil

steadily, stirring up frequently from the bottom, for at least

three-quarters of an hour. Send to table in an uncovered deep dish, to

be eaten with cream, and, if you like, with powdered sugar.

This is a wholesome and pleasant article of food. If you give it a

place upon your regular bill of fare, you would do well to provide

yourself with a farina-kettle expressly for cooking it.

OATMEAL GRUEL (_For Invalids_). +

2 cups Irish or Scotch oatmeal.

2 quarts water.

1 teaspoonful salt.

Set the oatmeal to soak over night in half the water. In the morning

strain through a coarse tartelane bag, pressing through all the

farinaceous matter that will go. Add the rest of the water with the

salt, and boil down until it begins to thicken perceptibly. Let it cool

enough to become almost a jelly, and eat with powdered sugar and cream.

It is very good for others besides invalids.

MILK PORRIDGE. (_Very nice._) +

2 cups best oatmeal.

2 cups water.

2 cups milk.

Soak the oatmeal over night in the water; strain in the morning, and

boil the water half an hour. Put in the milk with a little salt, boil

up well and serve. Eat warm, with or without powdered sugar.

TEA ROLLS.

1 quart of flour.

2 eggs.

1 table-spoonful butter, melted.

2 great spoonfuls yeast.

Enough milk to work into a soft dough.

1 saltspoonful salt.

1 teaspoonful white sugar.

Rub the butter into the sifted flour. Beat the eggs well with a cup of

milk, and work into the flour, adding more milk, if necessary, to make

the dough of right consistency. Stir the sugar into the yeast, and work

this into the dough with a wooden spoon, until all the ingredients are

thoroughly incorporated. _Do not knead it with the hands._ Set to rise

in a moderately warm place until very light. Make into rolls lightly

and quickly, handling as little as possible. Set these in rows in your

baking-pan, just close enough together to touch. Throw a cloth lightly

over them, and set on the hearth for the second rising, until they

begin to “plump,” which should be in about fifteen minutes.

Bake half an hour in a steady oven. They are best eaten hot.

FRENCH ROLLS.

1 pint of milk.

2 eggs.

4 table-spoonfuls of yeast.

3 table-spoonfuls of butter.

1 teaspoonful of salt.

3 pints of flour, or enough to work into a soft dough.

1 table-spoonful of white sugar.

Warm the milk slightly, and add to it the beaten eggs and salt. Rub

the butter into the flour quickly and lightly, until it is like yellow

powder. Work into this gradually, with a wooden spoon, the milk and

eggs, then the yeast. Knead well, and let it rise for three hours, or

until the dough is light and begins to crack on top. Make into small

rolls; let them stand on the hearth twenty minutes before baking in a

quick oven. Just before taking them up, brush over with white of egg.

Shut the oven door one minute to glaze them.

PLAIN LIGHT ROLLS.

1 quart of flour.

1 heaping table-spoonful butter or lard.

3 large table-spoonfuls yeast.

1 cup of warm milk.

Salt to taste.

Rub the butter and flour together; add milk and yeast. Knead well; let

it rise until light; make into rolls; let these stand in a warm place

half an hour, and bake in a steady oven.

RICE CRUMPETS. +

2 cups of milk.

4 table-spoonfuls yeast.

1 table-spoonful white sugar.

2 table-spoonfuls melted butter.

Nearly a cup of well-boiled rice.

4 cups flour, or enough to make good batter.

Salt to taste.

¼ teaspoonful of soda added just before baking.

Beat the ingredients well together; set to rise for six hours, or until

very light. Put into muffin-tins (having stirred in the soda, dissolved

in a little hot water), let them stand fifteen minutes, and bake

quickly. Eat hot.

HOMINY CRUMPETS

Are made as above, substituting boiled hominy (or samp) for the rice.

ALL-DAY ROLLS.

1 quart flour.

1 cup scalded milk, _not_ boiled.

2 table-spoonfuls yeast.

1 table-spoonful white sugar.

1 table-spoonful butter.

A very little salt.

Let the milk cool, mix with yeast, sugar, and one cup of flour. Put the

rest of the flour into a bowl, make a well in the middle, pour in the

mixture, and set aside in a moderately warm place until next day. In

the morning melt the butter, and add to the sponge; work all together

well, and let the dough rise six hours, at least. Make into oblong

rolls; range them in baking-pan, at such a distance from one another

that they will not run together, and let them rise three hours longer.

Bake in a steady quick oven, glazing, when done, with white of egg.

I have never tried this receipt myself, but having eaten the rolls

made according to it, can cordially recommend it.

UNITY LOAF. +

1 quart flour.

1 pint milk.

1 tablespoonful butter, melted.

1 egg.

1 saltspoonful salt.

1 table-spoonful white sugar.

1 teaspoonful soda, dissolved in hot water.

1 dessertspoonful (equal to 2 teaspoonfuls) cream tartar, sifted in the

flour.

Mix the beaten egg with the milk, then the butter, sugar, salt and

soda; next, the flour. Beat well, and bake in buttered cake-mould. The

oven should be quite hot, and very steady. Turn out, and cut in slices

at table. Eat hot.

A simple, easy and excellent breakfast or tea-loaf.

QUICK LOAF. +

3 cups flour.

1 cup milk.

2 table-spoonfuls white sugar.

2 eggs, thoroughly beaten.

1 table-spoonful butter—a liberal one.

1 teaspoonful soda, dissolved in hot water.

2 teaspoonfuls cream tartar, sifted in flour.

1 saltspoonful salt.

Beat well, but quickly together, and bake in well-greased mould. One

with a cylinder in the middle is best. Test with a straw to see when it

is done; turn out upon a plate, and cut hot at table into slices.

EXCELLENT MUFFINS.

3 cups milk.

1 table-spoonful melted butter.

2 eggs—beaten stiff.

3 table-spoonfuls good yeast.

1 table-spoonful white sugar.

1 teaspoonful salt, and ¼ teaspoonful soda.

Flour to make a pretty stiff batter.

Make all the ingredients except the eggs, into a sponge, and set to

rise over night. Half an hour before breakfast, add the eggs and

the soda (dissolved in hot water); beat all together hard; put into

muffin-rings; let them stand on the hearth ten minutes, and bake about

twenty in a brisk oven.

BROWN BISCUIT. +

2 cups Graham flour.

1 cup white flour.

1 cup milk.

2 table-spoonfuls brown sugar.

4 table-spoonfuls home-made yeast, or half as much brewer’s.

1 great spoonful melted butter.

1 teaspoonful salt.

½ teaspoonful soda, dissolved in hot water.

Set a dough made of all the ingredients except the butter and soda,

to rise over night. In the morning, add these; knead quickly, roll

into a sheet half an inch thick, cut with a cake-cutter; range in the

baking-pan. When it is full, set on the warm hearth ten minutes before

baking.

MINUTE BISCUIT, (_brown_.) +

2 cups Graham flour.

1 cup white flour.

2 table-spoonfuls mixed butter and lard.

1 table-spoonful light-brown sugar.

3 cups milk, or enough for _soft_ dough.

1 teaspoonful soda, dissolved in hot water.

2 teaspoonfuls cream tartar, sifted in flour.

1 teaspoonful salt.

Chop the shortening into the flour; add sugar and salt, at last the

milk in which the soda has been put. Roll out, with as little handling

as may be, into a rather thick sheet. Cut into round cakes; prick with

a fork, and bake immediately in a brisk oven.

These biscuits are very good and wholesome.

GRAHAM GEMS. (No. 1.)

1 quart water.

1 cup molasses.

1 yeast-cake, or 4 table-spoonfuls best yeast.

1 saltspoonful salt.

Flour to make thick batter.

When light, bake in hot “gem” pans, or iron muffin-rings, in a very

quick oven.

Break open and eat hot.

GRAHAM GEMS. (No. 2.)

1 quart of milk.

4 eggs.

1 saltspoonful salt, and 2 table-spoonfuls melted butter.

Flour for tolerably thick batter, about the consistency of pound cake.

Stir the eggs until whites and yolks are mixed, but do not whip them.

The milk should be blood-warm when these are put into it. Add the

flour, handful by handful, and when of the right consistency, the

melted butter. Beat long and hard.

Bake in greased iron pans—“gem” pans, as they are called—previously

heated on the range. The oven can hardly be over-heated for any kind of

“gems.”

GRAHAM GEMS. (No. 3.)

3 eggs, beaten very light.

3 cups of milk—blood-warm.

3 cups flour, or enough to make good batter.

1 table-spoonful white sugar.

1 saltspoonful salt.

1 table-spoonful melted butter.

RUSK. (No. 1.)

1 quart flour.

3 cups milk, slightly warmed.

3 eggs—whites and yolks separate.

¾ cup of butter, rubbed with the sugar to a cream, and flavored with 1

saltspoonful nutmeg.

1 gill yeast.

Make a sponge of milk, yeast, and enough flour for rather thick batter.

Let it rise over night. In the morning add the rest of the flour.

The dough should be quite soft. Work in the eggs, butter and sugar.

Knead well, and set to rise where it will not “take cold.” When light,

mould into rolls. Set close together in a baking-pan, and bake about

twenty minutes. Glaze while hot with white of egg, in which has been

stirred—not beaten, a little powdered sugar.

SUSIE’S RUSK. (No. 2.) +

1 quart milk.

½ cup yeast.

Flour for thick batter.

Set a sponge with these ingredients. When it is very light, add,—

1 cup butter rubbed to a cream, with

2 cups powdered sugar.

3 eggs—well beaten.

Flour to make soft dough. Knead briskly, and set to rise for four

hours. Then make into rolls, and let these stand an hour longer, or

until light and “puffy,” before baking. Glaze, just before drawing them

from the oven, with a little cream and sugar.

Rusk are best fresh.

SODA BISCUIT WITHOUT MILK. +

1 quart of flour.

2 heaping table-spoonfuls butter, chopped up in the flour.

2 cups cold water.

2 teaspoonfuls cream tartar, sifted thoroughly with the flour.

1 teaspoonful soda, dissolved in boiling water.

A little salt.

When flour, cream of tartar, salt and butter are well incorporated,

stir the soda into the cold water, and mix the dough very quickly,

handling as little as may be. It should be just stiff enough to roll

out. Stiff soda biscuits are always failures. Roll half an inch thick

with a few rapid strokes, cut out, and bake at once in a quick oven.

CREAM TOAST. (_Very nice._) +

Slices of stale baker’s bread, from which the crust has been pared.

1 quart of milk.

3 table-spoonfuls of butter.

Whites of 3 eggs, beaten stiff.

Salt, and 2 table-spoonfuls best flour or corn-starch.

Boiling water.

Toast the bread to a golden brown. Burnt toast is _detestable_. Have on

the range, or hearth, a shallow bowl or pudding-dish, more than half

full of boiling water, in which a table-spoonful of butter has been

melted. As each slice is toasted dip in this for a second, sprinkle

lightly with salt, and lay in the deep heated dish in which it is to

be served. Have ready, by the time all the bread is toasted, the milk

scalding hot—but not boiled. Thicken this with the flour; let it simmer

until cooked; put in the remaining butter, and when this is melted,

the beaten whites of the eggs. Boil up once, and pour over the toast,

lifting the lower slices one by one, that the creamy mixture may run in

between them. Cover closely, and set in the oven two or three minutes

before sending to table.

If you can get real cream, add only a teaspoonful of flour and the

whites of two eggs, but the same quantity of butter used in this

receipt.

GRIDDLE CAKES.

SOUR MILK CAKES. (_Good._) +

1 quart sour, or “loppered” milk.

About 4 cups sifted flour.

2 teaspoonfuls soda, dissolved in boiling water.

3 table-spoonfuls molasses.

Salt to taste.

Mix the molasses with the milk. Put the flour into a deep bowl, mix

the salt through it; make a hole in the middle, and pour in the milk,

gradually stirring the flour down into it with a wooden spoon. The

batter should not be too thick. When all the milk is in, beat until the

mixture is free from lumps and very smooth. Add the soda-water, stir up

fast and well, and bake immediately.

These cakes are simple, economical, wholesome, and extremely nice.

“Loppered” milk, or “clabber,” is better than buttermilk. Try them!

BUTTERMILK CAKES.

3 cups buttermilk.

3 cups flour, or enough for good batter.

1 great spoonful melted butter.

1 table-spoonful brown sugar.

1 full teaspoonful soda, dissolved in hot water.

Salt to taste.

Mix as directed in last receipt, and bake at once.

GRANDMA’S CAKES. +

1 quart loppered milk—if half cream, all the better.

1 table-spoonful molasses—_not_ syrup.

2 eggs, beaten light.

1 _good_ teaspoonful soda, dissolved in hot water.

Salt to taste.

Flour for good batter. Begin with three even cups.

Stir the molasses into the milk, then the eggs and salt. Make a hole in

the flour, and mix as you would “sour milk cakes” (the last receipt but

one). Beat in the soda at the last.

RICE OR HOMINY CAKES. +

1 quart milk.

2 cups soft-boiled rice or hominy.

3 eggs, beaten light.

1 great spoonful melted butter or lard.

1 table-spoonful white sugar.

About one large cup of _prepared_ flour—just enough to hold the mixture

together.

A little salt.

Work the butter into the rice, then the sugar and salt;—the eggs,

beating up very hard; lastly the milk and flour, alternately, until the

batter is free from lumps of dry flour.

These are wholesome and delicious, and not less so if the batter be

made a little thicker, and baked in muffin-rings.

CORN-MEAL FLAPJACKS. +

1 quart boiling milk.

2 cups Indian meal—white. That known as “corn-flour” is best.

1 scant cup flour.

1 table-spoonful butter.

1 table-spoonful brown sugar, or molasses.

1 teaspoonful soda, dissolved in a little hot milk.

1 teaspoonful salt.

2 eggs, whites and yolks beaten separately.

Scald the meal over night with the hot milk. Put with this the butter

and sugar. Cover and let it stand until morning. Add the yolks of the

eggs, the salt and flour. If the batter has thickened up too much, thin

with cold milk, before stirring in the soda. The whites should go in

last, and be whipped in lightly.

These are the “cakes trimmed with lace” of which we read in Mrs.

Whitney’s always charming—“We Girls.”

RICE CAKES. +

1 cup raw rice.

1 quart milk.

3 eggs—very light.

¼ cup rice-flour.

1 table-spoonful sugar, and same of butter.

¼ teaspoonful soda, dissolved in hot water.

½ teaspoonful cream of tartar.

1 teaspoonful salt.

Soak the rice five or six hours (all night is not too long) in warm

water enough to cover it. Then boil slowly in the same until it is very

soft. While still warm—not hot, stir in the butter and sugar, the salt

and milk. When cold, put in the eggs. Sift the cream of tartar into

the rice-flour, and when you have beaten the soda into the batter, add

these.

These cakes should be so tender as almost to melt in the mouth.

SUSIE’S FLANNEL CAKES. (_Without eggs._) +

2 cups white Indian meal.

2 quarts milk.

½ cup yeast.

Flour for good batter.

Boiling water.

A little salt.

Scald the meal with a pint or so of boiling water. While still warm

stir in the milk, and strain through a cullender; then, add the flour,

lastly the yeast. Cover and let the batter stand until morning. Salt,

and if at all sour stir in a little soda.

These cakes will make a pleasant variety with “buckwheats,” in the

long winter season. They will be found very good—so good that one will

hardly believe that they contain neither “shortening” nor eggs.

“You can put in an egg or two, if you wish,” says “Susie,” modestly,

“but to my notion they are quite as nice without.”

And we, who have tested the “flannel” of her making, are content to

“let well enough alone.”

FARINA GRIDDLE CAKES. +

4 table-spoonfuls farina.

1 quart milk.

2 eggs, well beaten.

Enough prepared flour for good batter.

Boiling water.

Salt to taste.

1 table-spoonful melted butter.

Scald the farina over night with a pint or more of boiling water, and

let it stand until morning. Thin with the milk, beating it in gradually

to avoid lumping. Next, the beaten eggs, the salt and butter. At last

the flour stirred in with light, swift strokes. Do not get the batter

too thick.

Bake at once.

If you have not prepared flour at hand, use family flour, with a

teaspoonful of soda and two of cream tartar.

GRAHAM GRIDDLE CAKES. +

1 cup Indian meal scalded with a pint of boiling water.

1 quart of milk.

½ cup yeast.

1 cup cold water.

1 cup white flour.

1 cup Graham flour.

1 great spoonful molasses.

1 great spoonful butter or lard.

½ teaspoonful soda, dissolved in hot water.

Salt to taste.

Scald and strain the meal over night; thin with the milk, and make into

a sponge with the Graham flour, molasses and yeast. In the morning, add

salt, white flour, soda and butter, and stir in enough cold water to

make batter of the right consistency.

Graham and Indian cakes are far more wholesome in the spring of the

year than any preparation of buckwheat.

WHAT I KNOW ABOUT EGG-BEATERS.

IN no department of nice cookery are the effects of lax or hasty

manipulation more sadly and frequently apparent than in such dishes

as are dependent for excellence upon the lightness and smoothness of

beaten eggs. Unless yolks are whipped to a thick cream, and whites to a

froth that will stand alone, the texture of cake will be coarse, and if

the loaf be not heavy or streaked, there will be a crude flavor about

it that will betray the fault at once to the initiated. The same is

emphatically true with regard to muffins, waffles, and griddle-cakes.

Mr. Greeley said, and aptly, of two publishers of note: “One will

make a louder rattle with a hundred dollars than the other can with a

thousand.” I have often recalled the remark in contrasting the tender,

puffy products of one housewife’s skill with the dense, clammy cakes

and crumpets of another, who used double the quantity of eggs and

butter, and cream instead of milk.

“I think,” observed a friend, at whose house I was visiting, “there

must be a mistake about the muffin receipt you gave me the other day.

It calls for three eggs. My cook insists that five are none too many,

yet hers, when made, do not look or taste like those I ate at your

table.”

In reply I craved permission to see the batter mixed by the critical

cook. Entering the kitchen in company with the mistress, we found

Chloe in the act of breaking the five eggs directly into the flour,

milk, etc., already mixed in a large bowl. Half a dozen strokes of

the wooden spoon she held would have completed the manufacture of the

raw material. Eggs are inveterate tell-tales, and they had given no

uncertain warning in this case, had the mistress been on the alert.

Some eggs cannot be frothed. The colored “mammys” used to tell me that

they were “bewitched,” when, with every sweep of the wisp they were

depressed and dwindled before my wondering eyes. I have learned since

that, whether this non-inflative state be the result of undue warmth

of the dish into which the eggs are broken, or staleness of the ovates

themselves, it is a hopeless task to attempt rehabilitation. Their

demoralization is complete and fatal. The wise housewife will give up

her cake or dessert for that day, unless she is willing to throw the

obdurate eggs away, cleanse the bowl, wiping it perfectly dry, and let

it cool before attacking another batch.

Nor will whites froth to stiffness if a single drop of the yolk has

found its way into them. Regardless, as a leader of the cod-fish

aristocracy, of the claims of early associations upon memory and

respect, they sullenly assert the impossibility of rising in the world

if they are to be clogged by that which lay so close to them before the

shells were broken. All the beating of the patent egg-whip in impatient

fingers will not suffice to make them see reason. The fact that there

is ten-fold more nourishment and sweetness in one yolk than in a pint

of their snowy nothingness; that it is, in truth, the life, without

which an egg would be a nullity, has no more effect in changing their

exclusive notions than have volumes of argument proving the solidity

and vitality of the middle classes upon the gaseous brains of the _bon

ton_. Humor their folly—for whites are useful, because ornamental, if

rightly handled—by carefully taking out the offensive plebeian speck.

Our mothers whipped up yolks with a spoon, and the whites with a

broad-bladed knife, or clean switches, peeled and dried. Miss Leslie’s

“Complete Cookery” will tell you all about it. (And, by the way, if you

doubt that fashions change in cookery as in all else, I commend to your

perusal this ancient manual.) Then came a rush of patent egg-beaters,

and a rush of purchasers as well, whose aching wrists and shoulders

pleaded for relief from long hours of incessant “beating,” “whipping,”

and “frothing.” There were wire spoons with wooden handles that broke

off, and tin handles that turned the perspiring hand black; wire

whirligigs that ran up and down upon a central shaft and spattered the

eggs over the face and bust of the operator; cylindrical tin vessels

with whirligigs fastened in the centre, almost as good fun for the

children as a monkey on a stick, but which bound the housewife to place

and circumstance, since her eggs, many or few, yolks and whites, must

all be churned in that vessel—not an easy one to keep clean, on account

of the fixture within it. There was altogether too much machinery for

the end to be accomplished, and the white of a single egg was so hard

to find in the bottom of a quart pail! After a few trials, the cook

tossed the “bothering thing” into a dark corner of the closet, and

improvised a better beater out of two silver forks, held dexterously

together. Then, our enterprising “general furnishing” merchant

overwhelmed us with a double compound back (and forward) action machine

that was “warranted to whip up a stiff _méringue_ in a minute and a

half.”

“I will not quite endorse that, ladies,” said the most important

tradesman in a community of housekeepers and housekept. “But I will

stake my reputation upon its doing this in two minutes.”

We all bought the prize. It looked cumbrous, and it _was_ expensive,

but time is money, and we remembered that a large snow-custard must be

beaten ninety minutes with an ordinary egg-whip, and cake-frosting,

thirty. We paid, each of us, our dollar and a half, and carried home

the time-and-muscle-saver in a box of its own, so big that we chose

back streets in preference to fashionable promenades, on our return.

Trembling with exultation, we rushed into the kitchen to display the

treasure.

“Yes, mem! What might it be, mem?”

“Why, Katey! an egg-beater! and the greatest convenience ever

manufactured!”

“Ah! and what a silly was meself, mem, to be thinking it was a

coffee-mill, when I saw you a-screwin’ it on to the table!”

We screwed it “on to the table,” at a corner, for there was not room

for it to revolve at sides and ends. Katey held a bowl with eggs in

it at just the right elevation below; and by turning a crank we moved

a many-cogged wheel which fitted into another wheel, which turned a

whirligig at the bottom. Katey held the bowl steadily; we worked very

fast at the windlass-handle, and in eight minutes the _méringue_ was

ready.

“Well done!” cried housewives, one and all. “Great is the Grand

duplex back (and forward) action Invention, for the amelioration of

weary-wristed womankind! To be sure, it takes two people to work it,

unless one can hold the bowl firmly between the knees in just the right

place, but it is undeniably a wonderful improvement.”

I, with the rest, cried, “wonderful!” even when the bowl tipped over

on the kitchen-floor, with the yolks of ten eggs in it; when I broke

the screw by giving it one turn too many, and was blandly assured

by the artificer in metals, to whom I took it for repairs, that

“them cast-iron articles can’t never be mended, ma’am, without it

is by buying of a new one;” even when the cogs of the wheels became

rheumatic, and hitched groaningly at every round. But when one day, in

full flight through a seething heap of icing, the steel strips of the

triple whirligig that did the whipping, suddenly caught, the one upon

the other, and came to a dead lock; when, as I would have released them

by an energetic revolution of the wheel, they tore one another out by

the roots,—I arose in deadly calm; undid the screw, set the bowl on the

table, straightened my cramped spine, and sent to the nearest tin-shop

for a shilling whisk.

Four years ago, without prevision that one of the blessings of my life

was coming upon me, I paid a visit to _my_ “house-furnisher.” He had a

new egg-beater for sale.

“_Vanitas vanitatum!_” said I, theatrically waving it from me, “I am

cured!”

“It comes well recommended,” remarked he, quietly.

“But, as you say, so many of these things are humbugs! Will you oblige

me by accepting this, giving it a fair trial, and letting me know just

what it is? I will send it up with the rest of your articles.”

For three weeks—I blush to write it—THE DOVER hung untouched in my

kitchen-closet, and I did daily penance for my sin of omission with

the shilling whisk. At last I broke the latter, and with a slighting

observation to the effect that “it might be better than none,” I took

down my gift.

I beg you to believe that I am not in league with the patentee of my

favorite. I do not know whether “Dover” stands for his name, that of

the manufacturing company, or the place in which it was made. “Dover

Egg-beater, Patented 1870,” is stamped upon the circumference of the

iron wheel. I know nothing more of its antecedents. But if I could not

get another I would not sell mine for fifty dollars—nor a hundred.

Egg-whipping ceased to be a bugbear to me from the day of which I

speak. Light, portable, rapid, easy, and comparatively noiseless, my

pet implement works like a benevolent brownie. With it I turn out a

_méringue_ in five minutes without staying my song or talk; make the

formidable “snow-custard” in less than half an hour, with no after

tremulousness of nerve or tendon. In its operation it is impartial,

yolks thickening smoothly under it as easily as whites heighten into a

compact snow-drift, that can be cut into blocks with a knife. Winter

and summer, it has served me with invariable fidelity, and it is to

all appearance, stanch as when it first passed into my reluctant hands.

I hope the gentlemanly and benevolent donor will sell one thousand per

annum for the remainder of his natural existence, and if length of days

be a boon to be coveted, that the unknown patentee will live as many

years as he has saved hours of labor to American housewives and cooks.

WHIPPED CREAM.

THIS enters so largely into the composition of many of our most elegant

desserts, that the mode of preparing it deserves more than a passing

mention. The impression in which I confess that I shared, for a long

time, that a “whip” was a tedious, and sometimes well-nigh impossible

performance, will soon be done away with if one becomes the possessor

of a really good syllabub charm. That which I have used with great

satisfaction for a couple of years is a very simple affair—a tin

cylinder with a perforated bottom, and within it a dasher, similar to

that of an ordinary churn, that plays through a hole in the top. It is

best to churn the cream in a jar or pail, there being in these less

waste from splashing. The churn is held about a quarter of an inch from

the bottom, that the cream may pass freely below it. As the stiffened

froth rises to the top of the cream, it should be removed to a wire

sieve set over a dish. If you have no sieve, lay a piece of coarse lace

or tarletane within a cullender, and put the “whip,” a few spoonfuls

at a time, upon it. The cream that drips into the dish below should be

returned to the pail and churned over. I regret that the name of the

patentee appears nowhere upon the modest but excellent little machine

that has supplied me with so many trifles and Charlotte Russes.

The grand desideratum in making a “whip,” is to have _real_ cream. It

should also be perfectly sweet. The confectioner from whom I always

procure mine advised me once to put the merest pinch of soda in the

cream in warm weather, before beating it, a hint that has proved very

useful to me. With this precaution, unless the cream be really on the

verge of souring, you will never churn your “whip” to butter, of which

lame and lamentable conclusion I had experience several times before I

received the friendly suggestion.

Get good cream, then. It is better worth your while to pay half a

dollar a quart for it than half the sum for the thinner, poorer liquid

sold under the same name at the milk-stores. In the country, of course,

the true article should be abundant, and in town, you can generally

purchase small quantities at the confectioners. A pint well worked will

yield enough “whip” for the dessert of a small family. It should be

kept in a cold place until needed, and not kept long anywhere.

Whipped cream is a delightful addition to coffee. John will relish his

after-dinner cup much better if you will mantle it with this snowy

richness. Remember this when preparing your syllabub or trifle, and set

aside a few spoonfuls before seasoning it.

Don’t be afraid of undertaking “fancy dishes.” Sally forth bravely

into the region of delicate and difficult dainties, when you are

considering family bills of fare, and you will not be dismayed when

called to get up a handsome “company” entertainment. “Grandmother’s

way” may suit Mesdames Dull and Bigott, but you, being accustomed to

use your reasoning powers, should remember that our estimable maternal

progenitors knew as little of locomotives and magnetic telegraphs as of

canned fruits and gelatine.

And, _entre nous_, I for one, and my John for two, are getting so

tired of the inevitable pie! He read aloud to me the other day, with

great gusto, a clever editorial from the _Tribune_, showing with much

ingenuity and force, that the weakness for pie was a national vice.

I wish I had room here to reprint it. Whenever I have been compelled

since to eat a triangle of “family pie-crust,” my usually excellent

digestion has played me false.

“Pie and soda-water! That is a woman’s idea of a comfortable luncheon

on a hot day in the city,” said a gentleman to me. “At a bit of rare,

tender steak, and a mealy potato they would turn up their fastidious

noses. Such gross food is only fit for a _man_.”

The school-girl, rising from a barely-tasted breakfast during which

she has been saying over to herself the chronological table, or French

verb, learned the night before,—“doesn’t care to take any luncheon

with her to-day. Certainly, no bread-and-butter—and sandwiches are

_hateful_! If you insist, mamma, just give me a piece of pie—mince-pie,

if you have it, with a slice of fruitcake and a little cheese. I may

feel hungry enough at noon to nibble at them.”

Papa, running in at eleven o’clock, to announce that he has had a

business telegram which obliges him to take the next train to Boston or

Chicago, “has not time to think of food, unless you can give me a bit

of pie to eat while you are packing my valise.” He jumps from the cars

at five P.M. to snatch another “bit of pie” from a station-restaurant,

and swallows still a third, at midnight, bought from an itinerant

vender of such comestibles, who swings himself on board when the

“through Express” halts for wood and water. If his sick headache is

not overpowering, he is adequate to the consumption of still a fourth

leathery triangle when another stop is made at six A.M.

Pie is the _pièce de résistance_ in rural desserts, at luncheon and at

tea, and the mighty army mustered to meet the attacks of pic-nics and

water-parties in the course of the year is enough to drive a dyspeptic

to suicide, when he reads the sum total of the rough computation.

“I always calculate to bake a dozen of a Saturday,” says the farmer’s

helpmate, resigned to cheerfulness in the narrative. “In haying and

harvesting I make as many as thirty and forty every week. Nothing

pleases our folks so much when they come in hot and tired, as a bit of

pie—it don’t make much difference what kind—apple, berry, squash, or

damson—so long as it is _pie_!”

This is not exaggeration, and the same mania for the destructive sweet

is as prevalent among the working-classes of the city. It is useless to

preach to artisans and laborers of the indigestible qualities of such

pastry as is made by their wives at home, and bought at cheap bakeries;

to represent that baked apples, and in the season, ripe, fresh fruits

of all kinds are more nutritious, and even cheaper, when the prices of

flour, sugar, and “shortening” are reckoned up, to say nothing of the

time spent in rolling out, basting and baking the tough skinned, and

often sour-hearted favorites.

Jellies are scorned as “having no substance into them;” blanc-mange

is emphatically “flummery,” and whipped cream I have heard described

scornfully as “sweetened nothing.”

Do not understand my strictures upon pie-olatry to mean indiscriminate

condemnation of pastry. A really fine mince-pie is a toothsome

delicacy, and the like quality of pumpkin-pie a luscious treat.

Christmas would hardly be Christmas without the one, and I would have

the other grace every Thanksgiving feast until the end of time. But

surely there is an “out of season,” as well as “in.”

“Your Toxes and your Chickses may draw out my two front double teeth,

Mrs. Richards,” said Susan Nipper, “but that’s no reason why I need

offer ’em the whole set!”

And when I recall the square inches of hard and slack-baked dyspepsia I

have masticated—and swallowed—at the bidding of civility, and a natural

soft-heartedness that would not let me grieve or shame hospitable

entertainers, I can say it almost as snappishly as she.

Give John, then, and above all, the children, a respite from the

traditional, conventional and national pie, and an opportunity to

compare its solid merits with the graces of more fanciful desserts. I

can safely promise that the health of the family will not suffer from

the change.

FANCY DISHES FOR DESSERT.

JELLY ORANGES. +

12 fine deep-colored oranges.

1 package Coxe’s gelatine, dissolved in one cup cold water.

3 cups white sugar.

Juice of the oranges, and grated rind of three.

2 cups boiling water.

¼ teaspoonful cinnamon.

Soak the gelatine three hours in the cup of cold water. Cut from the

top of each orange a round piece, leaving a hole just large enough to

admit the bowl of a small spoon, or the handle of a larger. The smaller

the orifice, the better your dish will look. Clean out every bit of the

pulp very carefully, so as not to tear the edges of the hole. Scrape

the inner skin from the sides with your fore-finger, and when the

oranges are emptied lay them in cold water, while you make the jelly.

Strain the juice and grated peel through coarse, thin muslin over the

sugar, squeezing rather hard to get the coloring matter. Stir this

until it is a thick syrup, and add the spice. Pour the boiling water

upon the soaked gelatine; stir over the fire until well dissolved; add

the juice and sugar, stir all together, and strain through a flannel

bag into a pitcher, not shaking or squeezing it, lest it should be

cloudy. Wipe off the outside of the oranges, set them close together

in a dish, the open ends uppermost, and fill _very_ full with the warm

jelly, as it will shrink in cooling. Set away in a cold place where

there is no dust. Next day, cut each in half with a sharp penknife,

taking care to sever the skin all around before cutting into the jelly.

If neatly divided, the rich amber jelly will be a fair counterfeit of

the orange pulp. Pile in a glass dish, with green leaves around, as you

would the real fruit.

This is a beautiful and delicious dish, and easily made.

GLACÉ ORANGES.

Prepare precisely as in the preceding receipt, and after cutting the

oranges in two, set them where they will freeze. In winter, a few

hours out-of-doors will accomplish this. In summer pile them carefully

within a freezer, and surround with ice and _rock salt_ for six hours;

draining off the water, and replenishing with ice and salt twice during

the time.

These are very refreshing in hot weather.

RIBBON JELLY AND CREAM. +

1 package Coxe’s gelatine, soaked in 2 cups of cold water.

2 cups white sugar.

1 pint _boiling_ water.

Juice and half the grated rind of 1 lemon.

1 cup pale wine.

¼ teaspoonful cinnamon.

Enough prepared cochineal or bright cranberry, or other fruit syrup to

color half the jelly.

1 pint rich sweet cream whipped stiff with two table-spoonfuls powdered

sugar, and a little vanilla.

Soak the jelly four hours. Add to it the sugar and seasoning, including

the lemon; pour in the boiling water, and stir until entirely

dissolved. Strain through a flannel bag, after adding the wine. Do

not touch it while it is dripping. Divide the jelly, and color half

of it pink, as above directed. Wet a mould, with a cylinder through

the centre, in cold water, and put in the jelly, yellow and pink, in

alternate layers, letting each get pretty firm before putting in the

next, until all is used up. When you are ready to use it, wrap a hot

wet cloth about the mould for a moment, and invert upon a dish. Have

the cream whipped before you do this, and fill the open place in the

middle with it, heaping it up well.

You can vary the coloring by making white and yellow blanc-mange out

of one-quarter of the gelatine after it is soaked. Instead of water,

pour a large cup of boiling milk over this. When dissolved, sweeten and

beat into half of it the yolk of an egg. Heat over the fire in a vessel

of boiling water for five minutes to cook the egg, stirring all the

time. A stripe of the white or yellow blanc-mange sets off the wider

“ribbons” of pink and amber very tastefully. Or you may make the base

of chocolate blanc-mange, by stirring a great spoonful of grated sweet

chocolate into the gelatine and boiling milk.

EASTER EGGS. (_Very pretty._) +

1 package Coxe’s gelatine, soaked four hours in one pint cold water.

2 heaping cups sugar.

3 large cups boiling milk.

2 table-spoonfuls grated chocolate—sweet, vanilla-flavored, if you can

get it.

2 eggs, the yolks only.

A little prepared cochineal, or bright-red syrup.

Empty shells of 12 eggs, from which the contents have been drained

through a hole in the small end.

Essence bitter-almond, grated lemon-peel, and rose-water for flavoring.

Put sugar and soaked gelatine into a bowl, and pour the boiling milk

over them. Set over the fire in a farina-kettle, and stir until

dissolved. Strain and divide into four parts. Leave one white; stir

into another the beaten yolks; into a third the chocolate; into

the fourth the pink or scarlet coloring. Season the chocolate with

vanilla; the yellow with lemon; the white with rose-water, the red

with bitter-almond. Heat the yellow over the fire long enough to cook

the egg. Rinse out your egg-shells with cold water, and fill with the

various mixtures, three shells of each. Set upright in a pan of meal or

flour to keep them steady, and leave until next day. Then fill a glass

bowl more than three-quarters full, with nice wine-jelly, broken into

sparkling fragments. Break away the egg-shells, bit by bit, from the

blanc-mange. If the insides of the shells have been properly rinsed and

left wet, there will be no trouble about this. Pile the vari-colored

“eggs” upon the bed of jelly, lay shred preserved orange-peel, or very

finely shred candied citron about them, and surprise the children with

them as an Easter-day dessert.

It is well to make this the day on which you bake cake, as the contents

of the egg-shells will not then be wasted. By emptying them carefully,

you can keep the whites and yolks separate.

This dish, which I invented to please my own little ones on the blessed

Easter-day, is always welcomed by them with such delight, that I cannot

refrain from recommending its manufacture to other mothers. It is by

no means difficult or expensive. If you can get green spinach, you can

have yet another color by using the juice.

TURRET CREAM. +

1 pint sweet, rich cream.

1 quart milk.

1 package Coxe’s gelatine.

1 heaping cup white sugar.

3 eggs, beaten light—whites and yolks separately.

½ pound crystallized fruit—cherries and peaches, or apricots.

Vanilla flavoring.

Juice of one lemon.

Soak the gelatine in a cup of the milk four hours. Scald the remainder

of the milk, add the sugar; when this is dissolved, the soaked

gelatine. Stir over the fire until almost boiling hot; strain and

divide into two equal portions. Return one to the fire, and heat

quickly. When it nears the boiling-point, stir in the beaten yolks. Let

all cook together two minutes, and turn out into a bowl to cool. While

it cools, churn the cream very stiff, and beat the whites of the eggs

until they will stand alone. Divide the latter into two heaps. As the

yellow gelatine begins to “form,” whip one-half of the whites into it,

a little at a time. To the white gelatine add the rest of the whites

in the same manner, alternately with the whipped cream. Season the

yellow with vanilla, the white with the lemon-juice beaten in at the

last. Wet the inside of a tall, fluted mould with water, and arrange in

the bottom, close to the outside of the mould, a row of crystallized

cherries. Then put in a layer of the white mixture; on this the

apricots or peaches cut into strips; a layer of the yellow, another

border of cherries, and so on, until your materials are used up. When

firm, which will be in a few hours, even in summer, if set on the ice,

wrap a cloth wrung out in hot water about the mould, and invert upon a

flat dish.

Eat with sweet cream, or, if you like, with brandied fruit.

This is a beautiful dessert, and a handsome centre-piece for a

supper-table. It is also a safe one, even in the hands of a novice, if

these directions be followed exactly. Bitter-almond may be substituted

for the lemon.

NAPLES SPONGE. +

6 eggs. Use the yolks for custard.

1 quart of milk.

2 _large_ cups sugar, and same quantity boiling water.

1 package gelatine soaked in 2 cups cold water.

Juice of a lemon and half the grated rind.

1 stale sponge-cake cut into smooth slices of uniform size.

2 glasses sherry.

Dissolve the soaked gelatine in the hot water. Add a cup of sugar and

the lemon, and stir until the mixture is clear. Set aside in a shallow

pan to cool. Meanwhile, make a custard of the milk, the yolks, and the

other cup of sugar. Stir until it begins to thicken, when turn into a

pitcher or pail, and put away until the “sponge” is ready for table.

Whip the whites very stiff, and beat into them, a few spoonfuls at a

time, the cooled gelatine. Spread the slices of cake, cut of a shape

and size that will fit your mould, upon a flat dish, and wet them with

the sherry. Rinse out a pudding or jelly mould with cold water, put

a thick layer of the “sponge” in the bottom, pressing and smoothing

it down, then one of cake, fitted in neatly; another of the sponge,

proceeding in this order until all is used. The upper layer—the base

when the sponge is turned out should be of cake.

Serve in a glass dish with some of the custard poured about the base,

and send around more in a sauce-tureen or silver cream-pitcher.

Season the custard with vanilla.

AN ALMOND CHARLOTTE. +

1 quart milk.

1 pint rich cream—whipped stiff.

Whites of 3 eggs.

1 great cup white sugar—powdered.

1 pound sweet almonds, blanched and cold.

Rose-water and essence of bitter almond for flavoring.

1 stale sponge-cake sliced.

Icing for top of cake.

1 package gelatine soaked in a cupful of the milk. Heat the rest of

the milk to boiling; put in the sugar and soaked gelatine. Heat again

before adding the almond paste. This should be ready, before you begin

the Charlotte. Blanch the almonds by putting them into _boiling_

water, skinning them, and letting them get cold and crisp. Pound in

a mortar, dropping in rose-water, now and then, to prevent oiling.

Stir this paste well into the hot milk; let it simmer with it two

or three minutes; then strain through coarse muslin, squeezing hard

to get out the strength. Flavor and set by until cold and a little

stiff around the edges. Beat the whites of the eggs stiff and add the

gelatine gradually—beating steadily—alternately with the whipped cream.

Butter your mould, and line with slices of sponge-cake fitted closely

together. Fill with the mixture, pressing it in firmly and evenly. In

eight or ten hours, turn it out upon a dish, and ice as you would a

cake, but on the top only. While the frosting is soft, ornament with

fancy candies, laid on in any shape you may fancy.

_Or,_

You may simplify matters by reserving one large piece of cake—a slice

cut the full width of the loaf; trimming it to fit the bottom of the

mould, and only lining the sides of the latter. The Charlotte will turn

out as well without the top (or bottom), and you can have it frosted

and ornamented by the time you empty the mould. Lay it carefully on the

top of the gelatine.

NARCISSUS BLANC-MANGE.

1 quart milk.

Less than a pint rich cream, whipped with a _little_ powdered sugar.

1 package Cooper’s gelatine, soaked in 2 cups of cold water.

Yolks of 4 eggs, beaten light.

2 cups white sugar.

Vanilla and rose-water for flavoring.

Heat the milk scalding hot, stir in the gelatine and sugar. When all

are dissolved, beat in the yolks, and heat until they are cooked. Two

minutes, after the custard becomes scalding hot, should suffice. Turn

out into a broad dish to cool. When it stiffens around the edges,

transfer it, a few spoonfuls at a time, to a bowl, and whip vigorously

with your egg-beater. Flavor with rose-water. It should be like a

yellow sponge before you put it into the mould. This should be an open

one, _i.e._, with a cylinder in the centre. Rinse with cold water, and

fill with the blanc-mange. It is best made the day before it is to be

used. After turning it out upon a dish, fill the hollowed centre with

whipped cream, flavored with vanilla and heaped up as high as it will

stand. Pile more whipped cream about the base.

This dessert is named for the pretty yellow and white flower which

came, with the earliest days of Spring, to the old-fashioned gardens.

TIPSY TRIFLE. +

1 quart milk.

5 eggs, whites and yolks beaten separately.

1 stale sponge-cake.

½ pound macaroons.

1 cup sugar.

Vanilla, or bitter-almond for flavoring.

1 cup sherry wine, and 1 cup jelly or jam.

Make a custard of the milk, sugar and yolks, adding the latter when

the milk _almost_ boils, and stirring constantly until it begins to

thicken. Flavor when cold. Slice your cake, and line the bottom of a

glass dish with it. Wet with the wine, and cover with jam or jelly.

A layer of macaroons over this must also be wet with sherry. Another

layer of cake, moistened with wine and spread with jam; more macaroons,

and so on, until the dish is three-quarters full. Pour the cold custard

over all; beat the whites of the eggs stiff with a few spoonfuls of

bright jelly, and heap smoothly on top. Drop a bit of red jelly here

and there upon it.

STRAWBERRY TRIFLE. +

This is made substantially as above—but the macaroons and wine are

omitted, and the sponge-cake wet with sweet cream. Layers of ripe

strawberries (cut in two, if the fruit is large), sprinkled with

powdered sugar, are substituted for the jam; strawberry-juice, well

sweetened, is whipped into the _méringue_ on top, and this ornamented

with ripe, scarlet berries.

This is very nice.

CRÉME DU THÉ. (_Good._)

1 pint rich cream, whipped light.

½ package gelatine, soaked in 1 cup of milk.

1 large cup of _strong_ mixed tea—the best quality.

1 cup white sugar.

Whites of 2 eggs.

Dissolve the soaked gelatine and sugar in the boiling tea, when you

have strained the latter through fine muslin, and let it cool. Whip the

cream and the whites of the eggs in separate vessels. When the gelatine

is perfectly cold, beat it by degrees into the whites until it is a

pretty firm froth. Then whip in the cream. Rinse a mould in cold water,

fill it with the mixture, and set in a very cold place, or on ice, for

eight or ten hours. Send around a pitcher of sweet cream with it.

CRÉME DU CAFÉ.

Is made precisely as is the _créme du thé_, but substituting a large

cup of strong black coffee for the tea. It is even more popular than

the tea-cream.

It is a good plan to make both at the same time, one package of

gelatine serving for all, and give your guests their choice of tea or

coffee. If set to form in custard-cups and turned out upon a flat dish

in alternate rows, they make a handsome show. The darker color of the

coffee will distinguish it from the tea.

A small pitcher of sweet cream should accompany them.

CRÉME DU CHOCOLAT. +

1 quart of milk.

1 pint of cream, whipped light.

½ package of gelatine, soaked in 1 cup of the milk.

2 eggs, yolks and whites beaten separately.

1 cup of sugar—powdered.

4 table-spoonfuls grated chocolate.

Vanilla to taste.

Scald the milk, and stir into it while still in the saucepan, the

soaked gelatine and sugar. Heat up once, and when the gelatine is quite

dissolved, strain. The chocolate should be wet up with cold water

before it is put into the hot milk. Stir up thoroughly, return to the

saucepan, and when smoking hot, add it gradually to the beaten yolks.

Set back on the fire and boil very gently five minutes—not more, or the

eggs may curdle. Turn into a broad pan to cool. Whip, when it begins to

coagulate, gradually and thoroughly with the beaten whites, flavoring

with vanilla. Lastly, beat in the whipped cream.

You can add this to your coffee and tea creams, and complete the

assortment. Mould as you do them, but serve with brandied fruit,

instead of cream. Most people are very fond of it.

CHOCOLATE BLANC-MANGE. +

1 quart of milk.

½ package gelatine, dissolved in 1 cup cold water.

1 cup sugar.

3 great spoonfuls grated chocolate.

Vanilla to taste.

Heat the milk; stir in sugar and soaked gelatine. Strain; add

chocolate; boil ten minutes, stirring all the time. When nearly cold,

beat for five minutes—hard with your “Dover” egg-beater, or until it

begins to stiffen. Flavor; whip up once, and put into a wet mould. It

will be firm in six or eight hours.

CHOCOLATE BLANC-MANGE AND CREAM.

Make the blanc-mange as directed in last receipt. Set it to form in a

mould with a cylinder in centre. You can improvise one by stitching

together a roll of stiff paper just the height of the pail or bowl in

which you propose to mould your blanc-mange, and holding it firmly in

the middle of this while you pour the mixture around it. The paper

should be well buttered. Lay a book or other light weight on the

cylinder to keep it erect. When the blanc-mange is turned out, slip

out the paper, and fill the cavity with whipped cream, heaping some

about the base. Specks of bright jelly enliven this dish if disposed

tastefully upon the cream.

CHOCOLATE CUSTARDS (_baked_).

1 quart of good milk.

6 eggs—yolks and whites separated.

1 cup sugar.

4 great spoonfuls grated chocolate.

Vanilla flavoring.

Scald the milk; stir in the chocolate and simmer two minutes, to

dissolve, and incorporate it well with the milk. Beat up the yolks with

the sugar and put into the hot mixture. Stir for one minute before

seasoning and pouring into the cups, which should be set ready in a pan

of boiling water. They should be half submerged, that the water may

not bubble over the tops. Cook slowly about twenty minutes, or until

the custards are firm. When cold, whip the whites of the eggs to a

_méringue_ with a very little powdered sugar—(most _méringues_ are too

sweet) and pile some upon the top of each cup. Put a piece of red jelly

on the _méringue_.

CHOCOLATE CUSTARDS (_boiled_).

1 quart of milk.

6 eggs—whites and yolks separately beaten.

1 cup of sugar.

4 large spoonfuls grated chocolate.

Vanilla to taste—a teaspoonful to the pint is a good rule.

Scald the milk; stir in sugar and chocolate. Boil gently five minutes,

and add the yolks. Cook five minutes more, or until it begins to

thicken up well, stirring all the time. When nearly cold beat in the

flavoring, and whisk all briskly for a minute before pouring into the

custard cups. Whip up the whites with a little powdered sugar, or what

is better, half a cup of currant or cranberry jelly, and heap upon the

custards.

ROCKWORK. +

1 quart of milk.

6 eggs.

1 cup powdered sugar.

Vanilla flavoring.

Sweeten the milk slightly and set it over the fire in a rather

wide-mouthed saucepan. Beat the whites of the eggs to a very stiff

froth with a table-spoonful or so of the sugar. When the milk boils,

put in the froth, a table-spoonful at a time, turning each little heap

as it is cooked on the lower side. Have only a few spoonfuls in at

once, or they will run together. Take out the cooked froth care fully

with a skimmer and lay on a sieve. When all are done, set in a cool

place, while you make a custard of the yolks beaten up with the sugar

and the boiling milk. Stir until it begins to thicken, and pour out to

cool. Flavor when cold; fill a glass bowl with the custard and pile the

“rocks” on the surface.

A pretty variation of floating island. Serve with sponge-cake.

AN AMBUSHED TRIFLE. +

A round stale sponge-cake.

1 pint milk.

1 teaspoonful corn-starch.

1 cup sweet jelly or jam. Crab-apple jelly is very nice.

3 eggs beaten light.

A pinch of salt.

Vanilla, lemon, or bitter almond flavoring.

2 table-spoonfuls powdered sugar.

Cut the top from the cake in one piece and lay it aside. Scoop out

the inside of the cake, leaving side walls and a bottom about an inch

thick. Coat these well with the jelly. Scald the milk; beat the eggs

with the sugar, and stir into this when it is almost boiling. Crumb the

cake you have scooped out very finely, and beat into the hot custard.

Return to the fire and cook, stirring all the while until thick and

smooth, when add the corn-starch, previously wet with cold milk. Cook a

minute longer and take from the fire. When nearly cold, flavor and fill

the cake with it. Cover the inside of the lid you have laid aside with

jelly, fit neatly into its place; brush the whole cake with white of

egg, sift powdered sugar thickly over it, and set in a cool, dry place

until wanted.

A simple, delightful dessert.

ORANGE TRIFLE. +

1 pint cream, whipped stiff.

3 eggs—yolks only.

1 cup of powdered sugar.

½ package Coxe’s gelatine, soaked in a cup of cold water.

Juice of 2 sweet oranges.

Grated rind of 1 orange.

1 cup boiling water.

Stir the soaked gelatine in the boiling water. Mix the juice, rind and

sugar together, and pour the hot liquid over them. Should the gelatine

not dissolve readily, set all over the fire and stir until clear.

Strain, and stir in the beaten yolks. Heat quickly within a vessel

of boiling water, stirring constantly lest the yolks should curdle.

If they should, strain again through coarse flannel. Set aside until

perfectly cold and slightly stiff, when whip in the frothed cream. Wet

a mould, fill, and set it on ice.

APPLE TRIFLE.

1 dozen tender pippins of fine flavor.

1 large cup of sugar, for custard—one—smaller—for apples.

1 scant quart rich milk.

4 eggs.

Juice and half the grated peel of 1 lemon.

1 pint of cream, whipped up with a little powdered sugar.

Slice the apples; put them in an earthenware or glass jar; cover

lightly and set in a kettle of warm water. Bring to a boil, and cook

gently until the apples are tender and clear. Beat to a pulp, sweeten

with the smaller cup of sugar; add lemon-juice and rind, and put them

into a glass dish. Make a custard of milk, sugar and eggs; boil until

it thickens up well, and let it get perfectly cold. Cover the apple

compote with it, spoonful by spoonful. The apple should be cold and

stiff, or it may rise to the top of the custard. Lastly, pile the

whipped cream over all.

LEMON TRIFLE. (_Delicious._)

2 lemons—juice of both and grated rind of one.

1 cup sherry.

1 large cup of sugar.

1 pint cream well sweetened and whipped stiff.

A little nutmeg.

Strain the lemon-juice over the sugar and grated peel, and let them lie

together two hours before adding the wine and nutmeg. Strain again and

whip gradually into the frothed cream. Serve in jelly-glasses and send

around cake with it. It should be eaten soon after it is made.

QUEEN OF TRIFLES. +

½ lb. “lady fingers,” or square sponge-cakes.

½ lb. macaroons.

½ lb. sweet almonds blanched.

½ lb. crystallized fruit, chopped fine.

1 cup sweet jelly or jam.

1 glass of brandy.

1 glass of best sherry.

Rose-water.

1 pint of cream, whipped.

1 pint of rich milk for custard.

4 eggs, whites and yolks separated.

1 table-spoonful corn-starch.

1 small cup sugar for custard.

A little powdered sugar for whipped cream.

Vanilla flavoring for custard.

Put sponge-cakes at the bottom of a large glass dish; wet with brandy,

and cover thinly with jelly. Strew the minced fruits thickly upon this.

Next come the macaroons. Wet with the wine and cover thickly with

jelly. Set the dish in a cool place while you prepare the custard. This

will give the cakes time to soak up the liquor.

Scald the milk; beat the yolks and sugar together and make a paste of

the blanched almonds by pounding them in a Wedgewood mortar (or, in a

stout bowl with a potato beetle), adding rose-water as you go on to

prevent oiling. Stir this paste into the hot milk, and, a minute later,

the yolks and sugar. Cook, stirring constantly, for three minutes more,

when put in the corn-starch, wet up with cold milk. Let all thicken

well and smoothly; take from the fire, beat up to break possible lumps,

and turn out to cool.

Whip the cream, and sweeten to taste. Whisk the whites of the eggs

stiff and mix thoroughly with the whipped cream. When the custard is

perfectly cold, cover the cakes in the glass dish with it, and heap the

cream on top.

There is no better trifle than this.

APPLE SNOW. (_No. 1._) +

6 fine pippins.

2 cups powdered sugar.

1 lemon—juice and half the grated peel.

1 pint of milk for custard.

4 eggs.

Make a good custard of the milk, one cup of sugar and the yolks. Bake

the apples, cores, skins and all, in a covered dish with a little water

in the bottom to prevent burning. The apples should be so tender that

a straw will pierce them. Take off the skins and scrape out the pulp.

Mix in the sugar and lemon. Whip the whites of the eggs light, and beat

in the pulp by degrees until very white and firm. Put the custard, when

cold, into the bottom of a glass bowl and pile the snow upon it.

APPLE SNOW. (_No. 2._) +

½ lb. macaroons.

1 cup good custard.

4 fine pippins (raw).

Whites of 4 eggs.

½ cup powdered sugar.

Put the macaroons in the bottom of a glass dish, and cover with the

custard before you make the snow. Whisk the eggs and sugar to a

_méringue_ before paring the apples. Peel and grate each directly into

the frothed egg and sugar, and whip in quickly before touching the

next. The pulp will better preserve its color if thus coated before the

air can affect it. It is well for one person to hold the egg-beater and

work in the apple while an assistant grates it. Pile upon the soaked

macaroons and set on ice until wanted. It should be eaten soon after it

is made.

ORANGE SNOW.

4 large, sweet oranges. Juice of all and grated peel of one.

Juice and half the grated peel of 1 lemon.

1 package of gelatine, soaked in cup of cold water.

Whites of 4 eggs, whipped stiff.

1 cup—a large one—of powdered sugar.

1 pint boiling water.

Mix the juice and peel of the fruit with the soaked gelatine; add the

sugar; stir all up well and let them alone for an hour. Then pour on

the boiling water, and stir until clear. Strain through a coarse cloth,

pressing and wringing it hard. When quite cold, whip into the frothed

whites gradually, until thick and white. Put into a wet mould for eight

hours.

LEMON SNOW. +

3 lemons—if large—4 if small. Grated peel of two.

4 eggs—the whites only—whipped to standing froth.

1 package of gelatine soaked in 1 cup cold water.

1 pint _boiling_ water.

1 glass sherry or white wine—a large glass.

½ teaspoonful nutmeg.

2 cups powdered sugar.

Add to the soaked gelatine the juice of all the lemons, and peel of

two, the sugar and spice, and let them stand together one hour. Then

pour the boiling water over them. Stir until dissolved, and strain

into a wide bowl. When nearly cold, add the wine. When quite cold,

begin to whip the mixture gradually into the frothed egg, and beat

until thick, white and smooth. Wet a mould in cold water and set the

snow aside in it until firm.

If you like, you can pour a rich custard about the base after dishing

it.

RICE SNOW.

5 table-spoonfuls rice flour.

1 quart of milk.

4 eggs—the whites only—whipped light.

1 large spoonful of butter.

1 cup powdered sugar.

A pinch of cinnamon and same of nutmeg.

Vanilla or other extract for flavoring.

A little salt.

Wet up the flour with cold water and add to the milk when the latter

is scalding hot. Boil until it begins to thicken; put in the sugar and

spice; simmer five minutes, stirring constantly, and turn into a bowl

before beating in the butter. Let it get cold before flavoring it.

Whip, a spoonful at a time, into the beaten eggs. Set to form in a wet

mould.

Send sweet cream around with it.

This is delicate and wholesome fare for invalids. If you wish to have

it especially nice, add half a pint of cream, whipped light and beaten

in at the last.

SUMMER SNOW. (_Extremely fine._)

1 package Coxe’s gelatine, soaked in 1 cup cold water.

2 cups powdered sugar.

Juice and peel of 1 lemon.

Half a pine-apple, cut in small pieces.

2 cups boiling water.

1 glass best brandy.

2 glasses best sherry or white wine.

A little nutmeg.

4 eggs—the whites only—whipped.

Mix into the soaked gelatine the sugar, lemon, pine-apple, and nutmeg.

Let them stand together two hours, when you have bruised the fruit with

the back of a silver or wooden spoon and stirred all thoroughly. Pour

over them, at the end of that time, the boiling water, and stir until

the gelatine is dissolved. Strain through coarse flannel, squeezing

and wringing hard. When almost cold, put in the wine and brandy. Cover

until quite cold. Whip in, by degrees, into the beaten whites. It ought

to be whisked half an hour, even if you use the “Dover.” Bury in the

ice to “form,” having wet the mould with cold water.

This is most refreshing and delicious.

SYLLABUB. +

1 quart rich cream.

4 eggs—the whites only.

1 glass white wine.

2 _small_ cups powdered sugar.

Flavor to taste.

Whip half the sugar into the cream—the rest with the eggs. Mix these

and add wine and flavoring at the last.

VELVET CREAM. +

1 pint best cream whipped very stiff.

½ package Coxe’s gelatine, soaked in 1 cup cold water.

3 glasses white wine.

Juice of 1 large lemon.

Bitter almond flavoring.

1 cup powdered sugar.

Put sugar, lemon, soaked gelatine and wine into a bowl, cover closely

to keep in the flavor of the wine and let them stand together one

hour. Stir up well, and set the bowl (or jar), still covered, into a

saucepan of boiling water for fifteen minutes, or until the gelatine

is dissolved and the mixture clear. Strain, and let it cool before

flavoring. Beat gradually into the whipped cream. Wet a mould, fill and

set directly upon the ice until wanted.

MACAROON BASKET.

1 lb. macaroons—almond or cocoanut, or “kisses.”

1 large cup white sugar.

1 table-spoonful dry gum arabic.

½ cup of water—_boiling_.

Dissolve the gum arabic in the hot water thoroughly; then stir in the

sugar. Boil gently until very thick. Set it, while using it, in a pan

of boiling water to keep hot. Take a round tin pail (a fluted mould

will not do so well), butter thickly on bottom and sides, dip the edges

only of each macaroon in the hot candy and lay them in close rows on

the bottom until it is covered. Let them get perfectly dry, and be

sure they adhere firmly to one another before you begin the lower row

of the sides. Build up your wall, one row at a time, letting each

harden before adding another. When the basket is done and firm, lift

carefully from the mould; make a loop-handle at each end with four

or five macaroons, stuck together; set on a flat dish and heap with

whipped cream. Sprinkle comfits over the cream, or ornament with red

jelly.

With a little care and practice any deft housewife can build this

basket. A mould of _stiff_ white paper, lightly stitched together and

well buttered, has several advantages above one of tin. You can make

it of any shape you like, and remove it without risk of breaking the

basket, by clipping the threads that hold it together.

JELLY CUSTARDS.

1 quart milk.

6 eggs—whites and yolks.

1 cup sugar.

Flavoring to taste.

Some red and yellow jelly—raspberry is good for one, orange jelly for

the other.

Make a custard of the eggs, milk and sugar; boil gently until it

thickens well. Flavor when cold; fill your custard-glasses two-thirds

full and heap up with the two kinds of jelly—the red upon some, the

yellow on others.

APPLE JELLY. (_Nice._)

1 dozen well-flavored pippins.

2 cups powdered sugar.

Juice of 2 lemons—grated peel of one.

½ package Coxe’s gelatine soaked in 1 cup of cold water.

Pare, core and slice the apples, throwing each piece into cold water as

it is cut, to preserve the color. Pack them in a glass or stoneware jar

with just cold water enough to cover them; put on the top, _loosely_,

that the steam may escape; set in a pot of warm water and bring to a

boil. Cook until the apples are broken to pieces. Have ready in a bowl,

the soaked gelatine, sugar, lemon-juice and peel. Strain the apple pulp

scalding hot, over them; stir until the gelatine is dissolved; strain

again—this time through a flannel bag, without shaking or squeezing it;

wet a mould with cold water and set in a cold place until firm.

This is very nice formed in an open mould (one with a cylinder in the

centre), and with the cavity filled and heaped with whipped cream or

syllabub.

PEACH JELLY.

Is made as you would apple, and with a few peach-kernels broken up and

boiled with the fruit.

STRAWBERRY JELLY. +

1 quart strawberries.

1 _large_ cup white sugar.

Juice of 1 lemon.

⅔ package Coxe’s gelatine soaked in 1 cup cold water.

1 pint boiling water.

Mash the strawberries to a pulp and strain them through coarse muslin.

Mix the sugar and lemon-juice with the soaked gelatine; stir up well

and pour over them the boiling water. Stir until clear. Strain through

flannel bag; add the strawberry juice; strain again, without shaking or

pressing the bag; wet a mould with cylinder in centre, in cold water;

fill it and set in ice to form.

Turn out upon a cold dish; fill with whipped cream, made quite sweet

with powdered sugar, and served at once.

It is very fine.

RASPBERRY AND CURRANT JELLY.

1 quart currants.

1 quart red or Antwerp raspberries.

2 cups white sugar.

1 package gelatine soaked in 1 cup cold water.

1 cup boiling water.

Whipped cream—made very sweet—for centre.

Crush the fruit in a stoneware jar with a wooden beetle, and strain out

every drop of the juice that will come away. Stir the sugar and soaked

gelatine together; pour the boiling water over them; when clear, strain

into the fruit-juice. Strain again through flannel bag; wet an “open”

mould; fill with the jelly, and bury in ice to form.

Turn out upon a very cold dish; fill the centre with the cream.

LEMON JELLY. +

6 lemons—juice of all, and grated peel of two.

2 _large_ cups sugar.

1 package Coxe’s gelatine, soaked in 2 cups cold water.

2 glasses pale sherry or white wine.

1 pint boiling water.

Stir sugar, lemon-juice, peel, and soaked gelatine together, and cover

for an hour. Pour the boiling water over them; stir until the gelatine

is quite melted; strain; add the wine; strain again through close

flannel bag, and pour into a wet mould.

ORANGE JELLY. +

6 large deep-colored oranges—juice of all.

Grated peel of one.

2 lemons, juice of both, and peel of one.

1 glass _best_ brandy.

1 package gelatine, soaked in 2 cups of water.

1 pint boiling water.

2 cups sugar.

Make as you would lemon jelly.

In each of these receipts, should the fruit yield _less_ than a large

coffee-cup of juice, add more water, that the jelly may not be tough.

TUTTI FRUTTI JELLY. (_Very good._) +

1 package Coxe’s gelatine, soaked in 2 cups water.

Juice and grated peel of 1 lemon.

1 fine orange, all the juice and half the peel.

1 glass best brandy.

1 glass white wine.

3 cups boiling water.

½ lb. crystallized cherries.

½ lb. crystallized apricots, peaches, etc., cut into shreds.

½ lb. sweet almonds, blanched by being thrown into boiling water, and

skinned. Throw into cold water so soon as blanched, until you are ready

to use them.

2 cups white sugar.

Mix soaked gelatine, sugar, lemon and orange juice, and peel. Let

them stand together one hour, then pour on boiling water. When the

gelatine is melted, strain; add the liquor; strain again through

double flannel, not touching the bag while it drips. When the jelly

begins to congeal, pour some in the bottom of a wet, fluted mould. A

rather tall one is best. Let this get tolerably firm, keeping the rest

of the jelly, meanwhile, in a pan of warm—not boiling water—lest it

should harden before you are ready for the next layer. Lay a row of

bright-red _glacé_ cherries on the jelly, close to the outside of the

mould; within this ring a stratum of the other fruits neatly shred.

More jelly, and, when it is firm enough to bear them, another ring

of cherries, and, within this, a layer of the almonds cut into thin

shavings. Jelly again, more fruit, and so on until the mould is full or

your materials used up. If possible, have the outer ring of each fruit

and almond layer of cherries. Set in ice to form. If frozen, the jelly

and fruits will be all the better. I have sometimes left mine purposely

where I knew it must freeze.

This is a beautiful centre-piece for a dessert or supper-table.

WINE JELLY. +

1 package sparkling gelatine, soaked in 1 large cup of cold water.

2 cups white wine or pale sherry.

1 lemon—all the juice and half the peel.

½ teaspoonful bitter almond, or two peach-leaves.

2 cups white sugar.

1 pint boiling water.

Put soaked gelatine, lemon, sugar, and flavoring extract together, and

cover for half an hour. Then pour on boiling water, stir and strain.

After adding the wine, strain again through flannel bag. Wet a mould

and set in a cold place until the next day.

CLARET JELLY. +

1 package Coxe’s gelatine, soaked in _large_ cup water.

2 cups sugar.

2 cups fine claret.

1 pint boiling water.

1 lemon—the juice only.

A pinch of mace.

Make as you would other wine jelly.

It is most refreshing in summer.

NOTE UPON JELLIES.

It must be borne in mind that the consistency of jelly depends much

upon the weather. In warm or damp, it is sometimes difficult to make it

either clear or firm. I have tried to guard against failure in the use

of any of the foregoing receipts by setting down the _minimum quantity_

of liquid that can be used without making the jellies too stiff. If

made in clear, cold weather, there will be no risk in having the “large

cup of cold water,” in which the gelatine is soaked, one-third larger

than if the jelly were undertaken on a murky spring day. A little

experience will teach you how to guard this point. Meanwhile, be

assured that you need not fear splashing, weak jellies where you hoped

for firmness and brilliancy, if you follow the directions written down

in this department.

PUDDINGS OF VARIOUS KINDS.

RICE PUDDING WITH FRUIT.

1 quart of new milk, or as fresh as you can get it.

1 cup raw rice.

4 eggs.

1 great spoonful of butter.

1 cup sugar, and same of fine bread-crumbs.

½ cup suet (powdered).

½ lb. raisins, seeded and chopped.

½ lb. currants, washed well and dried.

¼ lb. citron, minced fine.

Soak the rice over night, or for five hours, in a little warm water.

Boil until tender in one pint of the milk. Simmer gently, and do

not stir it. Set the saucepan in hot water, and cook in that way to

avoid burning, shaking up the rice now and then. When done, beat

in the butter. Butter a mould well, and cover the bottom with the

bread-crumbs. Cover this with rice; wet with a raw custard made of

the other pint of milk, the yolks of the eggs and the sugar. On this

sprinkle suet; then a layer of the mixed fruit. More bread-crumbs,

rice, custard, suet and fruit, until the dish is nearly full. The top

layer should be crumbs. Bake for an hour in a moderate oven. When

nearly done, draw to the door of the oven and cover with a _méringue_

made of the whites of the eggs whisked stiff with a very little

powdered sugar.

Eat warm, with sweetened cream as sauce. But it is also very good cold,

eaten with cream.

This, in my opinion, deserves the highest rank among rice puddings,

which are, by the way, far more respectable as desserts than is usually

believed. There are so many indifferent, and worse than indifferent

ones made and eaten, that discredit has fallen upon the whole class. If

properly made and cooked, they are not only wholesome, but palatable

dainties.

ALMOND RICE PUDDING.

1 quart of milk.

1 cup raw rice.

5 eggs.

1 cup sugar.

A little salt.

A little grated lemon-peel—about one teaspoonful.

½ pound sweet almonds, blanched.

Soak the rice in a very little water for four hours; put it into a

farina-kettle; fill the outer kettle with hot water; pour a pint of

milk over the rice, and simmer gently until it is tender, and each

grain almost translucent. Beat the eggs and sugar together, add the

other pint of milk, then the rice. Mix all well together, flavor with

the lemon-peel (or two or three peach-leaves may be boiled with the

rice, if you do not like the lemon). Boil in a buttered mould. An oval

fluted one is prettiest if you have it—what is known as the musk-melon

pattern. It should be cooked steadily about an hour—certainly not less.

Dip the mould in cold water; let it stand uncovered an instant; turn

out upon a flat dish and stick it all over with the almonds blanched,

and cut into long shreds.

Have ready some rich, sweet custard for sauce, or sweetened cream.

SOUTHERN RICE PUDDING. +

1 quart fresh, sweet milk.

1 cup raw rice.

2 table-spoonfuls butter.

1 cup sugar.

4 eggs, beaten light.

Grated lemon-peel—about one teaspoonful.

A pinch of cinnamon, and same of mace.

Soak the rice in a cup of the milk for two hours. Turn into a

farina-kettle; add the rest of the milk, and simmer until the rice is

tender. Rub the butter and sugar to a cream. Beat up the eggs, and

whisk this into them until the mixture is very light. Let the rice

cool a little while you are doing this. Stir all together, flavor, put

into a buttered mould, and bake about three-quarters of an hour in a

moderate oven. If baked too long the custard will separate into curds

and whey.

Eat warm with sauce, or cold with sugar and cream.

RICE MÉRINGUE. +

Make according to the above receipt, but when done, draw to the door of

the oven, and cover with the following mixture:

Whites of four eggs, whisked stiff.

1 large table-spoonful powdered sugar.

Juice of 1 lemon.

Spread quickly and evenly. Close the oven and bake three minutes more,

or until it is very delicately browned.

ROSIE’S RICE CUSTARD. +

1 quart of milk.

3 eggs, well beaten.

4 table-spoonfuls sugar.

1 scant table-spoonful butter.

A little salt.

1 small cup _boiled_ rice.

Boil the rice, and while still warm, drain, and stir into the milk.

Beat the eggs; rub butter and sugar together, and add to them. Mix all

up well, and bake in buttered dish half an hour in a pretty quick oven.

TAPIOCA CUSTARD PUDDING. +

1 cup tapioca, soaked over night in cold water enough to cover it.

1 quart of milk.

1 large cup powdered sugar.

5 eggs.

Half the grated peel of one lemon.

A very little salt.

Make a custard of the yolks, sugar and milk. Warm the milk slightly in

a farina-kettle before mixing with the other ingredients. Beat this

custard into the soaked tapioca; salt; whisk the whites of the eggs to

a standing froth, stir in swiftly and lightly; set the pudding-dish

(well buttered) into a pan of boiling water, and bake, covered, in a

moderate oven until the custard is well “set.” Brown delicately by

setting it for a minute on the upper grating of a quicker oven.

This may be eaten warm or cold, with or without sauce.

ENGLISH TAPIOCA PUDDING. +

1 cup tapioca.

3 pints fresh milk.

5 eggs.

2 table-spoonfuls butter.

1 cup sugar.

½ pound raisins, seeded and cut in half.

Half the grated peel of 1 lemon.

Soak the tapioca one hour in a pint of the milk; pour into a glass,

or stone-ware jar; set in a pot of warm water and bring to a boil.

When the tapioca is soft all through, turn out to cool somewhat, while

you make the custard. Beat the eggs very light; rub butter and sugar

together; mix all with the tapioca, the fruit last. Bake in buttered

dish one hour.

ARROWROOT PUDDING. (_Cold._)

3 even table-spoonfuls arrowroot.

2 table-spoonfuls of sugar.

1 table-spoonful of butter.

3 cups rich new milk.

¼ pound crystallized peaches, chopped fine.

Heat the milk scalding hot in a farina-kettle. Wet the arrowroot with

cold milk, and stir into this. When it begins to thicken, add sugar and

butter. Stir constantly for fifteen minutes. Turn out into a bowl, and

when almost cold beat in the fruit. Wet a mould, put in the mixture,

and set in a cold place until firm.

Eat with powdered sugar and cream.

ARROWROOT PUDDING. (_Hot._)

3 even table-spoonfuls arrowroot.

1 quart new milk.

1 table-spoonful butter.

4 table-spoonfuls sugar.

4 eggs, beaten light.

A little nutmeg.

Vanilla flavoring.

Scald the milk; wet the arrowroot with cold milk, and pour the hot

gradually upon it, stirring all the time. Beat the eggs very light, rub

butter and sugar together; mix with the eggs; whisk hard for a minute

before pouring the milk in with them. Flavor; put into a buttered

mould. The water should be nearly boiling when it goes in, and boil

steadily for one hour. If you have a steamer, it is best cooked in

that, the heat reaching all parts of the covered mould at the same

time. Set in cold water a minute before turning it out. Eat with brandy

or wine sauce.

SAGO PUDDING. +

1 small cup of sago, soaked over night in cold water.

1 quart of milk.

5 eggs.

4 table-spoonfuls of sugar.

A pinch of cinnamon, and same of nutmeg.

1 table-spoonful of butter.

In the morning put the soaked sago into a farina-kettle, with one pint

of milk; bring to a slow boil, and keep it on the fire until it is

tender and clear, and has soaked up all the milk. Make a custard of

the beaten eggs, the milk, the butter and sugar rubbed together, the

spice, and when the sago is nearly cold, beat it in. Bake in a buttered

dish. It should be done in little over half an hour.

You can boil the same mixture, if desired, in a buttered mould. It will

take more than an hour to cook.

Eat cold or hot. If warm, with sauce. If cold, with powdered sugar and

cream. It is nice with a _méringue_ on top.

ALMOND CORN-STARCH PUDDING. +

1 quart of milk.

4 table-spoonfuls corn-starch.

1 table-spoonful of butter.

Yolks of five eggs, whites of two.

¼ pound sweet almonds—blanched.

Rose-water, and bitter almond.

¾ cup powdered sugar.

Scald the milk; wet the corn-starch to smooth paste with a little

cold milk, and stir into the boiling milk. Cook until it begins to

thicken well. Take from the fire and stir in the butter. Let it cool

while you make the almond paste and the custard. The almonds should

be blanched long enough beforehand to get perfectly cold before you

pound them to a paste, a few at a time, in a bowl or Wedgewood mortar.

Drop in rose-water, now and then, to prevent them from oiling. Make

a custard of the yolks, the whites of two eggs, and the sugar. Beat

this gradually and thoroughly into the corn-starch paste; flavor with

bitter almond; finally stir in the almond paste. Bake in a buttered

dish about half an hour. When almost done cover with a _méringue_ made

of the whites reserved, and a very little powdered sugar. Eat warm—not

hot, with cream and sugar. It is also good when it has been set on the

ice until _very_ cold. In winter it is easy to freeze it. It is then

delicious, eaten with rich cream or custard.

CORN-MEAL FRUIT PUDDING.

3 pints of milk.

1 _heaping_ cup white Indian meal.

1 cup flour.

4 eggs, well beaten.

1 cup white sugar.

2 table-spoonfuls butter, melted.

½ pound raisins, seeded, and cut in two.

1 teaspoonful, heaping, of salt.

1 teaspoonful mixed cinnamon and mace.

1 teaspoonful soda, wet up with boiling water.

2 teaspoonfuls cream of tartar, sifted in the flour.

Scald a pint of the milk, and with it wet the meal. Stir it up well,

and let it get almost, or quite cold. While cooling, beat in the flour

wet with cold milk. Beat all up _hard_ and long. Make a custard of the

remaining milk, the eggs and sugar. Beat gradually into the cooled

paste. When all are mixed into a light batter, put in the butter,

spice, the fruit, dredged well with flour; last of all, the dissolved

soda. Beat up hard and quickly, bringing your spoon up from the bottom

of the dish, and full of batter at every stroke. Pour into a buttered

dish, and bake in a tolerably quick, steady oven. It should be done in

from half to three-quarters of an hour, if the heat be just right. If

it should brown too rapidly, cover with paper.

This is a very good pudding.

CORN-MEAL PUDDING WITHOUT EGGS. +

2 cups Indian meal.

1 cup flour.

2 table-spoonfuls sugar (or molasses).

3 cups sour milk—if thick, all the better.

1 great spoonful melted butter.

1 teaspoonful—a _full_ one—of soda.

1 teaspoonful of salt.

½ teaspoonful cinnamon.

Put meal and flour together in a bowl, and mix them up well with the

salt. Make a hole in the middle, and pour in the milk, stirring the

meal, etc., down into it from the sides gradually. Beat until free from

lumps. Put in butter, spice and sugar—the soda, dissolved in hot water,

at the last. Beat up well for five minutes. Butter a tin mould with a

cover; pour in the batter and boil steadily for an hour and a half.

Eat hot with sweet sauce.

HASTY PUDDING. +

1 heaping cup of Indian meal.

½ cup flour.

1 quart boiling water.

1 pint milk.

1 table-spoonful butter.

1 teaspoonful salt.

Wet up meal and flour with the milk and stir into the boiling water.

Boil hard half an hour, stirring almost constantly from the bottom.

Put in salt and butter, and simmer ten minutes longer. Turn into a

deep, uncovered dish, and eat with sugar and cream, or sugar and butter

with nutmeg.

Our children like it.

RICE-FLOUR HASTY PUDDING. +

1 quart new milk.

3 table-spoonfuls rice-flour.

1 table-spoonful butter.

1 teaspoonful salt.

Scald the milk and stir into it the rice flour, wet up with cold milk.

Boil steadily, stirring all the while, for half an hour. Add salt and

butter; let the pudding stand in hot water three minutes after you have

ceased to stir, and turn out into deep, open dish.

Eat with cream and sugar.

N. B. _Always_ boil hasty puddings and custards in a farina-kettle, or

a pail set within a pot of hot water. It is the only safe method.

FARINA PUDDING. +

Make according to last receipt, but boil three-quarters of an hour,

and, ten minutes before taking it up, stir into it two eggs beaten

light and thinned with three table-spoonfuls of milk. Cook slowly, and

stir all the time, after these go in. To a quart of milk, use at least

four table-spoonfuls of farina.

A good dessert for children—and not to be despised by their elders.

SUSIE’S BREAD PUDDING. +

1 quart of milk.

4 eggs—the whites of 3 more for _méringue_.

2 cups very fine, dry bread-crumbs.

1 table-spoonful melted butter.

1 teacupful sugar.

Juice and half the grated peel of 1 lemon.

Beat eggs, sugar and butter together. Soak the crumbs in the milk

and mix all well, beating very hard and rapidly. Season, and bake in

greased baking-dish. When almost done, cover with a _méringue_ made of

the whites of three eggs and a little powdered sugar.

Eat cold. It is very nice.

FRUIT BREAD PUDDING. (_Very Fine._) +

1 quart of milk.

1 cup of sugar.

3 _large_ cups very fine bread-crumbs.

½ cup suet—powdered.

½ pound raisins seeded and cut in two.

1 table-spoonful finely shred citron.

½ pound sultana raisins, washed well and dried.

1 teaspoonful soda, dissolved in hot water.

2 teaspoonfuls cream of tartar, stirred into the dry crumbs.

A little salt, nutmeg and cinnamon.

3 eggs beaten light.

Soak the bread-crumbs in the milk; next, beat in the whipped eggs

and sugar; the suet and spice. Whip the batter very light before the

fruit—strictly dredged with flour and well mixed—goes in. Put the soda

in last. Beat three minutes steadily, before putting it into buttered

mould. Boil two hours. Keep the water boiling hard all the time. Eat

with brandy-sauce.

BREAD AND RAISIN PUDDING.

1 quart milk.

Enough slices of baker’s bread—stale—to fill your dish.

Butter to spread the bread.

4 eggs.

½ cup of sugar.

¾ pound of raisins, seeded and each cut into three pieces.

Butter the bread, each slice of which should be an inch thick, and

entirely free from crust. Make a raw custard of eggs, sugar and

milk. Butter a pudding-dish and put a layer of sliced bread at the

bottom, fitted closely together and cut to fit the dish. Pour a little

custard upon this, strew the cut raisins evenly over it; and lay in

more buttered bread. Proceed in this order until the dish is full.

The uppermost layer should be bread well buttered and soaked in the

custard. Cover the dish closely, set in a baking pan nearly full of hot

water, and bake an hour. When done, uncover, and brown lightly.

_Or,_

You can spread with a _méringue_, just before taking from the oven.

Eat hot, with sauce.

CHERRY BREAD PUDDING.

Is very good made as above, substituting nice dried cherries—without

stones—for the raisins.

Both of these are more palatable than one would imagine from reading

the receipts; are far more easily made, less expensive, and more

digestible than the pie, “without which father wouldn’t think he could

live.”

WILLIE’S FAVORITE. (_Very good._)

1 loaf stale baker’s bread. French bread, if you can get it. It _must_

be white and light.

½ cup suet, powdered.

¼ pound citron, chopped _very_ fine.

½ pound sweet almonds blanched and shaved thin.

5 large pippins, pared, cored and chopped.

1 cup cream and same of milk.

A little salt, stirred into the cream.

1 cup of powdered sugar.

Cut the bread into slices an inch thick, and pare off the crust. Cover

the bottom of a buttered mould (with plain sides) with these, trimming

them to fit the mould and to lie closely together. Soak this layer

with cream; spread with the suet, and this with the fruit chopped fine

and mixed together. Sprinkle this well with sugar, and strew almond

shavings over it. Fit on another stratum of bread; soaking this with

_milk_; then suet, fruit, sugar, almonds, and another layer of bread

wet with cream. The topmost layer must be bread, and _very_ wet. Boil

two hours. Dip the mould in cold water, and turn out carefully upon a

dish. Sift powdered sugar over it.

Eat hot with sweet sauce.

STEAMED BREAD PUDDING. +

1 pint milk.

2 cups fine bread-crumbs.

½ pound suet powdered.

½ pound sultana raisins, picked, washed and dried.

3 eggs.

1 dessert-spoonful corn-starch.

1 tablespoonful sugar.

A little salt.

½ pound macaroons or ratifias.

Make a custard of milk, eggs and sugar; heat almost to a boil and

stir in the corn-starch wet with milk. Cook one minute; take from the

fire and pour, a little at a time, over the bread-crumbs; beating

into a rather thick batter. Butter a mould thickly; line it with the

macaroons, and put, spoonful by spoonful, a layer of batter in the

bottom. Cover this with suet, then raisins; sprinkle with sugar—put in

more batter, and so on until the mould is nearly full. Fit on the top;

put into the steamer over a pot of boiling water and steam, with the

water at a hard boil, at least two hours. Dip the mould into cold water

to make the pudding leave the sides; let it stand a moment, and turn

out, with care, upon a hot dish.

Eat hot with wine sauce.

CUSTARD BREAD PUDDING. (_Boiled._) +

2 cupfuls fine bread-crumbs—stale and dry.

1 quart of milk.

6 eggs—whites and yolks beaten separately.

1 table-spoonful rice flour.

1 teaspoonful salt, and ½ teaspoonful soda.

Flavor to taste.

Soak the bread-crumbs in the milk; put into a farina-kettle and heat

almost to a boil. Stir in the rice-flour wet with cold milk; cook one

minute; turn into a basin and beat hard several minutes. When almost

cold, add the yolks of the eggs, the soda (dissolved in hot water) and

the flavoring; finally, the whipped whites, mixing them in swiftly and

thoroughly. Boil in a greased mould an hour and a half. Turn out, and

eat hot with sweet sauce.

MACARONI AND ALMOND PUDDING.

½ pound best Italian macaroni, broken into inch lengths.

3 pints milk.

2 table-spoonfuls butter.

1 cup white sugar.

5 eggs.

½ pound sweet almonds, blanched and chopped.

Rose-water and bitter almond flavoring.

A little salt and nutmeg.

Simmer the macaroni half an hour in a pint of the milk.

Stir in the butter and salt. Cover the saucepan, and take from the

fire, letting it stand covered while you make a custard of the rest

of the milk, the eggs and sugar. Chop the almonds, adding rose-water

to keep them from oiling. When the macaroni is nearly cold, put into

the custard; stir up well, but break it as little as possible; put in

nutmeg, bitter-almond extract; lastly the almonds.

Bake in the dish in which it is to be served.

PLAIN MACARONI PUDDING. +

¼ pound macaroni, broken into pieces an inch long.

1 pint water.

1 table-spoonful butter.

1 large cup of milk.

2 table-spoonfuls powdered sugar.

Grated peel of half a lemon.

A little cinnamon and salt.

Boil the macaroni slowly in the water, in one vessel set within another

of hot water, until it is tender and has soaked up the water. Add the

butter and salt. Let it stand covered five minutes without removing it

from the range; put in the rest of the ingredients. Stir frequently,

taking care not to break the macaroni, and simmer, covered ten minutes

longer before turning it out into a deep dish.

Eat hot with butter and sugar, or sugar and cream.

ESSEX PUDDING.

2 cups fine bread-crumbs.

¾ cup powdered suet.

2 table-spoonfuls sago, soaked over night in a little water.

5 eggs, beaten light.

1 cup of milk.

1 cup of sugar.

1 table-spoonful corn-starch, wet in cold milk.

About ½ pound whole raisins, “plumped” by laying them in _boiling_

water two minutes.

A little salt.

Set the sago over the fire in a farina-kettle with enough water to

cover it, and let it cook gently until tender and nearly dry. Make a

custard of the eggs, milk and sugar; add the crumbs, beating into a

thick batter; next the suet, corn-starch, sago and salt. Beat all up

long and hard.

Butter a mould _very_ thickly, and lay the raisins in the bottom and

sides, in rings or stripes, or whatever pattern you may fancy. Fill the

mould by spoonfuls—not to spoil your pattern—with the batter. Steam one

hour and a half, or boil one hour.

Dip in cold water; let it stand one minute, and turn out upon a flat

dish. The raisins should be imbedded in the pudding, but distinctly

visible upon the surface.

Eat with jelly sauce.

NOTE.—For instructions about pudding-sauces, please see “COMMON SENSE

IN THE HOUSEHOLD—GENERAL RECEIPTS,” page 419.

BOILED APPLE PUDDING.

6 _large_ juicy apples, pared, cored and chopped.

2 cups fine bread-crumbs.

1 cup powdered suet.

Juice of 1 lemon, and half the peel.

½ teaspoonful of salt.

1 teaspoonful of soda dissolved in hot water.

Mix all together with a wooden spoon, stirring until the ingredients

are well incorporated into a damp mass. Put into a buttered mould, and

boil three hours.

Eat with a good, sweet sauce.

BAKED APPLE PUDDING. +

6 or 7 fine juicy apples, pared and sliced.

Slices of stale baker’s bread, buttered.

½ pound citron, shred thin.

Grated peel of half a lemon, and a little cinnamon.

1 cup light, brown sugar.

Cut the crust from the bread; butter it on both sides, and fit a layer

in the bottom of a buttered mould. Lay sliced apple over this, sprinkle

with citron; strew sugar and a little of the seasoning over all, and

put the next layer of bread. The slices of bread should be not quite

half an inch thick. Butter the uppermost layer very abundantly. Cover

the mould or dish, and bake an hour and a half.

Turn out and eat with pudding-sauce.

APPLE BATTER PUDDING. +

6 or 8 fine juicy apples, pared and cored.

1 quart of milk.

10 table-spoonfuls of flour.

6 eggs, beaten very light.

1 table-spoonful butter—melted.

1 saltspoonful of salt.

½ teaspoonful soda.

1 teaspoonful cream of tartar.

Set the apples closely together in the baking-dish; put in enough cold

water to half cover them, and bake, closely covered, until the edges

are clear, but not until they begin to break. Drain off the water, and

let the fruit get cold before pouring over them a batter made of the

ingredients enumerated above. Bake in a quick oven.

Serve in the baking-dish, and eat with sauce.

PEACH BATTER PUDDING.

This is made in the same way, but if the peaches are fully ripe and

soft, they need no previous cooking. The stones must be left in.

This is a delightful pudding.

PEACH LÉCHE CRÉMA.

Some fine, ripe peaches pared, and cut in half, leaving out the stones.

3 eggs, and the whites of two more.

3 cups of milk.

½ cup powdered sugar.

2 table-spoonfuls corn-starch, or rice-flour. If you have neither, take

3 table-spoonfuls best family flour.

1 table-spoonful melted butter.

Scald the milk; stir in the corn-starch wet with cold milk. Simmer,

stirring carefully until it begins to thicken. Take from the fire and

put in the butter. Beat the eggs light, and add when the corn-starch is

lukewarm. Whip all until light and smooth. Put a thick substratum of

peaches in the bottom of a buttered baking-dish; strew with the sugar

and pour the créma gently over them. Bake in a pretty quick oven ten

minutes. Then spread with a méringue made of the whites of five eggs,

whisked stiff with a little powdered sugar. Shut the oven-door for two

minutes to harden this.

Eat warm with sauce, or cold with cream.

RISTORI PUFFS. +

5 eggs.

The weight of the eggs in flour.

Half their weight in butter and in sugar.

Juice of 1 lemon, and half the grated peel.

½ teaspoonful soda, dissolved in hot water.

Rub the butter and sugar to a cream, whisking until it is very light.

Beat the whites to a standing froth; the yolks thick and smooth. Strain

the latter through a sieve into the butter and sugar; stir in well; add

the lemon, the soda, and the flour alternately with the whites, beating

up rapidly after these go in. Have ready small cups or muffin-rings,

well-buttered; put the mixture into them, and bake at once. In less

than half an hour they should rise high in the pans. Test with a clean

straw to see if they are done; turn out upon a hot dish, and serve with

jelly sauce.

These are almost sure to be a success if made with _good_ prepared

flour—Hecker’s, for example. In this case, use no soda.

JAM PUFFS.

3 eggs.

Half a cup of sweet jam or jelly.

The weight of the eggs in Hecker’s prepared flour.

Half their weight in sugar and butter.

Beat the eggs stiff, whites and yolks separately.

Cream the butter and sugar, strain the yolks into the cream; beat well

before putting in the whites. The flour should go in last. Put the

mixture in great spoonfuls upon your baking-tin. They should not touch,

and must be as uniform in size as you can make them. Bake fifteen

minutes in a quick oven. When cold, run a sharp knife around each,

leaving about an inch uncut to serve as a hinge. Pull far enough open

to put in a spoonful of jelly or jam; close, and sift white sugar over

all when they are filled.

COTTAGE PUFFS.

1 cup milk, and same of cream.

4 eggs beaten stiff, and the yolks strained.

1 table-spoonful butter, chopped into the flour.

A very little salt.

Enough prepared flour for thick batter.

Mix the beaten yolks with the milk and cream; then the salt and whites,

lastly the flour. Bake in buttered iron pans, such as are used for

“gems” and corn-bread. The oven should be quick. Turn out and eat with

sweet sauce.

LEMON PUFFS.

1 cup of prepared flour. Hecker’s _always_, if procurable.

½ cup powdered sugar.

1 table-spoonful butter.

3 eggs, beaten stiff. Strain the yolks.

A little salt, and grated peel of 1 lemon.

3 table-spoonfuls milk.

Mix, and bake in little pans as directed in previous receipt.

VANILLA CREAM PUFFS. +

1 cup boiling water.

2 table-spoonfuls butter.

1 cup prepared flour.

2 eggs—beaten well.

1 cup powdered sugar and }

Whites of 2 eggs, } for icing.

1 pint cream whipped with a little sugar.

Vanilla seasoning in cream.

Put the water over the fire with one table-spoonful of butter. Boil

up, and work in the flour without removing from the fire. Stir until

stiff, and work in the rest of the butter. Take from the range, turn

out into a bowl and beat in the eggs. Put upon a greased baking-tin in

table-spoonfuls, taking care not to let them touch. Bake quickly, but

thoroughly. When done and cold, cut a round piece out of the bottom

of each, introduce the handle of a teaspoon, and scrape out most of

the inside. Fill the cavity with the whipped cream into which you have

beaten two table-spoonfuls of icing; fit back the round piece taken

from the bottom; set on a dish, and ice. Put into a quick oven one

minute to dry.

COFFEE CREAM PUFFS.

Make as above, but beat into the icing two table-spoonfuls of black

coffee—as strong as can be made, and a little of this icing into the

whipped cream.

CHOCOLATE CREAM PUFFS.

Instead of coffee, season the cream and icing with 2 table-spoonfuls

sweet chocolate, grated. That flavored with vanilla is best. If you

have not this, add a little vanilla extract.

CORN-MEAL PUFFS.

1 quart boiling milk.

2 scant cups white “corn flour.”

½ cup wheat flour.

1 scant cup powdered sugar.

A little salt.

4 eggs—beaten light.

1 table-spoonful butter.

½ teaspoonful of soda, dissolved in hot water.

1 teaspoonful cream of tartar, sifted into flour.

½ teaspoonful mixed cinnamon and nutmeg.

Boil the milk, and stir into it the meal, flour and salt. Boil fifteen

minutes, stirring well up from the bottom. Put in the butter and beat

hard in a bowl for three minutes. When cold, put in the eggs whipped

light with the sugar, the seasoning and soda. Whip up very faithfully;

bake in greased cups in a steady oven.

Turn out of cups and eat with pudding sauce, or with butter alone.

WHITE PUFFS (_Very nice_).

1 pint rich milk.

Whites of 4 eggs whipped stiff.

1 heaping cup prepared flour.

1 scant cup powdered sugar.

Grated peel of ½ lemon.

A little salt.

Whisk the eggs and sugar to a méringue, and add this alternately with

the flour to the milk. (If you have cream, or half cream half milk, it

is better.) Beat until the mixture is very light, and bake in buttered

cups or tins. Turn out, sift powdered sugar over them, and eat with

lemon sauce.

These are delicate in texture and taste, and pleasing to the eye.

WHITE PUDDING. +

3 cups of milk.

Whites of 6 eggs—whipped stiff.

1 cup powdered sugar.

1 table-spoonful melted butter.

1 table-spoonful rose-water.

2 heaping cups prepared flour.

Whip the sugar into the stiffened whites; add butter and rose-water;

then the flour, stirred in very lightly.

Bake in buttered mould in a rather quick oven. Eat with sweet sauce.

RUSK PUDDING. +

8 light, stale rusk.

A little more than 1 quart of milk.

5 eggs—whites and yolks beaten separately.

½ cup powdered sugar, ½ teaspoonful soda.

Flavor to taste, with lemon, vanilla or bitter almond.

Pare every bit of the crust from the rusk, wasting as little as

possible. Crumb them fine into a bowl and pour a pint of milk boiling

hot over them. Cover and let them stand until cold. Make a raw custard

of the rest of the milk, the eggs and the sugar. Stir the soda,

dissolved in hot water, into the soaked rusk, when they are cold, put

in the custard. Pour the mixture into a buttered baking-dish—the same

in which it is to be served—and bake in a brisk oven. It should puff

up very light.

Sift powdered sugar over the top and eat warm with sweet sauce. Cream

sauce is particularly good with it.

This is a good way to use up stale buns, rusk, etc. But they must be

really good at first, or the pudding will be a failure. Rusks soon dry

out, and become comparatively tasteless. _Never_ try to renew their

youth by steaming them. You will only make them as sour and flat as a

twice-told tale.

FIG PUDDING.

½ pound best Naples figs, washed, dried and minced.

2 cups fine bread-crumbs.

3 eggs.

½ cup best suet, powdered.

2 scant cups of milk.

½ cup white sugar.

A little salt.

A pinch of soda, dissolved in hot water and stirred into the milk.

Soak the crumbs in the milk; stir in the eggs beaten light with the

sugar, the salt, suet and figs. Beat three minutes; put in buttered

mould and boil three hours.

Eat hot with wine sauce. It is very good.

FIG CUSTARD PUDDING.

1 pound best white figs.

1 quart of milk.

Yolks of 5 eggs, and whites of two.

½ package of gelatine, soaked in a little cold water.

1 cup _made_ wine jelly—lukewarm.

4 table-spoonfuls sugar.

Flavor to taste.

Soak the figs for a few minutes in warm water to make them pliable.

Split them in two, dip each piece in jelly, and line the inside of a

buttered mould with them. Make a custard of the milk, yolks and sugar;

boil until it begins to thicken well; take off the fire and let it

cool. Meanwhile, beat the whites of two eggs to a stiff froth; melt the

soaked gelatine in a _very_ little hot water, by setting the vessel

containing this in a saucepan of boiling water; stir until clear. Turn

out to cool. When nearly cold, whip gradually into the whisked eggs.

The mixture should be white and thick before you stir it into the

custard. Whip all rapidly for a few minutes, and fill the fig-lined

mould. Set on ice, or in a cold place to form.

Dip the mould in hot water, to loosen the pudding, and turn out upon a

cold dish.

_Or,_

Besides lining the mould with figs, you may chop some very fine and mix

in with the custard before moulding it.

This pudding is delicious if made with fresh, ripe figs.

MARROW SPONGE PUDDING.

2 cups fine sponge-cake crumbs—made from stale cake—the drier the

better.

½ cup beef marrow, finely minced.

Juice of 1 lemon and half the grated peel.

½ cup white sugar.

½ teaspoonful grated nutmeg.

½ pound fresh layer raisins, seeded and chopped.

¼ pound citron, minced.

1 cup milk.

4 eggs—beaten light—strain the yolks.

1 table-spoonful flour, and a little salt.

Mix the powdered marrow with the crumbs. Make a raw custard of milk,

eggs, and sugar, and pour over the cake. Beat well; put in the flour,

seasoning, lastly, the fruit very thickly dredged with flour. Stir hard

before pouring into a greased mould. Boil three hours. Turn out and eat

hot, with cabinet-pudding sauce.

Be sure that the water actually boils before you put in a pudding, and

do not let it stop boiling for an instant until it is done. Replenish

from the boiling tea-kettle.

PLAIN SPONGE-CAKE PUDDING. +

1 stale sponge-cake.

2 table-spoonfuls sugar.

4 eggs—beaten light.

2 cups of milk.

1 table-spoonful rice-flour or corn-starch wet up with cold milk.

Juice of 1 lemon and half the grated rind.

Slice the cake and lay some in the bottom of a buttered dish. Make a

custard of the milk boiled for a minute with the corn-starch in it.

Flavor to taste when you have added the eggs and sugar; pour over the

cake; put another layer of slices; more custard, and so on, until the

mould is full. Let it stand a few minutes, to soak up the custard; put

the dish in the oven—covered—and bake half an hour. Uncover a few

minutes before you take from the oven and brown slightly.

COCOANUT SPONGE PUDDING. +

2 cups stale sponge-cake crumbs.

2 cups rich milk.

1 cup grated cocoanut.

Yolks of 2 eggs and whites of four.

1 cup of white sugar.

1 table-spoonful rose-water.

1 glass white wine.

Heat the milk to boiling; stir in the crumbed cake and beat into a

soft batter. When nearly cold, add the beaten eggs, sugar, rose-water

and cocoanut—the wine last. Bake in a buttered pudding-dish about

three-quarters of an hour, or until it is firm in the centre and of a

nice brown. Eat cold, with white sugar sifted over the top.

You can make an elegant dessert of this by spreading it with a méringue

made of—

Whipped whites of 4 eggs.

2 table-spoonfuls powdered sugar.

½ cupful of grated cocoanut.

A little lemon-juice.

Whisk until stiff; cover the pudding and leave it in a quick oven two

or three minutes to harden it.

FRUIT SPONGE-CAKE PUDDING (_Boiled_). +

12 square sponge-cakes—stale.

1 pint milk, }

3 eggs—beaten light, } for the custard.

½ cup sugar, }

½ pound currants well washed and dried.

½ pound sweet almonds blanched and cut small.

¼ pound citron chopped.

Nearly a cup of sherry wine.

Soak the cakes in the wine. Butter a mould very thickly and strew it

with currants, covering the inside entirely. Put a layer of cakes at

the bottom; spread with the chopped citron and almonds; put on three or

four spoonfuls of the raw custard, more cakes, fruit, custard, until

the mould is full, or nearly. The pudding will swell a little. Fit on

the cover, and boil one hour.

Eat cold or hot. If the latter, serve jelly-sauce with it. If cold,

turn out of the mould the day after it is boiled, and sift powdered

sugar over it. Pile a nice “whip” about the base.

FRUIT SPONGE-CAKE PUDDING (_Baked_).

2 cups sponge-cake crumbs—very dry.

2 cups boiling milk.

1 table-spoonful of butter.

½ cup of sugar.

2 table-spoonfuls flour—prepared flour is best.

½ pound currants, washed and dried.

Whites of 3 eggs—whipped stiff.

Bitter almond flavoring.

Soak the cake in the hot milk; leave it over the fire until it is

a scalding batter; stir in the butter, sugar and flour—(the latter

previously wet up with cold milk), and pour into a bowl to cool. When

nearly cold, stir in the fruit, well dredged with flour, the flavoring,

and whip up hard before adding the beaten whites. Bake in a buttered

mould from half to three-quarters of an hour. When done, take from the

oven and let it cool. Just before sending to table, heap high with a

méringue made of—

Whites of 3 eggs.

2 table-spoonfuls sugar.

½ pint cream, whipped stiff.

1 glass white wine.

This is a handsome and delightful dessert.

If eaten hot, serve cream sauce with it.

ORANGE PUDDING.

2 oranges—juice of both and grated peel of one.

Juice of 1 lemon.

½ pound lady’s-fingers—stale and crumbed.

2 cups of milk.

4 eggs.

½ cupful sugar.

1 table-spoonful corn-starch, wet up with water.

1 table-spoonful butter—melted.

Soak the crumbs in the milk (raw), whip up light and add the eggs and

sugar, already beaten to a cream with the batter. Next the corn-starch,

and when your mould is buttered and water boiling hard, stir in the

juice and peel of the fruit. Do this quickly, and plunge the mould

directly into the hot water. Boil one hour; turn out and eat with very

sweet brandy sauce.

DERRY PUDDING.

2 cups of milk.

4 table-spoonfuls of sugar.

1 heaping cup prepared flour.

Yolks of 4 eggs and whites of two.

2 oranges. The pulp chopped very fine. Half the grated peel of 1 orange.

1 table-spoonful melted butter.

Beat eggs and sugar together; whip in the butter until all are a yellow

cream. To this put the orange, and beat five minutes. Rub the flour

smooth in the milk, added gradually, and stir up this with the other

ingredients. Pour at once into a buttered mould, and boil one hour.

Eat hot with jelly sauce.

BOILED LEMON PUDDING.

2 cups of dry bread-crumbs.

1 cup powdered beef-suet.

4 table-spoonfuls flour—prepared.

½ cup sugar.

1 large lemon. All the juice and half the peel.

4 eggs—whipped light.

1 cup of milk—a large one.

Soak the bread-crumbs in the milk; add the suet; beat eggs and sugar

together and these well into the soaked bread. To these put the lemon,

lastly the flour, beaten in with as few strokes as will suffice to mix

up all into a thick batter. Boil three hours in a buttered mould.

Eat hot with wine sauce.

WAYNE PUDDING (_Good_).

2 full cups of prepared flour.

½ cup of butter.

1 cup of sugar—powdered.

½ pound Sultana raisins, washed and dried.

1 lemon—the juice and half the grated peel.

⅛ pound citron, cut into long strips—very thin.

5 eggs—whites and yolks beaten light separately.

Rub butter and sugar to a cream, and strain into this the beaten yolks.

Whip up light with the lemon; then the flour, alternately with the

stiff whites. The raisins should be dredged with flour and go in last.

Butter a mould thickly, line it with the strips of citron; put in the

batter, a few spoonfuls at a time; cover, and set in a pan of boiling

water in the oven. Keep the water in the pan replenished from the

boiling kettle, and bake steadily an hour and a half. Turn out upon hot

plate.

Eat warm with brandy sauce. It is a delicious pudding. Leave room in

mould for the pudding to swell.

ALMOND SPONGE PUDDING.

4 eggs—beaten very light.

The weight of the eggs in sugar and the weight of 5 eggs in prepared

flour.

Half the weight of 4 in butter.

¼ pound sweet almonds blanched and pounded.

Extract of bitter almond.

A little rose-water.

Rub butter and sugar to a light cream; add the yolks and beat hard

before putting in the whites alternately with the flour. The almonds,

pounded to a paste with a little rose-water and bitter almond extract,

should be put in last.

Boil in buttered mould; or set in a pan of water as directed in the

last receipt. The mould should not be much more than half full. Boil

nearly an hour. Eat with lemon sauce—not very sweet.

This is nice baked as a cake.

BOSTON LEMON PUDDING. +

2 cups fine, dry bread-crumbs.

¾ cup of powdered sugar, and half as much butter.

2 lemons, all the juice, and half the grated peel.

2 table-spoonfuls prepared flour.

5 eggs, beaten light. The yolks must be strained.

Rub butter and sugar to a cream; add the beaten yolks and lemon; whip

very light; put in handful by handful the bread-crumbs alternately with

the stiffened whites, then the flour. Butter a mould, and put in the

batter (always remembering to leave room for swelling), and boil two

hours steadily.

If you have a pudding-mould with a cylinder in the centre, use it for

this pudding. Turn out upon a hot dish, and fill the hole in the middle

with the following mixture:

1 cup powdered sugar, }

3 table-spoonfuls butter, } rubbed to a cream.

Juice of one lemon.

Whipped white of 1 egg.

½ teaspoonful nutmeg.

Beat all well together.

If you have not an open mould, make this sauce, and pour half over the

pudding, sending the rest in a boat to table.

BOSTON ORANGE PUDDING.

Is made in the same way, substituting oranges for lemons in the

pudding, but retaining the lemon in the sauce.

Both of these are excellent desserts, and if the directions be strictly

followed, are easy and safe to make. Either can be baked as well as

boiled.

LEMON PUDDING.

6 butter-crackers soaked in water, and crushed to pulp.

3 lemons. Half the grated peel.

1 cup of molasses.

A pinch of salt.

1 table-spoonful melted butter.

Some good pie-crust for shells.

Chop the pulp of the lemons very fine; stir into the crushed crackers,

with the butter and salt. Beat the molasses gradually into this with

the grated peel. Fill open shells of pastry with the mixture, and bake.

QUEEN’S PUDDING. +

8 or 10 fine, juicy apples, pared and cored.

½ pound macaroons, pounded fine.

2 table-spoonfuls sugar.

½ teaspoonful cinnamon.

½ cup crab-apple, or other sweet firm jelly, like quince.

1 table-spoonful brandy.

1 pint of milk.

1 table-spoonful best flour or corn-starch.

Whites of 3 eggs.

A little salt.

Put the apples into a pudding-dish, well buttered; fill half full of

water; cover closely and steam in a slow oven until so tender that a

straw will pierce them. Let them stand until cold, covered. Then drain

off the water. Put into each apple a spoonful of jelly, and a few

drops of brandy; sprinkle with cinnamon and sugar. Cover again and

leave alone for ten minutes. Scald the milk, and stir in the macaroons,

the salt, the flour, wet in a little cold milk. Boil all together one

minute. Take from the fire; beat for a few minutes, and let it cool

before whipping in the beaten whites. Pour over the apples, and bake

half an hour in a moderate oven.

Eat hot with cream sauce.

ORANGE CUSTARD PUDDING. +

1 quart milk.

5 eggs. The beaten yolks of all, the whites of two.

Grated peel of 1 orange.

4 table-spoonfuls powdered sugar for custard, and 2 spoonfuls for

_méringue_.

Scald the milk, and pour carefully over the eggs which you have beaten

light with the sugar. Boil one minute, season, and pour into a buttered

pudding-dish. Set this in a pan of boiling water, and bake about half

an hour, or until well “set.” Spread with a _méringue_ made of the

reserved whites. Return to oven to harden, but do not let it scorch.

Eat cold.

ROCK CUSTARD PUDDING. +

1 quart milk.

6 eggs.

1 cup powdered sugar for custard and méringue.

1 table-spoonful rice-flour, wet up with cold water.

A little salt.

Vanilla flavoring.

Boil the milk; beat up the yolks of the eggs with three-quarters of

the sugar; cook in the milk until the mixture is smoking hot; stir in

the rice-flour, salt, and boil just one minute. Pour into a buttered

baking-dish, and bake in a pan of hot water until the custard is

nearly, but not quite “set.” Have ready the whites beaten very stiff

with the rest of the sugar, and flavored with vanilla. Without drawing

the dish from the oven, drop this all over it in great spoonfuls,

covering it as irregularly as possible. Do it quickly, lest the custard

should cool and fall. Shut the oven-door for about five minutes more

until the _méringue_ is delicately browned and the custard firm.

Eat cold, with powdered sugar sifted over it.

A PLAIN BOILED PUDDING. (No. 1.)

3 cupfuls of flour—full ones.

2 cupfuls of “loppered” milk or buttermilk. Sour cream is best of all

if you can get it.

1 _full_ teaspoonful of soda, dissolved in hot water.

A little salt.

½ cupful _powdered_ suet.

Stir the sour milk gradually into the flour until it is free from

lumps. Put in suet and salt; lastly beat in the soda-water thoroughly,

but quickly.

Boil an hour and a half, or steam two hours.

Eat at once, hot, with hard sauce.

PLAIN BOILED PUDDING. (No. 2.)

1 cup loppered milk or cream.

½ cup molasses.

½ cup butter, melted.

2½ cups flour.

2 even teaspoonfuls of soda, dissolved in hot water.

A little salt.

Mix molasses and butter together, and beat until very light. Stir in

the cream or milk, and salt; make a hole in the flour, and pour in the

mixture. Stir down the flour gradually until it is a smooth batter.

Beat in the soda-water thoroughly, and boil at once in a buttered

mould, leaving room to swell. It should be done in an hour and a half.

Eat hot with a good sauce.

JELLY PUDDINGS. +

2 cups _very_ fine stale biscuit or bread-crumbs.

1 cup rich milk—half cream, if you can get it.

5 eggs, beaten very light.

½ teaspoonful soda, stirred in boiling water.

1 cup sweet jelly, jam or marmalade.

Scald the milk and pour over the crumbs. Beat until half cold, and stir

in the beaten yolks, then the whites, finally the soda. Fill large cups

half full with the batter; set in a quick oven and bake half an hour.

When done, turn out quickly and dexterously; with a sharp knife make

an incision in the side of each; pull partly open, and put a liberal

spoonful of the conserve within. Close the slit by pinching the edges

with your fingers.

Eat warm with sweetened cream.

FARMER’S PLUM PUDDING.

3 cups of flour.

1 cup of milk.

½ cup powdered suet.

1 cup best molasses, slightly warmed.

1 teaspoonful soda, dissolved in hot water.

1 pound raisins, stoned and chopped.

1 teaspoonful mixed cinnamon and mace.

1 saltspoonful ginger.

1 teaspoonful of salt.

Beat suet and molasses to a cream; add the spice, the salt, and

two-thirds of the milk; stir in the flour; beat hard; put in the rest

of the milk, in which the soda must be stirred. Beat vigorously up from

the bottom for a minute or so, and put in the fruit well dredged with

flour. Boil in a buttered mould at least three hours.

Eat very hot with butter-and-sugar sauce.

NURSERY PLUM PUDDING. +

1 scant cup of raw rice.

1 table-spoonful rice-flour, wet up with milk.

3 pints rich milk.

2 table-spoonfuls butter.

4 table-spoonfuls sugar.

½ pound currants, washed and dried.

¼ pound raisins, stoned and cut in two.

3 well-beaten eggs.

Soak the rice two hours in just enough warm water to cover it; setting

the vessel containing it in another of hot water on one side of the

range. When all the water is soaked up, shake the rice well and add a

pint of milk. Simmer gently, still in the saucepan of hot water until

the rice is again dry and quite tender. Shake up anew, and add another

pint of milk. So soon as this is smoking hot, put in the fruit, well

dredged with flour; cover the saucepan and simmer twenty minutes. Take

from the fire and put with it the butter, the rice-flour and a custard

made of the remaining pint of milk, the eggs and sugar. Add while the

rice is still hot; stir up well and bake in a buttered pudding-dish

three-quarters of an hour, or less, if your oven be brisk.

Eat warm or cold, with rich cream and sugar.

COCOANUT PUDDING.

1 heaping cup finest bread-crumbs.

1 table-spoonful corn starch wet with cold water.

1 cocoanut, pared and grated.

½ cup butter.

1 cup powdered sugar.

2 cups milk.

6 eggs.

Nutmeg and rose-water to taste.

Soak the crumbs in the milk; rub the butter and sugar to a cream, and

put with the beaten yolks. Beat up this mixture with the soaked crumbs;

stir in the corn-starch; then the whisked whites, flavoring, and,

at the last, the grated cocoanut. Beat hard one minute; pour into a

buttered pudding-dish—the same in which it is to be served—and bake in

a moderate oven three-quarters of an hour.

Eat very cold, with powdered sugar on top.

IMPROMPTU CHRISTMAS PUDDING. (_Very fine._)

2 cups of best mince meat made for Christmas pies. Drain off all

superfluous moisture. If the meat be rather too dry for pies, it will

make the better pudding.

1½ cups prepared flour.

6 eggs—whites and yolks beaten separately.

Whip the eggs and stir the yolks into the mince-meat. Beat them in hard

for two or three minutes until thoroughly incorporated. Put in the

whites and the flour, alternately beating in each instalment before

adding the next. Butter a large mould very well; put in the mixture,

leaving room for the swelling of the pudding, and boil five hours

steadily. If the boiling should intermit one minute, there will be a

heavy streak in the pudding. Six hours’ boiling will do no harm.

Turn out upon a hot dish; pour brandy over it and light just as it goes

into the dining-room. Eat with rich sauce. I know of no other pudding

of equal excellence that can be made with so little trouble as this,

and is as apt to “turn out well.”

If you have no mince-meat in the house, you can buy an admirable

article, ready made, at any first-class grocery store. It is put up in

neat wooden cans (which are stanch and useful for holding eggs, starch,

etc., after the mince-meat is used up) and bears the stamp, “ATMORE’S

CELEBRATED MINCE MEAT.”

And what is noteworthy, it deserves to be “celebrated.” It has never

been my good fortune to meet with any other _made_ mince-meat that

could compare with it.

LEMON SOUFFLÉ PUDDING.

1 heaping cup of prepared flour.

2 cups of rich milk.

½ cup of butter.

Juice of 1 lemon and half the grated peel.

4 table-spoonfuls of sugar.

5 eggs—whites and yolks beaten separately and very light.

Chop the butter into the flour. Scald the milk and stir into it while

still over the fire, the flour and butter. When it begins to thicken,

add it, gradually, to the beaten yolks and sugar. Beat all up well

and turn out to cool in a broad dish. It should be cold when you whip

in the stiffened whites. Butter a mould; pour in the mixture, leaving

abundance of room for the _soufflé_ to earn its name—and steam one hour

and a half, keeping the water under the steamer at a fast, hard boil.

When done, dip it into cold water for an instant, let it stand one

minute, after you take it out of this, and turn out upon a hot dish.

Eat with brandy sauce.

LÉCHE CRÉMA SOUFFLÉ. +

1 quart of milk.

3 table-spoonfuls corn-starch, wet with cold milk.

1 cup powdered sugar.

½ cup strawberry jam, or sweet fruit jelly.

6 eggs—beaten very light.

Flavoring to taste.

Boil the milk, and stir in the corn-starch. Stir one minute and pour

into a bowl containing the yolks, the whites of two eggs and half

the sugar. Whip up for two or three minutes and put into a nice

baking-dish, buttered. Set in a pan of boiling water and bake half an

hour, or until firm. Just before withdrawing it from the oven, cover

with jelly or jam, put on dexterously and quickly, and this, with a

_méringue_ made of the reserved whites and sugar. Shut the oven until

the _méringue_ is set and slightly colored.

Eat cold, with cream.

CHERRY SOUFFLÉ PUDDING.

1 cup prepared flour.

2 cups of milk.

5 eggs.

3 table-spoonfuls powdered sugar.

Bitter almond flavoring.

½ pound crystallized or _glacé_ cherries.

A pinch of salt.

Scald the milk, and stir into it the flour, wet up with a cup of

the milk. Boil one minute, stirring well up from the bottom of the

farina-kettle; mix in the yolks beaten light with the sugar, flavor,

and let it get perfectly cold. Then whip the whites until you can cut

them with a knife, and beat, fast and hard, into the custard. Butter a

mould thickly; strew with the cherries until the inside is pretty well

covered; put in the mixture—leaving room for puffing—and boil for an

hour and a half.

Dip into cold water; take it out and let it stand, after the lid is

removed, a full minute, before turning it out.

Eat warm with wine, or lemon sauce.

SPONGE-CAKE SOUFFLÉ PUDDING. +

12 square (penny) sponge-cakes—stale.

5 eggs.

1 cup milk.

2 glasses sherry.

½ cup of powdered sugar.

Put the cakes in the bottom of a buttered pudding-dish; pour the wine

over them, and cover while you make the custard. Heat the milk and pour

over the yolks of the eggs, beaten and strained, and half the sugar.

Return to the fire, and stir until quite thick. Pour this upon the

soaked cakes, slowly, that they may not rise to the top; put in the

oven, and when it is again very hot, spread above it the whites whisked

stiff with the rest of the sugar.

Bake ten minutes, or until the _méringue_ is lightly browned and firm.

Serve in the baking-dish.

Eat cold. It will be found very nice.

APPLE SOUFFLÉ PUDDING. +

6 or 7 fine juicy apples.

1 cup fine bread-crumbs.

4 eggs.

1 cup of sugar.

2 table-spoonfuls butter.

Nutmeg and a little grated lemon-peel.

Pare, core and slice the apples, and stew in a covered farina-kettle,

without a drop of water, until they are tender. Mash to a smooth pulp,

and, while hot, stir in butter and sugar. Let it get quite cold, and

whip in, first the yolks of the eggs, then the whites—beaten _very_

stiff—alternately with the bread-crumbs. Flavor, beat hard three

minutes, until all the ingredients are reduced to a creamy batter, and

bake in a buttered dish, in a moderate oven. It will take about an

hour to cook it properly. Keep it covered until ten minutes before you

take it out. This will retain the juices and prevent the formation of a

crust on the top.

Eat warm with “bee-hive sauce.”

RICE SOUFFLÉ PUDDING. +

½ cup raw rice.

1 pint of milk.

6 eggs.

4 table-spoonfuls powdered sugar.

1 table-spoonful butter.

Soak the rice in warm water enough to cover it well for two hours.

Put it over the fire in the same water, and simmer in a farina-kettle

until the rice is dry. Add the milk, shaking up the rice—_not_ stirring

it—and cook slowly, covered, until tender throughout. Stir in the

butter, then the yolks of the eggs, beaten and strained, whatever

flavoring you may desire, and when these have cooled somewhat, the

whipped whites. Bake in a handsome pudding-dish, well buttered, half an

hour.

Eat warm—not hot—or _very_ cold.

ARROWROOT SOUFFLÉ PUDDING.

3 cups of milk.

5 eggs.

1 large table-spoonful butter.

3 table-spoonfuls sugar.

4 table-spoonfuls Bermuda arrowroot, wet up with cold milk.

Vanilla or other flavoring.

Heat the milk to a boil, and stir into this the arrowroot. Simmer,

using your spoon freely all the time, until it thickens up well. Put in

the butter; take from the fire and beat into it the yolks and sugar,

previously whipped together. Stir hard and put in the whites, whisked

_very_ stiff, and the flavoring.

Butter a neat baking-dish; put in the mixture and bake half an hour.

Sift powdered sugar over it, and serve immediately.

A VERY DELICATE SOUFFLÉ.

5 eggs—whites and yolks beaten separately.

2 table-spoonfuls of arrowroot wet up in 4 table-spoonfuls cold water.

4 table-spoonfuls powdered sugar.

Rose-water flavoring.

Beat the sugar into the whipped yolks, and into the whites, little by

little, the dissolved arrowroot. Flavor and whisk all together. Butter

a neat mould, pour in the mixture until half way to the top, and bake

half an hour.

If quite firm, and if you have a steady hand, you may turn it out upon

a hot dish. It then makes a handsome show. It is safer to leave it in

the baking-dish. It must be served at once. It is very nice.

BATTER PUDDING. (_Very nice._) +

1 quart of milk.

16 table-spoonfuls of flour.

4 eggs beaten very light.

Salt to taste.

Stir until the batter is free from lumps, and bake in two buttered pie

plates, or very shallow pudding-dishes.

APPLE AND BATTER PUDDING. (_Very good._) +

1 pint of milk.

2 eggs, beaten light.

1 dessert-spoonful butter, rubbed in the flour.

¼ teaspoonful of soda, dissolved in hot water.

½ teaspoonful of cream of tartar, sifted in the flour.

A pinch of salt.

Flour enough for thin batter.

6 apples—well flavored and slightly tart.

Pare and core the apples and put them in a buttered pudding-dish. Pour

the batter over them and bake three-quarters of an hour. Eat hot with

hard sauce.

PUDDING-DISHES.

The baking-dish of “ye olden time” was never comely; often positively

unsightly. Dainty housewives pinned napkins around them and wreathed

them with flowers to make them less of an eyesore. In this day,

the pudding-maker can combine the æsthetic and useful by using the

enameled wares of MESSRS. LALANGE AND GROSJEAN, 89 BEEKMAN STREET,

NEW YORK. The pudding-dishes made by them are pretty in themselves,

easily kept clean; do not crack or blacken under heat, and are set on

the table in handsome stands of plated silver that completely conceal

the baking-dish. A silver rim runs around the top and hides even the

edge of the bowl. They can be had, with or without covers, and are

invaluable for macaroni, scallops, and many other “baked meats.”

Saucepans and kettles of every kind are made in the same ware by this

firm.

FRITTERS.

Not even so-called pastry is more ruthlessly murdered in the mixing and

baking than that class of desserts the generic name of which stands

at the head of this bake. Heavy, sour, sticky and oleaginous beyond

civilized comparison, it is no marvel that the compound popularly known

and eaten as “fritter” has become a doubtful dainty in the esteem of

many, the object of positive loathing to some.

I do not recommend my fritters to dyspeptics and babies, nor as a

standing dish to anybody. But that they can be made toothsome, spongy

and harmless, as well as pleasant to those blessed with healthy

appetites and unimpaired digestions, I hold firmly and intelligently.

Two or three conditions are requisite to this end. The fritters must be

quickly made, thoroughly beaten, of right consistency,—_and_ they must

not lie in the fat the fraction of a minute after they are done. Take

them up with a perforated spoon, or egg-beater, and lay on a hot sieve

or cullender to drain before serving on the dish that is to take them

to the table. Moreover, the fat must be hissing hot when the batter

goes in if you would not have them grease-soaked to the very heart.

Line the dish in which they are served with tissue-paper fringed at the

ends, or a clean napkin to absorb any lingering drops of lard.

BELL FRITTERS. +

2 cups of milk.

2 cups of prepared flour.

3 table-spoonfuls sugar.

4 eggs, very well beaten.

A little salt.

½ tea-spoonful of cinnamon.

Beat the sugar into the yolks; add the milk, salt and seasoning, the

flour and whites alternately. Beat hard for three minutes.

Have ready plenty of lard in a deep frying-pan or Scotch kettle; make

very hot; drop in the batter in table-spoonfuls, and fry to a good

brown. Be careful not to scorch the lard, or the fritters will be

ruined in taste and color.

Throw upon a warm sieve or cullender as fast as they are fried, and

sift powdered sugar over them.

Eat hot with lemon sauce.

RUSK FRITTERS. +

12 stale rusks.

5 eggs.

4 table-spoonfuls white sugar.

2 glasses best sherry.

Pare all the crust from the rusk, and cut each into two pieces if

small—into three if large. The slices should be nearly an inch thick.

Pour the wine over them; leave them in it two or three minutes, then

lay on a sieve to drain. Beat the sugar into the yolks (which should

first be whipped and strained), then the whites. Dip each slice into

this mixture and fry in boiling lard to a light golden brown.

Drain well; sprinkle with powdered sugar mingled with cinnamon, and

serve hot, with or without sauce.

LIGHT FRITTERS.

3 cups stale bread-crumbs.

1 quart of milk.

4 eggs.

Salt and nutmeg to taste.

3 table-spoonfuls prepared flour.

Scald the milk and pour it over the crumbs. Stir to a smooth, soft

batter, add the yolks, whipped and strained, the seasoning, the

flour—then, the whites whisked very stiff. Mix well, and fry, by the

table-spoonful, in boiling lard. Drain; serve hot and eat with sweet

sauce.

CURRANT FRITTERS. (_Very nice._)

2 cups dry, fine bread-crumbs.

2 table-spoonfuls prepared flour.

2 cups of milk.

½ pound currants, washed and well dried.

5 eggs whipped very light, and the yolks strained.

½ cup powdered sugar.

1 table-spoonful butter.

½ teaspoonful mixed cinnamon and nutmeg.

Boil the milk and pour over the bread. Mix and put in the butter. Let

it get cold. Beat in, next, the yolks and sugar, the seasoning, flour

and stiff whites; finally, the currants dredged whitely with flour. The

batter should be thick.

Drop in great spoonfuls into the hot lard and fry. Drain them and send

hot to table.

Eat with a mixture of wine and powdered sugar.

LEMON FRITTERS. +

2 heaping cups of prepared flour.

5 eggs—beaten stiff. Strain the yolks.

½ cup cream.

Grated peel of half a lemon.

½ cup powdered sugar.

1 teaspoonful mingled nutmeg and cinnamon.

A little salt.

Beat up the whipped and strained yolks with the sugar; add the

seasoning and cream; the whites, at last the flour, worked in quickly

and lightly. It should be a soft paste, just stiff enough to roll

out. Pass the rolling-pin once or twice over it until it is about

three-quarters of an inch thick. Cut into small, circular cakes with a

tumbler or cake-cutter; drop into the hot lard and fry. They ought to

puff up like crullers. Drain on clean, hot paper. Eat warm with a sauce

made of—

Juice of 2 lemons.

Grated peel of one.

1 cup of powdered sugar.

1 glass wine.

Whites of 2 eggs beaten stiff.

APPLE FRITTERS.

8 or 10 fine pippins or greenings.

Juice of 1 lemon.

3 cups prepared flour.

6 eggs.

3 cups milk.

Some powdered sugar.

Cinnamon and nutmeg.

A little salt.

Pare and core the apples neatly, leaving a hole in the centre of each.

Cut crosswise into slices half an inch thick. Spread these on a dish

and sprinkle with lemon-juice and powdered sugar.

Beat the eggs light, straining the yolks, and add to the latter the

milk and salt, the whites and the flour, by turns. Dip the slices of

apple into the batter, turning them until they are thoroughly coated,

and fry, a few at a time, in hot lard. Throw upon a warm sieve as fast

as you take them out, and sift powdered sugar, cinnamon and nutmeg over

them.

These fritters require dexterous handling, but if properly made and

cooked, are delicious.

Eat with wine sauce.

RICE FRITTERS. +

2 cups of milk.

Nearly a cup raw rice.

3 table-spoonfuls sugar.

¼ pound raisins.

3 eggs.

1 table-spoonful butter.

1 table-spoonful flour.

Nutmeg and salt.

Soak the rice three hours in enough warm water to cover it well. At the

end of this time, put it into a farina-kettle, set in an outer vessel

of hot water, and simmer until dry. Add the milk and cook until it is

all absorbed. Stir in the butter and take from the fire. Beat the eggs

very light with the sugar, and when the rice has cooled, stir these in

with the flour and seasoning. Flour your hands well and make this into

flat cakes. Place in the middle of each two or three raisins which have

been “plumped” in boiling water. Roll the cake into a ball enclosing

the raisins, flour well and fry in plenty of hot lard.

Serve on a napkin, with sugar and cinnamon sifted over them. Eat with

sweetened cream, hot or cold.

CORN-MEAL FRITTERS.

3 cups milk.

2 cups best Indian meal.

½ cup flour.

4 eggs.

½ teaspoonful soda, dissolved in hot water.

1 teaspoonful cream of tartar, sifted in flour.

1 table-spoonful sugar.

1 table-spoonful melted butter.

1 teaspoonful salt.

Beat and strain the yolks; add sugar, butter, milk and salt, the

soda-water, and then stir in the Indian meal. Beat five minutes _hard_

before adding the whites. The flour, containing the cream of tartar,

should go in last. Again, beat up vigorously. The batter should be just

thick enough to drop readily from the spoon. Put into boiling lard by

the spoonful. One or two experiments as to the quantity to be dropped

for one fritter will teach you to regulate size and shape.

Drain _very_ well and serve at once. Eat with a sauce made of butter

and sugar, seasoned with cinnamon.

Some persons like a suspicion of ginger mixed in the fritters, or in

the sauce. You can add or withhold it as you please.

PEACH FRITTERS. (_With Yeast._)

1 quart of flour.

1 cup of milk.

½ cup of yeast.

2 table-spoonfuls sugar.

4 eggs.

2 table-spoonfuls of butter.

A little salt.

Some fine, ripe freestone peaches, pared and stoned.

Sift the flour into a bowl; work in milk and yeast, and set it in a

tolerably warm place to rise. This will take five or six hours. Then

beat the eggs very light with sugar, butter and salt. Mix this with

the risen dough, and beat with a stout wooden spoon until all the

ingredients are thoroughly incorporated. Knead vigorously with your

hands; pull off bits about the size of an egg; flatten each and put in

the centre a peach, from which the stone has been taken through a slit

in the side. Close the dough upon it, make into a round roll and set

in order upon a floured pan for the second rising. The balls must not

touch one another. They should be light in an hour. Have ready a large

round-bottomed Scotch kettle or saucepan, with plenty of lard—boiling

hot. Drop in your peach-pellets and fry more slowly than you would

fritters made in the usual way. Drain on hot white paper; sift powdered

sugar over them and eat hot with brandy sauce.

You can make these of canned peaches or apricots wiped dry from the

syrup.

POTATO FRITTERS.

6 table-spoonfuls mashed potato—very fine.

½ cup good cream.

5 eggs—the yolks light and strained—the whites whisked very stiff.

2 table-spoonfuls powdered sugar.

2 table-spoonfuls prepared flour.

Juice of 1 lemon. Half the grated peel.

½ teaspoonful nutmeg.

Work the cream into the potato; beat up light and rub through a sieve,

or very fine cullender. Add to this the beaten yolks and sugar. Whip to

a creamy froth; put in the lemon, flour, nutmeg, and beat five minutes

longer before the whites are stirred in. Have your lard ready and hot

in the frying-pan. Drop in the batter by the spoonful and fry to a

light brown. Drain on clean paper, and serve at once.

Eat with wine sauce.

CREAM FRITTERS. (_Very nice._)

1 cup cream.

5 eggs—the whites only.

2 full cups prepared flour.

1 saltspoonful nutmeg.

A pinch of salt.

Stir the whites into the cream in turn with the flour, put in nutmeg

and salt, beat all up hard for two minutes. The batter should be rather

thick. Fry in plenty of hot sweet lard, a spoonful of batter for each

fritter. Drain and serve upon a hot, clean napkin.

Eat with jelly sauce. Pull, not cut them open.

ROLL FRITTERS, OR IMITATION DOUGHNUTS. +

8 small round rolls, stale and light.

1 cup rich milk.

2 table-spoonfuls sugar.

1 teaspoonful mixed nutmeg and cinnamon.

Beaten yolks of 3 eggs.

1 cupful powdered crackers.

Pare every bit of the crust from the rolls with a keen knife, and

trim them into round balls. Sweeten the milk with the sugar, put in

the spice; lay the rolls upon a soup-plate, and pour the milk over

them. Turn them over and over, until they soak it all up. Drain for a

few minutes on a sieve; dip in the beaten yolks, roll in the powdered

cracker, and fry in plenty of lard.

Drain and serve hot with lemon-sauce.

They are very good.

SPONGE-CAKE FRITTERS.

6 or 8 square (penny) sponge-cakes.

1 cup cream, boiling hot, with a pinch of soda stirred in.

4 eggs, whipped light.

1 table-spoonful corn-starch, wet up in cold milk.

¼ pound currants, washed and dried.

Pound the cakes fine, and pour the cream over them. Stir in the

corn-starch. Cover for half an hour, then beat until cold. Add the

yolks—light and strained, the whipped whites, then the currants thickly

dredged with flour. Beat all hard together. Drop in spoonfuls into the

boiling lard; fry quickly; drain upon a warmed sieve, and send to table

hot.

The syrup of brandied fruit makes an excellent sauce for these.

CURD FRITTERS.

1 quart sweet milk.

2 glasses white wine.

1 teaspoonful liquid rennet.

5 eggs, whipped light.

4 table-spoonfuls prepared flour.

2 table-spoonfuls powdered sugar.

Nutmeg to taste.

Scald the milk, and pour in the wine and rennet. Take from the fire,

cover, and let it stand until curd and whey are well separated. Drain

off every drop of the latter, and dry the curd by laying for a few

minutes upon a soft, clean cloth. Beat yolks and sugar together, whip

in the curd until fully mixed; then the flour, nutmeg and whites. The

batter should be smooth, and rather thick.

Have ready some butter in a small frying-pan; drop in the fritters a

few at a time, and fry quickly. Drain upon a warm sieve, lay within a

dish lined with white paper, or a clean napkin; sift powdered sugar

over them, and eat with jelly sauce.

Odd as the receipt may seem in the reading, the fritters are most

palatable. In the country, where milk is plenty, they may be made of

cream—unless, as is too often the case, the good wife _will_ save all

the cream for butter.

CONCERNING ALLOWANCES.

(CONFIDENTIAL—WITH JOHN.)

I do not like that word “allowance.” It savors too much of a stipend

granted by a lordling to a serf; a government pension to a beneficiary;

the dole of the rich to the poor. But since it has crept into general

use as descriptive of that portion of the wife’s earnings which she is

permitted to disburse more or less at her discretion, we must take it

as we find it.

Marriage is to a woman one of two things—licensed, and therefore

honorable beggary, or, a copartnership with her husband upon fair

and distinctly specified terms. When I spoke of the wife’s earnings

just now, it was not with reference to moneys accumulated by work or

investments outside of the home which she occupies with you and your

children. We will set aside, if you please, the legal and religious

fiction that you have endowed her with all—or half your worldly goods,

and put still further from our consideration the sounding oaths with

which you protested in the days of your wooing, that you cared nothing

for pelf and lucre—Cupid’s terms for stocks, bonds and mortgages,

houses and lands—except that you might cast them at her feet. If

you recollect such figures of speech at all, it is with a laugh,

good-humored, or shame-faced, and the plea that everybody talks in

the same way in like circumstances; that pledges thus given are in no

wise to be regarded as promissory notes. Hymen’s is a general court

of bankruptcy so far as such obligations go. Your wife is a sensible

woman, and never expected to take you at your word—at least, such hot

and hasty words as those, in which you declared yourself to be the

most abject of her slaves, and herself the empress of your universe,

including the aforementioned stocks, mortgages, houses and lands, real

and personal estate—all assets _in esse_ and _in posse_.

Having cleared away, by a stroke of common sense, this gossamer, that

like other cobwebs, is pretty while the dew of early morning impearls

it, and only an annoyance afterward; particularly odious when it

entangles itself about the lips and eyes of him who lately admired

it—we will look at the question of the wife’s work and wages from a

business point of view—pencil and paper in hand.

First, we will determine what should be the salary of a competent

housekeeper; one who makes her employer’s interests her own; who rises

up early and lies down late, and eats the bread of carefulness; who is

not to be coaxed away by higher wages, and is never in danger of giving

warning if her “feelings are hurt;” if the servants are insubordinate,

or the master is given to fault-finding, and not always respectful to

herself. It would be to your interest, were you a widower, you confess,

to give this treasure two dollars a day—as women’s wages go. “And,” you

add in a burst of manly confidence, “she would be cheap at that.” But

we will put down her salary in round numbers, at $700 per annum.

Now comes the seamstress’ pay. Again, a “competent person,” one who

is ever in her place; whose work-hours number fourteen out of the

twenty-four, if her services are required by you or the children;

whose needle is always threaded, her eye ever vigilant; with whom

slighting and botching are things unknown by practice; who takes pride

in seeing each of the household trig and tidy; who “seeketh wool and

flax, and worketh willingly with her hands;” who is an adept in fine

needlework as in plain sewing, and not a novice in dress-making; who,

perchance, can “manage” boys’ clothes as well as girls—who will do it,

of a certainty, if you explain that you cannot afford tailors’ bills

for urchins under ten years of age; finally, who possesses that most

valuable of arts for a poor man’s wife,

“To gar auld claes look a’maist as weel as new.”

Shall we allow to this nonpareil the wages of an ordinary seamstress

who “cannot undertake cutting and fitting,”—one dollar a day? Or, is

she entitled to the pay of a dressmaker’s assistant—half a dollar more?

I do not want to be hard with you. We will set her down for $450 a

year. And, again, we conclude that you have made a good bargain.

Next, the nursery-governess, and perhaps the most important functionary

in the household. She must, you stipulate, have charge of the children,

by day and night; guard morals, health and manners, besides teaching

the youngerlings the rudiments of reading and writing; must superintend

the preparation of the elder ones’ lessons for school-recitations,

and look to it that catechism and Bible-lesson are ready for

Sabbath-school; that musical exercises are duly practised; that

home is made so attractive to the boys that they shall not be drawn

thence by the questionable hilarity of engine-house and oyster-cellar.

A lady she must be, else how would your girls be trained to modest

and graceful behavior, and your friends be entertained as you deem

is due to you and to them, in your house? A responsible, judicious

person is indispensable to the comfort and health of you and yours;

one who does not regard the care of a young baby as “too confining;”

nor sleepless nights on account of it, a valid reason for “bettering

herself;” nor a brisk succession of measles, mumps and chicken-pox

cogent cause for informing you that she “didn’t engage for this sort of

work, and would you be suiting yourself with a lady as has a stronger

constitution—immediate, for her trunk is packed.”

Would a thousand dollars per annum provide you with such a hireling? I

knew a wealthy man who offered just that sum for a nursery-governess

during the protracted illness of his wife. She must be intelligent and

ladylike, he stated, qualified to undertake the education of the three

younger children. There were six in all, but there was a tutor for the

boys. The governess’ bed-room adjoined that of the little girls, the

door of which must stand open all night. The baby’s crib was to be by

her bed, and a child, three years old, was also to share her chamber.

She would be treated respectfully and kindly, and every enjoyment of

the luxurious establishment, compatible with the proper discharge of

the duties appointed, would be hers.

_He could get no one to take the place._

This is simple fact, and it is pregnant with meaning.

Nevertheless, what if we put down the wages of your nursery-governess

at the same sum you are willing to give your housekeeper—$700? Oblige

me by adding up the short row of figures under your hand.

$700

450

700

——————

$1,850

This you will please consider as the amount of your wife’s salary, due

from you for services rendered, exclusive of board and lodgings, which

are always the portion of resident employees in your house. There is

no charge for “extras,” you observe. We have said nothing about the

bill for nursing you through that four weeks’ spell of inflammatory

rheumatism last winter, or the longer siege of fever, three years ago,

when this servant-of-all-work sat up with you fourteen weary nights,

and would entrust the care of you to no one else. By her skillful

ministrations, the miracle of her patience, love and prayers, you were

rescued, say the doctors, from the close clutch of death. You cannot

see the figures very distinctly while you think of it, but we agreed,

at the outset, to keep feeling in the background.

You “have tried to be a kind, affectionate husband,” you say, in a very

unbusiness-like way.

I believe you, and so does the blessed little woman whom I have shut

out from this conference, lest her foolish fondness should spoil the

effect of our matter-of-fact talk. I would have you and all husbands

be _just_, no less than loving. Let us return to our figures. The

estimate is for a man of moderate means and modest home, one of

the middle class which is everywhere the bone and muscle of the

community—the class that makes national character, the world over. If

you are wealthy, and put the care of a large and elegant establishment

upon your manager, the remuneration should be in proportion. For a

fancy article you have to pay a fancy price. You misunderstand your

wife and me, if you imagine that we would inaugurate in your household

a debit and credit system and quarter-day settlements. She would be the

first to shrink from such an interpretation of your mutual relations. I

should, of all your friends and well-wishers, be the last to recommend

it.

But I have studied this matter long and seriously, and I offer you as

the result of my observation in various walks of life, and careful

calculation of labor and expense, the bold assertion that every

wife who performs her part, even tolerably well, in whatever rank

of society, more than earns her living, and that this should be an

acknowledged fact with both parties to the marriage contract. The

idea of her dependence upon her husband is essentially false and

mischievous, and should be done away with, at once and forever. It

has crushed self-respect out of thousands of women; it has scourged

thousands from the marriage-altar to the tomb, with a whip of

scorpions; it has driven many to desperation and crime.

“Every dollar is a lash!” I once overheard a wife say, in bitter

soliloquy, as her husband left her presence after placing in her hand

the money for which she had timidly asked him, to pay the weekly

household bills.

Then, still supposing herself unseen, she threw the roll of bank-notes

upon the floor and trampled it under foot, in a transport of impotent,

and, to my way of thinking, righteous wrath.

“An exceptional case?” I beg your pardon! I wish it were. Her husband

meant to be kind and affectionate as honestly as do you. When money was

“easy,” he would give it to her freely and cheerfully, provided his

mood was propitious at the time of her application. He had expended

large sums in the purchase of jewelry and handsome clothing for her,

and exulted in seeing her arrayed in them. He loved her truly, and

was proud of her. His mistake was in ignoring the fact that he _owed_

her anything in actual dollars and cents; that she worked for her

livelihood as faithfully as did he, and that his debt to her was, in

the highest degree, a “confidential” one. If put into the confessional,

he would have admitted that he thought of himself as the only

bread-winner of the family, and was, sometimes, tartly intolerant of

the domestic demands upon his earnings. He made a yet grosser mistake

in feeling and behaving as if the money deposited in her hands for the

current expenses of the establishment, were a gift to her personally.

This is a masculine blunder that poisons the happiness of more women

than I like to think of, or you would be willing to believe. Be

kindly-affectioned as you will, your wife cannot respect you thoroughly

if she sees that you are habitually unreasonable and unjust. And it

is neither just nor rational to speak and act as if all the butter,

flour, sugar, meat and sundries which she saves you the trouble of

buying, and of which, nine times out of ten, she is the more judicious

purchaser, were to be consumed by her, and her alone.

“You never thought of such a thing!” you protest betwixt laughter and

vexation.

Then, do not act as if it were your settled conviction.

Set aside from your income what you adjudge to be a reasonable and

liberal sum for the maintenance of your family in the style suitable

for people of your means and position. Determine what purchases you

will yourself make, and what shall be intrusted to your wife, and put

the money needed for her proportion into her care as frankly as you

take charge of your share. Try the experiment of talking to her as if

she were a business partner. Let her understand what you can afford to

do, and what you cannot. If in this explanation you can say, “we,” and

“ours,” you will gain a decided moral advantage, although it may be at

the cost of masculine prejudice and pride of power. Impress upon her

mind that a certain sum, made over to her apart from the rest, is hers

absolutely. Not a present from you, but her honest earnings, and that

_you_ would not be honest were you to withhold it. And do not ask her

“if that will do?” any more than you would address the question to any

other workwoman. (With what cordial detestation wives regard that brief

query, which drops, like a sentence of the creed, from husbandly lips,

I leave your spouse to tell you. Also, if she ever heard of a woman who

answered anything but “yes.”)

Advise her, for her own satisfaction, and because it is “business

like,” to keep an account of her receipts and expenditures, but apprise

her distinctly that you do not expect her to exhibit this to you,

unless she should need your assistance or advice in balancing her

books, or in some perplexed question of “profit and loss.” She will

be ready to appreciate that the one sum deposited with her is a trust

fund to be used to the best advantage for the general good, and the

proud consciousness that she is the actual proprietor of the other, and

irresponsible, save to her conscience, for the manner in which it is

spent, will make her the more careful not to use it amiss. As to the

housekeeping money—the weekly or monthly “allowance”—you may be very

sure that you and the children will get the benefit of every cent.

However economically she may handle her private store, the bulk of it

will not be increased by surreptitious pinchings from the family supply

of daily bread.

I have known women whose sole perquisites were what they could save

from their not large allowances, who, in the absence of their husbands

from home, would keep themselves and families of hungry, growing

children,—with the consent and co-operation of the latter—upon the most

meagre fare consistent with the bare satisfaction of the cravings of

nature, that the few dollars thus spared might go toward the purchase

of some coveted article of dress for one of the girls; a set of tools

or books for a boy, or a piece of furniture desired by all. Which

bit of economy (!) being reported to the _paterfamilias_ when the

dearly-bought thing was exhibited, was pronounced by him, his hand

complacently finding its way to the plethoric wallet in his pocket, to

be worthy of his august approval. How many husbands have heard their

wives remark how cheaply the family lived when “papa was away?” and how

many have asked themselves seriously why and how this was done?

Other women, and more to be pitied, I am acquainted with, who make

false entries in the account-books, which are showed weekly to their

lords as explanatory of “the way the money goes.” It is easier and less

likely “to make a fuss,” to record that seven pounds of butter have

been bought and used, his lordship having helped in the consumption

thereof, when by sharp management, five have sufficed; to write down

“new shoes for Bobby, $4,00,” when, in reality, the cost of mending his

old ones that they might last a month longer, was only $1,50,—than to

confess to the practical critic who does not overlook a single item,

that the money “made” by these expedients was spent, partly in paying

up a yearly subscription to the Charitable Society; partly for an

innocent luncheon during a day’s shopping in the city.

“Unjustifiable deception?” Have I pretended to excuse it? But I look

back of the timid woman—the pauper, bedecked in silks, laces and

gems,—for most men like to see their wives dressed as well as their

neighbors—the moral coward, who has lied from the natural desire to

handle a little money for herself without being cross-examined about

it—and ask—“by what stress of humiliating tyranny was she brought to

this?”

All women do not manage monetary affairs well, you remind me, gently.

Some are unprincipled in their extravagance, reckless of everything

save their own whims and unconscionable desires. Must a man beggar

himself and those dependent upon him, lest such an one should accuse

him of parsimony? By yielding to demands he knows to be exorbitant, he

proves himself to be weaker even than she.

I have said nowhere that a woman is the best judge of what her husband

ought to appropriate from his gains or fortune for the support of his

family. But he stands convicted of a grave error of judgment, if he has

chosen from the whole world as the keeper of his honor and happiness, a

woman whom he cannot trust to touch his purse-strings.

Let us be patient as well as reasonable. So long as a babe is kept in

long clothes, and carried in arms, it will not learn to walk alone.

The majority of women have been swathed in conventionalities and

borne above the practicalities of business by mistaken tenderness or

misapprehension of their powers, for so long, that, however quick may

be their intuitions, time and practice are necessary to make them

adepts in financiering. The best way to render them trustworthy is

not by taking it for granted, and letting them see that you do, that

they have sinister designs upon your pockets. They are not pirates by

nature, nor are they, even with such schooling as many get from their

legal proprietors, always on the alert to wheedle or extort a few

dollars for their own sty and selfish ends. After all, is there not a

spice of truth in the would-be satire of the old distich?

“What are wives made of—made of?

Everything good, _if they’re but understood_!”

If you chance to be painfully conscious of the mental inferiority and

warped conscience of your partner in the solemn dance of life; if there

is more “worse” than “better” in the everyday wear of the matrimonial

bond; if sloth and waste mark her administration of household affairs,

instead of the industrious thrift you would recommend, and which you

see others practise; if the rent in the bottom of the pouch carries off

the money faster than you can drop it in, you are to be pitied almost

as much as your bachelor neighbor, who sews on his own buttons, and

depends upon boarding-houses for his daily food. Still, my friend, is

there any reason why you should accept the consequences of this one

mistake on your part, with less philosophy; bring to the bearing of it

a smaller modicum of Christian resignation than you summon to support

you under any other? Women have been as grievously misled by fancy or

affection, before now, and have borne the burden of disappointment to

the grave without murmur or reproach.

Then, there is always the chance that your wife is not “understood,”

or that, well-meant as your attempts to “manage” her have been, you

have not selected the most judicious methods of doing this. In this

enlightened and liberal age, nobody, unless he be bigot or fool,

habitually thinks and speaks of women as a lower order of intelligent

beings. But even in your breast, my ill-mated friend, there may lurk a

touch of the ancient leaven of uncharitableness, and in your treatment

of her “whom the Lord hath given to be with you,” there may be a spice

of arrogance, the exponent of which, were you Turk or Kaffir, would be

brute force.

“I do not object to your proposal, my love. You always have your own

way in household affairs,” said a very “kind and affectionate” man to

his wife, with the air of a potentate amiably relinquishing his sceptre

for love’s sake.

“Will you tell me, my dear husband, why, if I conduct ‘household

affairs’ wisely and pleasantly (and you have often acknowledged that I

do!) I should not have my own way?” was the unexpected reply, uttered

in perfect temper—no less sweetly for being an argument. “For twenty

years I have made domestic economy a constant and practical study. Is

it reasonable to suppose that, after all this expenditure of time and

thought, I am not a better judge of ways and means in my profession

than are you, whose life has been spent in other pursuits? For all your

indulgent affection to me, as displayed in a thousand ways since our

marriage-day, I love and thank you. But excuse me for saying that I am

not grateful that you have, as you are rather fond of saying, ‘made it

a point to give me my head’ in all pertaining to housekeeping. That you

do this shows that you are just and honorable. It is no more a _favor_

done to me than is my non-interference with your clerks and purchases,

your shipments and warehouses, a matter for which you should thank me.”

The husband stroked his beard thoughtfully. He was a sensible man, and

magnanimous enough to recognize the truth that his wife was a sensible

woman.

“Upon my word,” he said, presently, with a frank laugh, “that is a view

of the case I never took before. I believe you are right.”

One more hint, which may be of service to those who are not so ready to

acknowledge the superiority—in any case—of feminine reasoning, or to

such as are _not_ blessed with sensible consorts—the best friends of

these ladies being judges.

“Drive him with an easy rein!” said my John in trusting me for the

first time to manage his favorite horse. “His mouth is tender as a

woman’s. You cannot deal with a thoroughbred as with a cold-blooded

roadster.”

“What will happen if I hold him in hard?” inquired I, eyeing the

pointed ears and arched neck with as much apprehension as admiration.

I commend the laconic answer to your consideration, as altogether

pertinent to the subject we have been discussing.

“A rear-up, and a run backward, instead of forward!”

RIPE FRUIT.

THE sight of the fruit-dish or basket upon the breakfast table has

become so common of late years that its absence, rather than its

presence, in the season of ripe fruits would be remarked, and felt

even painfully by some. It is fashionable, and therefore considered

a wise sanitary measure, to eat oranges as a prelude to the regular

business of the morning meal. Grapes are eaten so long as they can be

conveniently obtained. It may be because my own taste and digestion

revolt at the practice of forcing crude acids upon an empty, and often

faint stomach, that I am disposed to doubt the healthfulness of the

innovation upon the long-established rule that sets fruit always in the

place of dessert. I have an actual antipathy to the pungent odor of raw

orange-peel, and have been driven from the breakfast-table at a hotel

more than once by the overpowering effect of the piles of yellow rind

at my left, right, and opposite to me. A cluster of grapes taken before

breakfast would put me, and others whom I know, _hors de combat_ for

the day with severe headache. In the consciousness of this, I can be

courageous in declining the “first course” of an _à la mode_ breakfast,

and at my own table, withholding the fruit until the stomach has

regained its normal tone under the judicious application of substantial

viands. Then, it is pleasant to linger over the vinous globes of

crimson, purple, and pale-green; to dip ripe strawberries in powdered

sugar with lazy gusto; to pare rosy rareripes and golden Bartletts

while discussing the day’s news and plans, in the serene belief that

the healthful, delicious juices are assimilating whatever incongruous

elements have preceded them in the alimentary canal.

I write this, not to guide the practice of other households, but to

enforce a remark I see an opportunity for bringing in here. Be a

slavish follower of no custom whatsoever. It is sensible and expedient

to act in uniformity with your neighbors when you can do so without

moral or physical injury. Conformity to a foolish or hurtful fashion is

always weak, if not positively wicked.

Serve your fruit, then, as the first or last course at your family

breakfast as may seem right to yourself, but, by all means, have it

whenever you can procure it comfortably and without much expense.

In warm weather, you had better banish meat from the morning bill

of fare, three days in the week, than have the children go without

berries and other fresh fruits. Make a pretty glass dish, or silver or

wicker basket of peaches, pears or plums, an institution of the summer

breakfast. In autumn, you can have grapes until after frost; then,

oranges and bananas if you desire. These, being expensive luxuries,

are not absolutely enjoined by nature or common sense. Let the “basket

of summer fruit,” however, be a comely and agreeable reality while

solstitial suns beget bile, and miasma walks, a living, almost visible

presence, through the land.

Fruits, each in its season, are the cheapest, most elegant and

wholesome dessert you can offer your family or friends, at luncheon

or tea. Pastry and plum-pudding should be prohibited by law, from the

beginning of June until the end of September. And in winter, a dish of

apples and oranges flanked by one of boiled chestnuts, and another of

picked walnut or hickory-nut kernels, will often please John and the

bairns better than the rich dessert that cost you a hot hour over the

kitchen-range, when Bridget was called away to a cousin’s funeral, or

Daphne was laid up with “a misery in her head.”

Among the creams, jellies and “forms” of a state-dinner dessert, fruit

is indispensable, and the arrangement and preparation of the choicer

varieties is a matter for the taste and skill of the mistress, or her

refined daughters, as are the floral decorations of the feast.

FROSTED PEACHES.

12 large rich peaches—freestones.

Whites of three eggs, whisked to a standing froth.

2 table-spoonfuls water.

1 cup powdered sugar.

Put water and beaten whites together; dip in each peach when you have

rubbed off the fur with a clean cloth, and then roll in powdered sugar.

Set up carefully, on the stem end, upon a sheet of white paper, laid

on a waiter in a sunny window. When half dry, roll again in the sugar.

Expose to the sun and breeze until perfectly dry, then, put in a cool,

dry place until you are ready to arrange them in the glass dish for

table.

Garnish with green leaves.

FROSTED AND GLACÉ ORANGES.

6 sweet, large oranges.

Whites of two eggs, whisked stiff, }

1 table-spoonful water, } for frosting.

1 cup powdered sugar. }

Cochineal. }

1 cup sugar, }

1 ounce gum arabic, } for glazing.

2 table-spoonfuls hot water, }

Pare the oranges, squeezing them as little as you can, remove every

particle of the inner white skin, and divide them into lobes, taking

care not to break the skin. Take half of the sugar meant for frosting,

and stir it up with a few drops of liquid cochineal. Spread on a dish

in the sun to dry, and if it lump, roll or pound again to powder. Put

the white sugar in another dish. Add the water to the stiffened whites;

dip in one-third of the orange lobes and roll in the white sugar;

another third, first in the eggs and water, then in the red sugar. Lay

them upon a sheet of paper to dry.

Put the gum arabic and hot water together over the fire, and when the

gum is melted, add the cup of sugar. Stir until it is a clear, thick

glue. Set in a pan of hot water and dip the remaining pieces of orange

in it. Lay a stick lengthwise on a flat dish, and lean the lobes

against it on both sides, to dry.

Heap red, white, and yellow together in a glass dish, and garnish with

leaves—orange or lemon leaves if you can get them.

This is a delicate, but not difficult, bit of work, and the effect is

very pretty.

TROPICAL SNOW. +

10 sweet oranges.

1 grated cocoanut.

2 glasses pale sherry.

1 cup powdered sugar.

6 red bananas.

Peel the oranges; divide into lobes and cut these across three times,

making small pieces, from which the seeds must be taken. Put a layer of

these in the bottom of a glass bowl, and pour a little wine over them.

Strew thickly with white sugar. The cocoanut should have been pared and

thrown into cold water before it was grated. Spread some of it over the

sugared oranges; cut the bananas into very thin round slices, and put a

layer of the fruit close together, all over the cocoanut. More oranges,

wine, sugar and cocoanut, and when the dish is full, heap high with the

cocoanut. Sprinkle sugar on this, and ornament with rings of sliced

banana. Eat very soon, or the oranges will grow tough in the wine.

Oranges cut up in the way I have described are more easily managed with

a spoon, and less juice is wasted, than when they are sliced in the

usual manner.

This is a handsome and delightful dessert.

COCOANUT FROST ON CUSTARD. +

2 cups rich milk.

½ pound sweet almonds, blanched and pounded.

4 eggs, beaten light.

½ cup powdered sugar.

Rose-water.

1 cocoanut, pared, thrown into cold water and grated.

Scald the milk and sweeten. Stir into it the almonds pounded to a

paste, with a little rose-water. Boil three minutes, and pour gradually

upon the beaten eggs, stirring all the time. Return to the fire and

boil until well thickened. When cold turn into a glass bowl, and heap

high with the grated cocoanut. Sift a little powdered sugar over all.

STEWED APPLES. +

Core the fruit without paring it, and put it into a glass or stoneware

jar, with a cover. Set in a pot of cold water and bring to a slow boil.

Leave it at the back of the range for seven or eight hours, boiling

gently all the time. Let the apples get perfectly cold before you open

the jar.

Eat with plenty of sugar and cream.

Only sweet apples are good cooked in this manner, and they are very

good.

BAKED PEARS. +

Cut ripe pears in half, without peeling or removing the stems. Pack

in layers in a stoneware or glass jar. Strew a little sugar over each

layer. Put a small cupful of water in the bottom of the jar to prevent

burning; fit on a close cover, and set in a moderate oven. Bake three

hours, and let the jar stand unopened in the oven all night.

APPLES AND JELLY. +

Fill a baking-dish with pippins, or other tender juicy apples, pared

and cored, but not sliced. Make a syrup of one cup of water, and half

as much sugar; stir until the sugar is dissolved, and pour over the

apples. Cover closely, and bake slowly until tender. Draw from the

oven, and let the apples cool without uncovering. Pour off the syrup,

and fill the hollowed centres with some bright fruit jelly.

Boil down the syrup fast, until quite thick, and, just before sending

the apples to table, stir into it some rich cream sweetened very

abundantly. Pass with the apples.

BOILED CHESTNUTS.

Put into warm (not hot) water, slightly salted, bring to a boil, and

cook fast fifteen minutes. Turn off the water through a cullender; stir

a good piece of butter into the hot chestnuts, tossing them over and

over until they are glossy and dry.

Serve upon a hot napkin in a deep dish.

WALNUTS AND HICKORY NUTS.

Crack and pick from the shells; sprinkle salt lightly over them, and

serve mixed in the same dish.

Black walnuts are much more wholesome when eaten with salt. Indeed,

they are not wholesome at all without it.

MELONS.

Wipe watermelons clean when they are taken from the ice. They should

lie on, or in ice, for at least four hours before they are eaten. Carve

at table by slicing off each end, then cutting the middle in sharp,

long points, letting the knife go half way through the melon at every

stroke. Pull the halves apart, and you will have a dentated crown.

Wash nutmeg and muskmelons; wipe dry; cut in two, scrape out the seeds,

and put a lump of ice in each half.

Eat with sugar, or with mixed pepper and salt.

CAKES OF ALL KINDS.

NELLIE’S CUP CAKE. +

5 cups of flour.

5 eggs, whites and yolks separated—the latter strained.

1 cup of butter, }

3 cups of sugar, } well creamed together.

1 cup of sweet milk.

1 teaspoonful soda, dissolved in hot water.

2 teaspoonfuls of cream tartar, sifted with flour.

1 teaspoonful of vanilla.

If prepared flour be used in this or any other cake, there is no need

of soda and cream of tartar.

Hecker’s flour I have found invaluable in cake-making. Indeed, I have

never achieved anything short of triumphant success when I have used it.

CAROLINA CAKE (WITHOUT EGGS.) +

1 coffee-cup of sugar—powdered.

2 large table-spoonfuls butter, rubbed into the sugar.

1½ cups of flour.

½ cup sweet cream.

½ teaspoonful of soda.

Bake quickly in small tins, and eat while fresh and warm.

WHITE CAKE. +

1 cup of butter, }

2 cups of sugar, } rubbed to a light cream.

1 cup of sweet milk.

6 eggs, the whites only—beaten stiff.

½ teaspoonful of soda, dissolved in boiling water.

1 teaspoonful of cream tartar, sifted with flour.

4 cups of flour, or enough for tolerably thick batter.

Juice of 1 lemon, and half the grated peel.

CHOCOLATE CAKE. +

2 cups of sugar.

4 table-spoonfuls butter, rubbed in with the sugar.

4 eggs, whites and yolks beaten separately.

1 cup sweet milk.

3 heaping cups of flour.

1 teaspoonful of cream tartar, sifted into flour.

½ teaspoonful soda, melted in hot water.

Bake in jelly cake tins.

_Filling._

Whites of two eggs, beaten to a froth.

1 cup of powdered sugar.

¼ pound grated chocolate, wet in 1 table-spoonful cream.

1 teaspoonful vanilla.

Beat the sugar into the whipped whites; then the chocolate. Whisk all

together hard for three minutes before adding the vanilla. Let the cake

get quite cold before you spread it. Reserve a little of the mixture

for the top, and beat more sugar into this to form a firm icing.

APPLE CAKE. +

2 cups powdered sugar.

3 cups of flour.

½ cup corn-starch, wet up with a little milk.

½ cup of butter, rubbed to light cream with sugar.

½ cup sweet milk.

1 teaspoonful cream of tartar, sifted with flour.

½ teaspoonful soda, dissolved in hot water.

6 eggs, the whites only, whipped very stiff.

Add the milk to the creamed butter and sugar; the soda-water,

corn-starch, then the flour and whites alternately. Bake in jelly cake

tins.

_Filling._

3 tart, well-flavored apples, grated.

1 egg, beaten light.

1 cup of sugar.

1 lemon, grated peel and juice.

Beat sugar and egg up with the lemon. Pare the apples and grate

them directly into this mixture, letting an assistant stir it the

while. The color will be better preserved by this method. Put into a

farina-kettle, with boiling water in the outer vessel, and stir until

it comes to a boil. Let it cool before putting it between the cakes.

It is best eaten fresh.

ORANGE CAKE.

3 table-spoonfuls butter.

2 cups of sugar.

Yolks of 5 eggs, whites of three, beaten separately—the yolks strained

through a sieve after they are whipped.

1 cup of cold water.

3 full cups of flour—enough for good batter.

1 large orange, the juice, and half the grated peel.

½ teaspoonful soda, dissolved in hot water.

1 teaspoonful cream of tartar, sifted in flour.

Cream the butter and sugar; add the eggs; heat in the orange, the

water, soda, and stir in the flour quickly.

Bake in jelly cake tins.

_Filling._

Whites of two eggs, whisked stiff.

1 cup powdered sugar.

Juice, and half the peel of an orange.

Whip very light, and spread between the cakes when cold.

Reserve a little, and whip more sugar into it for frosting on top layer.

CHARLOTTE POLONAISE CAKE. (_Very fine._) +

2 cups powdered sugar.

½ cup of butter.

4 eggs, whites and yolks beaten separately.

1 small cup of cream, or rich milk.

3 cups of prepared flour.

Bake as for jelly cake.

_Filling._

6 eggs, whipped very light.

2 table-spoonfuls flour.

3 cups of cream—scalding hot.

6 table-spoonfuls grated chocolate.

6 table-spoonfuls powdered sugar.

½ pound sweet almonds, blanched and pounded.

¼ pound chopped citron.

¼ pound apricots, peaches, or other crystallized fruit.

½ pound macaroons.

Beat the yolks of the eggs very light. Stir into the cream the flour

which has been previously wet with a little cold milk.

Add very carefully the beaten yolks, and keep the mixture at a slow

boil, stirring all the time, for five minutes. Take from the fire

and divide the custard into three equal portions. Put the grated

chocolate, with the macaroons, finely crumbled (or pounded), with one

table-spoonful of sugar, into one pan of the mixture, stirring and

beating well. Boil five minutes, stirring constantly; take from the

fire, whip with your egg-beater five minutes more, and set aside to

cool.

Pound the blanched almonds—a few at a time—in a Wedgewood mortar,

adding, now and then, a few drops of rose-water. Chop the citron very

fine and mix with the almonds, adding three table-spoonfuls of sugar.

Stir into the second portion of custard; heat to a slow boil; take it

off and set by to cool.

Chop the crystallized fruit very small, and put with the third cupful

of custard. Heat to a boil; pour out and let it cool.

Season the chocolate custard with vanilla; the almond and citron with

bitter almond. The fruit will require no other flavoring. When quite

cold, lay out four cakes made according to receipt given here, or bake

at the same time a white cake in jelly-cake tins, and alternate with

that. This will give you two good loaves. Put the chocolate filling

between the first and second cakes; next, the almond and citron; the

fruit custard next to the top. There will be enough for both loaves.

Ice the tops with lemon icing, made of the whites of the eggs whisked

very stiff with powdered sugar, and flavored with lemon-juice.

Lest the reader should, at a casual glance through this receipt, be

appalled at the length and the number of ingredients, let me say that

I have made the “polonaise” frequently at the cost of little more time

and trouble than is required for an ordinary cream or chocolate cake. I

would rather make three such, than one loaf of rich fruit-cake.

A CHARLOTTE CACHÉE CAKE.

1 thick loaf of sponge, or other plain cake.

2 kinds of jelly—tart and sweet.

Whisked whites of 5 eggs.

1 heaping cup powdered sugar—or enough to make stiff icing.

Juice of 1 lemon whipped into the icing.

Cut the cake horizontally into five or six slices of uniform width.

Spread each slice with jelly—first the tart, then the sweet, and fit

them into their former places. Ice thickly all over, so as to leave no

sign of the slices; set in a slow oven for a few minutes to harden;

then, in a sunny window.

This is an easy way of making a showy cake out of a plain one.

FANNY’S CAKE. +

1 pound powdered sugar.

1 pound flour—Hecker’s “prepared.”

¼ pound butter rubbed to a cream with the sugar.

8 eggs, whites and yolks beaten separately.

1 coffee-cupful sweet almonds—blanched.

Extract of bitter almond and rose-water.

Blanch the almonds in boiling water. Strip off the skins and spread

them upon a dry cloth until perfectly cold and crisp. Pound in a

Wedgewood mortar, adding rose-water as you go on, and, at the last,

half a teaspoonful bitter almond extract.

Stir the creamed butter and sugar and yolks together until _very_

light; add to this the flour, handful by handful; then the almond

paste, alternately with the whites. Beat vigorously up from the bottom,

two or three minutes.

Bake in small tins, well buttered. When cold, turn them out and cover

tops and sides with—

_Almond Icing._

Whites of 3 eggs, whisked to a standing froth.

¾ pound of powdered sugar.

½ pound of sweet almonds blanched and pounded to a paste. When beaten

fine and smooth, work gradually into the icing. Flavor with lemon-juice

and rose-water.

This frosting is delicious. Dry in the open air when this is

practicable.

MOTHER’S CUP CAKE.

1 cup of butter, }

2 cups of sugar, } creamed together.

3 cups of flour.

4 eggs beaten light—the yolks strained.

1 cup sweet milk—a small one.

1 teaspoonful of soda, dissolved in hot water.

2 teaspoonfuls cream of tartar sifted into the flour.

Nutmeg and vanilla flavoring.

Bake in a loaf, or as jelly-cake.

RAISIN CAKE.

1 pound powdered sugar.

1 pound flour.

½ pound butter rubbed to light cream with sugar.

1 cup sweet milk.

5 eggs, whites and yolks whipped separately, and the latter strained.

1 pound raisins, stoned, cut in half, dredged with flour, and put into

the cake just before it goes into the oven.

1 teaspoonful mixed cloves, cinnamon and nutmeg.

½ teaspoonful of soda dissolved in hot water.

1 teaspoonful cream of tartar, sifted in the flour.

Beat very hard after it is mixed, and bake in small loaves, in a steady

oven.

NEAPOLITAN CAKE. + (_Yellow, pink, white and brown._)

_Yellow._

2 cups powdered sugar.

1 cup butter stirred to light cream with sugar.

5 eggs—beaten well, yolks and whites separately.

½ cupful sweet milk.

3 cups prepared flour.

A little nutmeg.

_Pink and White._

1 pound sugar—powdered.

1 pound prepared flour.

½ pound butter creamed with sugar.

10 eggs—the whites only—whisked stiff.

Divide this batter into two equal portions. Leave one white, and color

the other with a very little prepared cochineal. Use it cautiously, as

a few drops too much will ruin the color.

_Brown._

3 eggs beaten light.

1 cup powdered sugar.

¼ cup of butter creamed with sugar.

2 table-spoonfuls cream.

1 _heaping_ cup prepared flour.

2 table-spoonfuls vanilla chocolate grated and rubbed smooth in the

cream, before it is beaten into the cake.

Bake all in jelly-cake tins. The above quantity should make one dozen

cakes—three of each color. Of course, half as much will suffice for an

ordinary family baking. But it is convenient to prepare it wholesale in

this manner for a large supper, for a charity bazaar entertainment, or

a church “sociable.”

_Filling._

1st. 2 cups sweet milk.

2 table-spoonfuls corn-starch, wet with milk.

2 eggs.

2 small cups powdered sugar.

Heat the milk, stir in the sugar and corn-starch; boil five minutes and

put in the eggs. Stir steadily until quite thick. Divide this custard

into two parts. Stir into one 2 table-spoonfuls of chocolate (grated)

and a teaspoonful of vanilla; into the other bitter almond.

2d. Whites of three eggs, whisked stiff.

1 cup of powdered sugar—heaping.

Juice, and half the grated peel of 1 lemon.

Whip up well. Lay the brown cake as the foundation of the pile; spread

with the yellow custard. Put the pink, coated with chocolate, next, and

the white frosting between the third and fourth cakes—_i.e._ the white

and yellow. You can vary the order as your fancy dictates. Cover the

top with powdered sugar, or ice it.

This cake looks very handsome cut into slices and mixed with plain, in

baskets or salvers. You can hardly do better than to undertake it, if

you have promised a liberal contribution to any of the objects above

named.

ORLEANS CAKE.

1 liberal pound best flour, dried and sifted.

1 pound powdered sugar.

¾ pound butter, rubbed to a cream with the sugar.

6 eggs beaten light, and the yolks strained.

1 cup cream.

1 glass best brandy.

1 teaspoonful mixed mace and cinnamon.

1 teaspoonful soda, dissolved in hot water.

2 teaspoonfuls cream of tartar sifted with flour.

Add the strained yolks to the creamed butter and sugar; to this, the

cream and soda—then, in alternate supplies, the whites and flour;

finally, spice and brandy. Beat up hard for three minutes, and bake in

two square loaves. The oven should not be too quick, but steady. Cover

with paper if the cake shows signs of crustiness on the top before it

has risen to the proper height. It should bake one hour.

Cover with lemon frosting when it is cool.

It is a good cake, and keeps well.

MORRIS CAKE. +

2 cups powdered sugar.

1 cup butter, creamed with the sugar.

4 cups flour.

5 eggs beaten light, the yolks strained.

1 rather large cup _sour_ cream, or loppered milk.

½ grated nutmeg.

1 teaspoonful vanilla.

1 teaspoonful of soda, dissolved in hot water.

Stir beaten yolks, butter, and sugar together, and beat _very_ light.

Put in nutmeg and vanilla, the sour cream, half the flour, the

soda-water, and the rest of the flour. Beat with steady strokes five

minutes, bringing up batter from the bottom of the bowl at every sweep

of the wooden spoon. In this way you drive the air into the cells

of the egg-batter, instead of _out_ of them. This is a knack in the

cake-maker’s art that is too little understood and practised.

Remember, then, that the _motion should always be upward, and the spoon

always come up full_.

Bake in two loaves, or several smaller ones. The oven should not be too

quick.

MONT BLANC CAKE. +

2 even cups of powdered sugar.

¾ cup butter, creamed with sugar.

Whites of 5 eggs, very stiff.

1 cup of milk.

3 cups of flour, or enough for good batter.

1 teaspoonful soda, dissolved in hot water.

2 teaspoonfuls of cream of tartar, sifted in flour.

Vanilla flavoring.

Bake in jelly-cake tins.

_Filling._

Whites of three eggs, whisked stiff.

1 heaping cup powdered sugar.

1 cocoanut, pared and grated.

Mix all lightly together, taking care not to bruise the cocoanut, and

when the cakes are perfectly cold, spread between, and upon them.

CREAM ROSE CAKE. (_Very pretty._) +

Whites of 10 eggs, beaten to standing froth.

1 cup butter, creamed with sugar.

3 cups powdered sugar.

1 small cup of sweet cream.

_Nearly_ 5 cups prepared flour.

Vanilla flavoring, and liquid cochineal.

Stir the cream (into which it is safe to put a pinch of soda) into the

butter and sugar. Beat five minutes with “the Dover,” until the mixture

is like whipped cream. Flavor with vanilla, and put in by turns the

whites and the flour. Color a fine pink with cochineal. Bake in four

jelly-cake tins. When cold, spread with,

_Filling._

1½ cocoanuts, pared and grated.