Monday—Meat and sundries $2.90

Cream .10

Yeast .02

Tuesday—Oysters .12

Steak .30

Lima Beans .05

Wednesday—Extra milk for soup .04

Thursday—Smelts .10

3 pounds beef .35

Pork .10

Lettuce .05

Friday—Cauliflower .10

Milk for soup .04

Clams .15

Soup bone .15

Saturday—Veal cutlets, 1½ pounds .27

Chicken .50

Bacon .14

Extra butter .25

Milk for week .56

Ice, 100 pounds .40

Fuel .50

———

$7.19

Molly had added to the supplies she had ordered for the month, which,

it will be remembered, amounted to $9.86, the following articles:

Macaroni $0.20

Nutmegs .10

Lemons .20

Carrots, turnips, onions .36

Apples .40

Parsley .05

Thyme .05

———

$1.36

which brought the amount to $11.22; one fourth of which, $2.80, added

to $7.19, made the week’s expenditure $9.99.

“Now, although that amount has been spent this week, you must remember

that of several of the articles bought, a little is left, and I have

not to begin this week without a scrap in the house as I had the last,”

explained Molly. “We need ice only a week or two longer, but when that

need ceases we shall require more fuel; but I think a dollar a week

_all the year round_ will average ice and fuel, so I shall allow that.

We shall use $2 a week for a few weeks, but barely 50 cents the rest of

the year.”

Molly laid the accounts before her husband as she finished, and he

gravely looked them over.

“And if, this month, I come out even five cents ahead, we may count

ourselves safe, for buying in the very small quantities I am now

doing is an extravagant way. But I wanted to make sure my ‘paper

housekeeping’ would work in practice.”

There was rather an anxious look in Harry’s eyes as he read over the

accounts. He was afraid Molly had sadly miscalculated, and he hated to

prove her at fault, although he loved to poke fun at her.

“What’s the matter?” asked his wife, starting up and looking over his

shoulder.

“Only, dear, if you remember, we had chicken in one form or other

several times this week, but there is only one chicken counted, and

that is to-day. Also lamb chops we have had several times.” He glanced

up at her deprecatingly, for he felt such criticism ungracious, yet

necessary; but Molly was quite serene.

“The box of chicken in Monday’s bill was all I’ve used; the chops

also were from Monday. There’s one thing, though, I will call your

attention to, and that is, that the most expensive meal we have had

was the steak, yet people who use steak every day are supposed to live

_plainly_ and _economically_.”

“Then we come out wonderfully, I acknowledge.”

“This week, of course, Marta has simply seen how I want things done;

next week I want her to actually do the cooking from recipes. Do you

think you can stand last week’s dinners all over again?”

“Of course, my dear; why not?”

“That’s well, because if I teach her new things before she has learnt

these thoroughly, she will get confused. I want to feel that there are

a few things I can absolutely trust her to do. Then I can go on to

fresh fields, so you may have things that are difficult to cook rather

oftener than I like, till Marta is capable.”

“I shall not object to aid in Marta’s education so far,” said Harry.

CHAPTER X.

DETAILS OF MOLLY’S MANAGEMENT—RECIPES.

MOLLY had not entered so fully into matters with Harry as she would

have done had he been a woman; but as this story is to tell, not only

what Molly did, but how she did it, I must be a little more explicit.

She found herself on Wednesday with a breast of lamb, eight chops, half

a box of boned chicken, and a small piece of steak. The chops were good

for two breakfasts; the chicken, prepared as for croquettes, would make

either eight of those, or three croquettes, three rissoles, and some

fritters. Now, as eight croquettes for two people would be waste, since

they were only an _entrée_, the main dinner being something else, she

had no idea of that, but rissoles, fritters and croquettes being all

prepared alike, and keeping better in that way, she made the mixture,

and used enough for the three croquettes, leaving the rest in the

ice-box for use another day. Part of the chops she would not want to

use till the end of the week, and keeping them quite sweet she made

all the fat that had come from the lamb (dripping and trimmings, etc.)

boiling hot, then laid the chops in it—_seethed_ them, as it were—for

one minute, then put them away with the coat of fat on them, to be

scraped off when they were to be cooked.

For the clam soup a pint and a half was all that was needed, and the

liquor, with half the clams, was all that she used; the rest she

scalloped for breakfast.

It was in making no more of each dish than they could eat (but allowing

_plenty_ for kitchen as well as dining-room) that Molly was able

to have what seemed a surprising table,—that and one other thing,

allowing _nothing whatever_ to be wasted. The piece of steak left from

Tuesday’s dinner was fag end; it was put away, and when the hash was

made for Friday morning from the remains of _à la mode_ beef, the steak

was just the thing to add to it.

For lunch there had always been enough in the house from dinner

the night before. As it was her plan to put Marta more on her own

responsibility the following week, she had prepared for that purpose

the recipes of the principal things; and as Marta’s mistakes and

difficulties might occur to others, the working of them out in her

hands will be more instructive than recounting Molly’s certain success.

The recipes were as follows:—

HASHED LAMB.—The remains of ragout of lamb, freed from bone, chopped

with the vegetables, the gravy, and a tea-spoonful of butter and one of

Worcestershire sauce added; the whole made boiling hot, and served on

fried bread.

SOUFFLÉ BREAD.—Two eggs, two table-spoonfuls of flour, in which

half a tea-spoonful of baking-powder is sifted; beat yolks and a

table-spoonful of butter, melted, together, then add flour and _just_

milk enough to make a _very thick_ batter; add a pinch of salt and

a tea-spoonful of sugar; whip whites of eggs to a firm froth, and

stir gently in. Have ready a small iron spider (or earthen pan is

still better), made hot, with a dessert-spoonful of butter also hot,

but not so hot as for frying; pour the mixture, which should be like

sponge-cake batter, into the pan, cover with a lid or tin plate, and

set it back of the stove if the fire is good—if slow, it may be quite

forward. When well risen, almost like omelet soufflé, set it in the

oven five minutes to brown the top; if the oven is cool, you may very

carefully turn it, so as not to deaden it; serve when done, under side

uppermost. It should be a fine golden brown.

Soufflé bread may be _baked_ in a thick tin, with rather more butter

than enough to grease it, but the oven must be very hot indeed, and it

should be covered till thoroughly puffed up, then allowed to brown.

TOMATO CREAM SOUP.—Put six ripe tomatoes on to stew; when done, boil

one pint of milk in a double boiler, mix two tea-spoonfuls (large) of

flour with very little milk till smooth, then stir it into the boiling

milk; cook ten minutes. To the tomato put a salt-spoonful, _scant_, of

soda, stir well, then rub through a strainer fine enough to keep back

seeds; add a dessert-spoonful of butter to the milk, stirring well,

then the tomato, and serve immediately.

BREAST OF LAMB ROASTED.—Take out the bones with a small, sharp knife;

put them on to boil with a piece of carrot and a slice of onion, a pint

of water and a bay leaf; boil for two hours till reduced to less than

half. Roll the breast (it may be seasoned with pepper, salt and chopped

parsley before rolling) and skewer it, then brush it over with egg and

roll in cracker crumbs; bake in a good oven an hour and a half, basting

often. It should be very well browned, but not burnt. When done take

it up, put a dessert-spoonful of butter in the pan, which set on the

stove, then add a scant one of flour; let them brown together, stirring

the while; strain to it the gravy from the bones, stirring quickly to

prevent lumps, season to taste, add a tea-spoonful of lemon juice or

vinegar, and pour round the meat.

CHICKEN CROQUETTES.—Half a box of boned chicken, or half a chicken;

chop it fine, flavor with a few mushrooms, or a little oyster liquor,

or oysters chopped, or a very little ham, or simply a piece of onion

as large as a hazel-nut, scalded and chopped _very_ fine, and a

tea-spoonful of _finely_ chopped parsley. In flavoring this (and other

dishes) take advantage of what may be in the house suitable. Put a

table-spoonful of butter in a small saucepan with a table-spoonful

of flour, stir till they bubble, then put into a half-pint measure a

gill of strong stock made from bones (Molly had bruised up the bones

from the shoulder of lamb and boiled them down) and, if you have it, a

gill of cream or milk (unless you have oyster or mushroom liquor, when

_half_ a gill of cream), and fill up with either of them (the liquid,

of whatever kind, must be just half a pint to this quantity); pour

this on the butter and flour, and stir till it forms a _thick_, smooth

sauce; boil five minutes, season highly, and then mix the chicken with

it; stir together, and pour it out on a plate, and put it to get quite

cold and firm. If no stock is used, an egg must be stirred into the

sauce, moving it a few seconds from the fire before adding it, or it

will curdle. When it is cold and stiff, put plenty of cracker meal on

a board, beat an egg with a table-spoonful of water, cut the chicken

mixture into strips, roll it between the hands into shapes like wine

corks, _no larger_, put each one into the egg, then into the cracker

meal, taking care the egg has covered every part and the meal coats it

thoroughly. As each is done, lay it on a plate of cracker meal. They

may be prepared an hour or two before they are needed. To fry them, the

fat must be so hot that bread dropped into it will color well in thirty

seconds; arrange a few at a time in a frying basket, set it in the hot

fat; two minutes will make them golden brown; if left longer, or made

too large, they will burst.

RISSOLES.—Take a little fine paste,—any trimmings will do,—roll it as

_thin as paper_, cut it into squares three inches by four, lay on each

a strip as thick as your finger of the chicken mixture, and roll up,

wetting the edges of the paste and pressing together, so that there

will be no oozing out; egg and crumb the same as croquettes, and fry

_four_ minutes.

CHICKEN FRITTERS.—Make some good batter thus: a cup of flour sifted;

melt a table-spoonful of butter in a scant cup of _warm_ water, which

pour by degrees to the flour, making a batter thick enough to mask the

back of a spoon dipped in it; salt to taste; add, the last thing, the

white of an egg well beaten. Make the chicken mixture into balls the

size of small walnuts, flatten a little, dip into the batter, and drop

from the spoon into _very hot_ fat, the same as croquettes.

PEACH PUDDING.—A cup of flour, one tea-spoonful of baking-powder

sifted in it; make into a very thick batter with three parts of a

cup of milk, beat two eggs very light with a quarter cup of sugar,

add a pinch of salt, mix, and then stir in as many cut-up peaches as

you can; butter a bowl thoroughly, nearly fill with the mixture, tie

a cloth over it, and plunge into _fast_ boiling water; boil one hour,

taking care that ebullition _never ceases_ while the pudding is in the

saucepan, or it will be soggy. Serve with cream, or soft custard, or

hard sauce.

PEACH FRITTERS are made by the same recipe, but dropped by the spoonful

in boiling lard.

FRIED SMELTS.—Cleanse and dry them, then dip them in milk, then in

flour; shake off superfluous flour, and then egg and crumb them the

same as chops, laying each fish when done on a bed of cracker meal.

Make the lard as hot as for croquettes, and drop them in five or six at

a time. If the lard is hot enough they will brown in two minutes.

BEEF À LA MODE.—Three pounds of the vein or any coarse part of beef

that is solid meat, and half a pound of fat pork. Pierce the meat in

several places with a knife, and into each hole thus made put a strip

of pork; lay the beef in an earthen pan, with a bay leaf, a sprig

of thyme, four sprigs of parsley, two onions, medium size, with a

clove stuck in each, half a blade of mace, half a carrot and turnip,

a wine-glass of cooking-sherry, and a gallon of water, with half a

salt-spoonful of pepper. The pan should not be much larger than the

meat. Cover closely, using a common flour and water paste round the

edges to prevent the steam escaping, and set in a good oven three

hours. The wine may be omitted, and a wine-glass more water added, with

a table-spoonful of Worcestershire sauce and half one of vinegar. When

done, take up the meat carefully, strain the gravy, skim and season,

and pour it over the meat. Don’t add the salt till the gravy is done,

as pork varies so much that you may get it too salt with very little

added; you must go by taste.

CONES OF CARROTS AND TURNIPS.—Boil them separately in quarters,

using white turnips; chop each fine in a chopping-bowl, put a

dessert-spoonful of butter with them, season with _white_ pepper and

salt, then press them into a cone shape—a wine-glass will answer—and

stand them in alternate cones of the yellow carrot and white turnips

round the beef _à la mode_ or corned beef.

CHEESE FRITTERS.—Grate two ounces of cheese with two dessert-spoonfuls

of bread crumbs, a half tea-spoonful of dry mustard, a dessert-spoonful

of butter, a speck of cayenne, and the yolk of an egg; pound with a

potato-masher till smooth and well mixed, then proceed as for chicken

fritters.

AMBER PUDDING.—Two eggs, their weight in sugar, butter, flour, and the

juice and grated peel of one lemon. Beat the yolks, with the sugar,

lemon juice, and butter softened, till very light; sift in the flour

and grated peel, butter a small bowl or mould, pour the mixture in and

boil two hours.

BISQUE OF CLAMS.—For one pint and a half of soup take a dozen large

clams; stew them fifteen minutes in their own liquor, to which water

is added to make three gills. Boil three gills of milk; stir one

dessert-spoonful of butter and one of flour in a small saucepan till

they bubble; then pour the boiling milk quickly on them, stirring all

the while; stand it aside. Squeeze each clam with a lemon-squeezer, and

you will find little but an empty skin remains; strain the clams and

liquor to the thick white sauce already made, pressing as much juice

out as possible; then stir well, bring all to a boil, and remove from

the fire while you beat the yolk of an egg with two table-spoonfuls of

the soup; stir it to the rest and season to taste. Take care the soup

is boiling hot, yet does not boil after the egg is added, or it will

curdle.

SCALLOPED CLAMS.—Take a _small_ cup of the bisque of clams, before the

egg is added, and save it for the scallop. Scald ten or a dozen clams,

cut out the hard part, chop the rest fine. Butter tin scallop shells

or little saucers thickly, strew them with bread crumbs, put a layer

of clams with pepper, a layer of crumbs, and enough of the soup to

moisten them; then more clams, more pepper, and crumbs over the top,

and then a _thin_ covering of the soup, and bake a rich brown. Serve a

cut lemon with them. Be careful not to get too much soup on them,—they

should be moist, not wet, and be served very hot. Add a little salt if

the clams are not salt enough, but it is seldom necessary.

CAULIFLOWER OMELET.—Two eggs, a half cup of cold cauliflower with the

sauce; mash the cauliflower and sauce, beat the yolks of eggs with it,

then beat the whites till they will not slip from the dish, and stir

them gently in; add pepper and salt, and fry as any other omelet.

As Molly had given minute directions to Marta for frying omelet

already, she did not repeat them in her recipes. When Molly had made

the brown hash for breakfast, she had laid aside some of the nicest

slices of the cold _à la mode_ beef and the gravy for

BEEF AU GRATIN.—Put a layer of bread crumbs in a small dish, then a

layer of fat pork cut thin as a wafer, then a layer of beef, on which

strew a very little chopped onion and parsley, pepper and salt; then

another layer of the shaved pork, more beef, and cover the top with

bread crumbs; over all pour gravy enough to moisten it well, and bake

slowly one hour.

CUSTARD PIE.—Line the dish with light paste (Molly used what was

left after making the lemon pie,—puff paste will keep a week in

the ice-box), beat one egg, mix with a small cup of milk and one

table-spoonful of sugar, pour it into the pie, grate nutmeg over, and

bake in an oven that is very hot on the bottom.

CLEAR SOUP.—Three pounds of soup-meat, or a soup-bone weighing that;

gash the meat well and put to it three quarts of cold water and three

tea-spoonfuls of salt, half one of pepper, one small carrot, one

turnip, one large onion—each must weigh three ounces _after peeling_;

stick one clove in the onion, cut the vegetables, and when the meat has

slowly boiled two hours, add the vegetables and cook three hours more.

By _slow boiling_ is meant just an occasional bubble in the centre of

the pot. Skim just as the meat comes to the boil, then throw in half a

cup of cold water; take off the scum that will now rise rapidly, adding

a little cold water again when it begins to boil. Skim again after

the vegetables are in, and when done, strain. When cold, take off the

fat; don’t shake the soup, but pour through a clean cloth, all but the

sediment, which keep to make gravy. It must never boil fast, or it will

be cloudy and taste poor. There will be two quarts and a pint of fine,

clear soup, if the boiling has been so slow as to waste very little.

CHICKEN PIE.—Put the neck, gizzard, and feet, scalded, of a chicken

in nearly a pint of water with a small spoonful of salt and a slice

of onion and a piece of carrot as big as your thumb. Let them stew

_slowly_ till there is not more than a gill of liquid, which strain and

put aside; when cold it will be hard jelly. Lay in the bottom of a deep

oval dish that holds rather more than three quarts, about half a pound

of veal cutlet (or beefsteak if you prefer) finely chopped across, yet

not made into sausage-meat; sprinkle on it a scant salt-spoonful of

salt and a little pepper, shave nice sweet salt pork and put a thin

layer of that; then put in the chicken, neatly divided into small

joints, sprinkling each with a little salt and pepper, and always pile

toward the centre; when full add forcemeat balls made thus: Chop _very

finely_ a heaped tea-spoonful of parsley, rub a scant salt-spoonful of

thyme leaves to fine powder (this is easily done if they are put to

stand in a hot place a few minutes before rubbing, taking care they

do not burn), add to them a tea-cup of fine bread crumbs and just

one grate of nutmeg, the nutmeg drawn sharply _once_ up and down the

grater; chop into this a good tea-spoonful of butter, and wet all with

the yolk of an egg; now add a little salt and pepper, tasting to see

when there is enough; make into little round balls and drop into the

pie wherever there is a chink, and pour over all half a cup of water.

Now roll out some rough puff paste (made as for lemon pie), cut strips

half an inch thick and two broad, wet the edges of the dish and lay

this round lightly. If the chicken is packed in the shape of a dome

it will slope from the sides, and the paste can be pressed round the

_inside_ edge to make it adhere to the dish; wet it slightly, then roll

the paste for a cover half an inch thick; lay it on, press, with your

forefinger laid flat to form a groove between the chicken and the dish,

so that the inner edge of the under paste adheres to the upper one;

don’t press the _outer_ edge at all; trim round with a sharp knife,

make a good-sized hole in the centre and ornament with twisted paste,

or as you choose; brush all over with white of egg (not the edges, or

they will not rise) and bake an hour and a quarter in a good steady

oven. Before it is cold, pour the gravy made from giblets through the

hole in the top, using a funnel for the purpose. This pie is excellent

cold, but if made the day before using, when made hot it will take

quite half an hour to heat through. Lay a paper over to protect the

crust.

CHAPTER XI.

WHAT TO DO WITH A SOUP-BONE.

“I DON’T think there is any more painful fact connected with a small

income than one’s inability to do anything for the distress one hears

of,” said Harry as he chipped an egg at breakfast on Sunday morning.

“I feel that too, very keenly; but are you thinking of any special

instance?”

“Yes, a poor fellow was killed a few weeks ago on the track here, and

he left a delicate wife and three little children. They were taking up

a collection in the cars for her yesterday. I contributed my mite, of

course; but what are a few dollars in a case like that? They say he had

been out of work for weeks before he got the employment that led to his

death, and that if some more permanent help does not reach them, they

will be near starvation this winter.”

“Oh, surely not, certainly not, if people only know of the distress;

each one will do a little, and so very little will keep hunger from

them,” said Molly confidently.

“Well, I hope so, but unfortunately times are very hard, and these

people are strangers, while all Greenfield charity is needed for the

well-known poor.”

“Well, I believe in each one doing the duty that lies before him

without waiting to see if others do theirs. We are strangers here, too;

so perhaps we have the best right to help those like ourselves.”

“But, my dear Molly,” expostulated Harry, “we can but just meet our own

expenses.”

“I know, but if there is any real need we _must_ do our part; not as

I should like to do it, for to a needy family I would _like_ to give

beefsteak and comforts as well as necessities, but that we can’t do.

What we can we will. Can we spare a dollar a month, do you think, from

our twenty dollars margin?”

“Why, of course, if you say so.”

“I do, if necessary. I will see the woman and judge if the need is very

pressing, and then, perhaps, some of our neighbors will do something.”

“You’re a brick, Molly, my dear, but what you may be thinking of I

don’t know.”

“If the necessity is great I can do something; if it is not, the woman

may despise what I _can_ do.”

No more was said, but next morning, on her way back from the depot,

after seeing Harry off, she went to a row of tiny tenements, built on

the street through which the railroad passed, evidently the homes of

the very poor, and in one of which she was told Mrs. Gibbs was to be

found.

In the very poorest of the very poor little group, she found the widow

and her fatherless children, the oldest only five, the youngest not

six weeks old. The mother looked so frail and white that Molly’s heart

ached to think that what _she_ could do was hardly the sort of help

this poor soul needed. Surely beef tea, and milk and eggs, and every

nourishing thing was required to build up that fragile frame. And

all she would be sure of giving was bread and occasionally, perhaps,

a savory meal. How she wished she knew more people whom she might

influence for the right kind of help!

She talked to Mrs. Gibbs, and learned that her poor husband had been in

work only a fortnight, after being months idle from sickness, when the

accident happened, and that the baby was only three days old when its

father died.

“At first every one was good; they came and helped me and did a great

deal; but there are so many needing help. I could not expect it all to

be given to me, and I did think I might get a little sewing when I was

out of bed, but I have no machine, and so I can only earn a few cents a

week. What I should have done I don’t know, if a kind gentleman hadn’t

made a collection in his car for me, and brought me on Saturday $12,

which is owing for two months’ rent.”

“And you will have it _all_ to pay away?” cried Molly.

“Yes, ma’am, I must, but oh, I’m so thankful to have it. The dread of

losing the roof over us is worse than hunger or anything.”

“But surely you have not needed food?”

The tears came to the woman’s eyes.

“I’m never hungry, but the children are, and yet I think if I could get

good food for a week or two, I should get strong and could do work.”

“That food she must have,” thought Molly. “At all events, for a few

days she shall have half a pound of steak or a chop. I believe her.

That delicate look is semi-starvation.”

Molly bought at the butcher’s that morning one pound of the tender side

of the round steak. It cost sixteen cents, and she intended Mrs. Gibbs

to have one third for three days.

“Then when she has one nourishing solid meal a day she can make up on

other things, and the dollar we have squeezed out for her must be made

to go as far as possible.”

When Molly had made her clear soup on Saturday she had looked

regretfully at the couple of pounds of meat and vegetables that were

strained from it, wishing she knew to whom to give it, as her own

family was not large enough to need it, and hoping some one might

ask for food at the door. She had kept it, also about a cup of the

soup that was thick at the bottom (the richest part, although for

appearance’ sake it must not be used with _clear_ soup).

She had a use for it now: it would make a savory hash, not nourishing

enough for an invalid like Mrs. Gibbs to depend on, but good for her

children and herself, in addition to the steak.

Marta was busy washing; so, soon after eleven, Molly chopped the meat

and vegetables quite fine, added about a third the quantity of cold

mashed potato to it, a tea-spoonful of Worcestershire sauce, and a

table-spoonful of flour. This she moistened with a half cup of the soup

and seasoned it with pepper and salt. Then she greased a deep yellow

pie-plate, put the hash in it and set it in the oven.

Having some kind of hot bread every morning, Molly used but very little

bread. She had made a loaf on Saturday which was more than half left.

She must give that, and make a few quick rolls for their own dinner.

While the hash was getting brown she put a pint of flour to dry and

warm, and the third of a cake of compressed yeast to dissolve in a cup

of warm milk, into which, when well mixed, she stirred a table-spoonful

of butter till it got soft, and then the beaten yolk of an egg, two

tea-spoonfuls of sugar and one half of salt.

She made a hole in the flour, poured in the milk, etc., and stirred

them together, adding a little more warm milk till it was a thick

paste, too stiff for batter, yet not stiff enough for dough,—_just

as stiff as it would be stirred with a spoon_. She beat it for five

minutes, and then set it, covered with a cloth, in a warm place.

The hash was now quite brown; and, as Molly had no one to send to-day,

she put on her bonnet and took it and the bread and piece of steak to

Mrs. Gibbs, begging her to cook and eat the latter for herself.

“I will for baby’s sake. Thank you! Oh, thank you!”

At two o’clock the rolls Molly had set had risen to the top of the

bowl, which had been half full. She beat them down with a spoon

thoroughly, covered them again and put them to rise, and in an hour

they were again light. The dough was beaten down, a dozen gem-pans

were greased, and a scant table-spoonful of the paste put into each;

the paste was so thick and ropy that it was difficult to take up with

a spoon, and a floured knife helped the performance. There was a small

cupful left, and to this Molly put a tea-spoonful more sugar, and put

it into a small round tin pan, that had once evidently been a dipper;

this was for breakfast. They were all now put to rise, and in half an

hour they looked like little balloons rising out of the pans. They were

brushed lightly over with warm milk and put in the oven; the rolls took

fifteen minutes, the breakfast-cake twenty-five, to bake.

The chicken pie Molly had made for Sunday had only been half eaten,

as there had been three quarters of a pound of veal in it as well as

the chicken,—the drumsticks of which, by the way, she had reserved for

Monday morning’s breakfast, prepared in the following way:

The sinews were taken out, when the feet were cut off, in this way: the

yellow skin only was cut, the sinews were drawn out, the bones removed

and their places filled with a forcemeat made of veal chopped very

fine, with an equal proportion of salt pork. Molly had bought enough

veal on Saturday for dinner and the pie, and she took a very small

piece of that cooked in the latter, for her forcemeat, of which there

was needed only two scant table-spoonfuls altogether, and just enough

of the jelly to moisten it. She seasoned the forcemeat rather highly,

then filled the place of the removed bones with it, taking care not to

pack it too tight, sewed up the opening (having left a good piece of

the skin of the thigh on the legs when removing them), wrapped each in

a very thin slice of pork, tied them round, floured them, and baked

them in a sharp oven twenty-five minutes, and they were brown and crisp

when taken up.

To make the pie presentable for dinner at small expense she had ordered

a dozen large oysters; the oyster liquor was strained, a table-spoonful

of butter and half one of flour put in a saucepan, stirred till they

bubbled, then the cold pie, all but the pastry, added to it, with

part of the oyster liquor and the oysters. The pastry was cut into

neat pieces, and put into the oven to get hot, while Molly chopped a

table-spoonful of parsley very fine.

When the fricassee came to the boiling-point, it was carefully stirred

round and the parsley sprinkled in, and then the oysters were left

five minutes to plump. While doing this she directed Marta to prepare

a _fondue_, telling her to put a table-spoonful of butter and one of

flour in a small saucepan, stir them till they bubbled, and then to add

a gill of milk to them.

“That is really thick white sauce, you see, Marta; you will soon know

of how many things a good white sauce is the foundation. Stir to

prevent burning. Now add to it the two ounces of cheese I told you to

grate, and a level salt-spoonful of salt, and as much pepper as will

go on the end of the salt-spoon. Now you can take it off the fire, and

turn it into a bowl; beat the yolks of two eggs light, and stir them to

it. While you dish and dress the cabbage, and take up the potatoes and

fricassee, I will beat the whites of three eggs solid.”

Molly wanted to see if Marta remembered how the cabbage was dressed the

last time, and left her to it.

When the vegetables were ready the fricassee was taken up, the chicken

and veal laid in the centre of the dish, the oysters round it, and the

strips of pastry at the four corners.

Now the whites of eggs were stirred into the _fondue_ gently; it was

poured into a small buttered dish, which it only half filled, and was

put to bake while the first part of the dinner was eaten.

“This will be done as soon as it is golden brown, and you must bring it

to table _at once_, as it will fall if left standing.”

Molly meant to have dinners that were as little trouble as possible on

Monday, feeling that as it was washing day Marta should have less to

do; therefore the bill of fare was only

_Chicken and Oyster Fricassee._

_Cabbage._ _Potatoes._

_Fondue._ _Peaches and Cream._

She had also bought again a forequarter of lamb, so that she might see

how far Marta had profited by her instructions. She would vary the

cooking somewhat, but the cutting and arrangement of the joint would

be the same. She noted in her account-book that evening:

Lamb, $1.10

Cream, .10

Oysters, .15

Butter, 3 lbs., .75

Eggs, 2 dozen, .50

Peaches, 4 quarts, .20

———

Total, $2.80

She had learnt that the last week she had ordered too little butter and

needed three pounds instead of two.

CHAPTER XII.

MOLLY AND MRS. LENNOX ON THE RUFFLE QUESTION—FRICASSEE OF

MUTTON—CABBAGE AGAIN.

MARTA, unpromising as her appearance was, had shown considerable

aptitude for cooking, but about the house generally she was rather

hopeless. She had succeeded already in breaking two of the pretty

ornaments Molly had on her bureau, and therefore the latter had decided

to trust her to touch nothing that required careful handling. She was

hopelessly mixed, too, about laying the table. The breakfast was laid

as for dinner, and _vice versa_, and the result was that Molly did not

depend on her to do either, it being easier to do them herself. When

she had kept house a few years longer she learnt that to do things

herself was, in spite of the proverb, the way _not_ to get them done

well by any one else. But the trouble was so slight she did not think

it worth while to struggle against it.

She meant to have exactly the same dinner as last Tuesday, only she had

shoulder of lamb roasted instead of breast. She stood by while Marta

cut the shoulder out, and then read over the recipe for tomato soup,

and lemon pie, pastry for which was left from the chicken pie made on

Saturday, and then left her to cook the dinner alone, while she went to

Mrs. Lennox according to her promise.

She found that lady busy ironing. She looked white and exhausted,

and yet there was a large pile of little clothes all trimmed by the

mother’s industrious fingers, and, alas, trimmed so much.

Yet who could not understand a mother’s desire to see her children

dressed prettily, when it cost only a few hours more time, a little

more fatigue to make them so? and how few are able to blend beauty

and strict simplicity, although when it is blended the result is more

charming than any dictate of fashion?

“Let me help you iron for an hour. We need not begin cooking just yet,

if you saved the mutton broth, as there is no gravy to make.”

“Yes, I saved it, but you mustn’t think of ironing,—please don’t.”

“I’d like it. I am not expert, but every little helps, and your

instruction will do me good. Let me go on with that ruffle, while you

get something I can’t do. My Marta is ironing to-day, but by the look

of things I’m afraid I shall have to learn, myself, in order to teach

her, if she proves teachable.”

“Ironing I have learned to do pretty well from necessity. I only wish

I had been brought up to do everything, it would all have come so much

easier to me.”

“But it seems to me you can do so many things well,” said Molly. “You

sew so beautifully, and this ironing would shame most people who have

been brought up to do it.”

“Yes, I can do anything I make up my mind to do; so can most people, I

think.”

“Yes, and that is why if an educated woman is forced into unaccustomed

fields of work she does it better than those who are professedly

working-women,—better in every case where sinew is not the chief

desideratum.”

“Only,” rejoined Mrs. Lennox, “she works with brains and hands too,

and that is why the work tires her so much more than those who work

mechanically.”

“I suppose so. I am a strong young woman and have never known a day’s

sickness, yet I am tired to death after a couple of hours in the

kitchen, while Marta, who has been doing the hard work and has been

on her feet hours longer, is fresh, and has to go on working while

I can rest. Yet that thought makes me very tolerant of a servant’s

shortcomings, seeing my own limitations.”

Molly was busy ironing the ruffle of a child’s petticoat as she spoke,

and Mrs. Lennox said, partly in explanation perhaps: “I dare say you

think I’m foolish to trim my children’s clothes and make myself so

much work; but if you use cheap materials they look really quite mean

without it. Mr. Lennox constantly quotes the beauty of simplicity,

and points to the pictures of English children, as if I couldn’t

see the beauty as well as he. But simplicity is costly or dowdy. A

shilling calico or crossbar made ‘Kate Greenaway’ fashion would look

a poverty-stricken effort, while in linen or fine nainsook or India

muslin they are charming. Flimsy materials won’t hang well unless they

are trimmed; at the same time I do think I am wearing myself out for

the sake of appearance, and often resolve that I will never make or

iron another ruffle.”

Molly had no experience as a mother of a family to offer poor strenuous

Mrs. Lennox, whom she found a much brighter and more sensible woman

than she had at first supposed. Yet she felt that the ruffle question

was a very serious one.

“I hardly dare say anything about the matter, because I have so little

experience, but I do feel that you are not strong enough to do such

ironing as this; and yet, as you say, poor material plainly made looks

mean. How would it be to give up wash goods for every-day use and wear

dark blue flannel for a while? Even wealthy people do that at the

seaside, and one flannel frock will cost no more than the four calico

ones that take its place.”

“I have thought of it, and I do believe I will make an effort another

summer; but when you’ve so many children the frocks come down from

one to another, and the only one I have ever to get _new_ for is the

eldest, but next year I’ll get her a flannel frock and see how it

works; but though light flannel is really cool, she will fancy she’s

hot if she sees her sisters in cotton.”

“Now, if you’ll tell me where your cold meat is, I will show you how

the cold mutton may be made a very nice dish.”

The meat and broth were soon before her, and by her direction Mrs.

Lennox peeled and sliced two large onions and put them on to boil.

“What vegetables did you intend having?”

“I’ve been so busy ironing that I did not think of anything but

potatoes, though Mr. Lennox does like a second one.”

“I see you have cabbage in the garden, and corn.”

“Yes, but the corn is too old, and the cabbage there is no time for;

besides, we have it so seldom, because I have to cook it in the morning

so that the terrible smell may be out of the house before Mr. Lennox

comes home, he is so fastidious; though, I must say, the smell of

cabbage is something any one not fastidious might object to.”

“How long do you boil it?”

“Oh, two hours, sometimes more.”

“Do you mind my boiling it to-night?”

Mrs. Lennox stared. She had some confidence in Molly, yet cabbage for

dinner—and it was now after five—was something absurd.

“But it won’t be done.”

“Oh yes, I see the kettle is full and boils. I am quite sure you

won’t believe me unless I show you; but I do assure you there is no

unpleasant odor about, cabbage boiled as the English boil it, and in

Europe it is considered the most wholesome of vegetables.”

Mrs. Lennox listened politely.

“I will get a cabbage, of course.” She left the kitchen for the

purpose, and Molly smiled. She knew Mrs. Lennox was thinking what

others less polite had said to her, “but _we_ like our cabbage very

well done,” as if Molly must prefer it half raw.

Molly had cut from the bones of roast and boiled mutton quite a large

dish of meat, and the onions being tender she poured off the water from

them, put to them a table-spoonful of butter and one of flour, with

salt and pepper. As she was stirring them about, Mrs. Lennox brought

in the cabbage, and cutting away leaves and part of core as Molly

directed, laid it in water, and half filled a good-sized pot with

boiling water and set it on the range.

“For your six-o’clock dinner it must be well drained and go into that

water at half past five.”

“I obey unquestioningly, but I confess to strong doubts as to whether

we mean the same thing by boiled cabbage”—laughing.

“I know we don’t,” said Molly maliciously. “Will you look at this? I am

going to pour in a half pint of the broth, which I find you did flavor

with vegetables.”

“Yes, I’m not so ungrateful as to neglect your instructions, after the

success of our Saturday night’s dinner.” (It should be mentioned that

on Sunday Mrs. Lennox had come to tell Molly how good it was, and how

much enjoyed.) “There was some left, very little, and a little kidney

from yesterday’s breakfast; the children did not take any of that.

This morning I warmed both together with a very little of that broth,

and they made another good breakfast, and I felt that I had achieved

something.”

“That was a splendid idea; so few people think what two or three

odds and ends put together will do, though each may be so little as

to be almost worthless alone. Real economical management lies in

this _dovetailing_ one thing with another. This is what English and

Americans know so little, and the French so well.”

“I see that sauce is now like onion sauce, but less white.”

“It is onion sauce, made with broth instead of milk. Now we will lay

the meat in and leave it to steep in this sauce at the back of the

range, where it will keep at boiling-point but not boil. The last

thing, add a tea-spoonful of vinegar or a few capers.”

Now the cabbage.

“Yes, I’m waiting for that miracle,” said Mrs. Lennox, coming with it

in the colander, after shaking the water well out. “I shall lay the

blame on your shoulders if Mr. Lennox’s olfactories are offended; he

will forgive you anything, since through you we have lived better and

spent a dollar less in three days. There is nothing truer than that the

way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”

“Then we must take that path,” said Molly merrily. “The cabbage needs a

table-spoonful of salt added to the water and a scant half tea-spoonful

of soda.”

“I shall wait and see the success of the cabbage,” added Molly,

laughing, when she had seen it boiling furiously, “although the meat is

done, so I may iron another piece or two.”

Both took up their irons, and after a few minutes Mrs. Lennox

exclaimed:—

“It is positively true!”

“What is?”

“That cabbage has no disagreeable smell.”

“No, but it would have if you left it on the stove to cook slowly for

an hour or two. It is the long _slow_ cooking in _little_ water that

ruins it and all green vegetables.”

Mrs. Lennox now prepared to lay the cloth, and when she returned to the

kitchen Molly had taken up the cabbage and pressed it. It was bright

pale green, streaked, where the heart was, with creamy white.

“Is that the cabbage? and is it done?”

“Try for yourself. You see it is far more tender than when slowly

boiled, and is marrowy as spinach.”

“So it is; but how did you find it out?”

“I didn’t. I was told by an English lady. I had noticed that all

English cooking-books gave twenty minutes to half an hour to boil

cabbage, while ours always say two hours. And I noticed, too, it

was never alluded to as a coarse, rank vegetable, and I asked an

explanation from her, and she also told me she dared not eat cabbage

here, for fear of indigestion; but I never yet found any one who

believed me when I told them cabbage should only be boiled twenty-five

minutes, nor can I induce them to try it. They all think that I prefer

half-raw cabbage. Now I leave you to dress it as you like, for I must

run home.”

“I shall just put pepper, salt, and butter on it, it looks so

pretty,—and to think there is only a pleasant odor!”

When Molly reached home she found Marta looking very scared.

“What is wrong?” asked Molly, sure that some disaster had occurred.

Marta silently pointed to the soup, which looked like pink curds

and whey; then, turning rather sulkily to the stewed tomatoes, she

evidently expected to be scolded.

Molly said nothing for the moment, but opened the oven and found the

shoulder of lamb beautifully brown, and other things doing well; she

was heartily glad there was something to praise.

“You’ve made a mistake with the soup, Marta; but everything else looks

very nice. That meat is done as well as I could do it. Now, in the

first place, you were in too great a hurry. The milk and tomato were

only to go together the last thing, but that hasn’t caused the milk to

curdle. You cannot have read your recipe over as you made it, and have

forgotten the soda?”

“No, I put the soda in.”

Molly felt she could not be speaking the truth, but when she tasted the

soup, found she was.

“Well, I don’t understand this. Tell me exactly how you did it.”

Marta rehearsed her movements and then it turned out she had put the

soda in _last_, _after_ the tomato, and of course it had curdled before

that. She explained this, told her to strain the soup, and then went to

prepare the table quickly, for Harry would be home in a minute.

On the whole, although the soup was a failure, Molly was satisfied

with Marta’s first unaided efforts. The lemon pie, in spite of her own

admonition to handle the paste very little, she had pressed with her

thumb round the edge, to make it _smooth_, no doubt. The consequence

was, the paste was nice and short, but bore no resemblance to puff

paste, either in appearance or in eating, but Molly had not expected

anything better, and reserved comments until the next time, when she

would again show her how to use pastry.

CHAPTER XIII.

PREPARING TO SAVE WORK—BROWN THICKENING—WHITE THICKENING—CARAMEL.

MOLLY had resolved to take the first opportunity to prepare two or

three articles for her storeroom which would simplify work for Marta,

and indeed she herself had felt the lack already of these very articles.

Brown thickening saves a great deal of standing over the fire and

stirring of butter and flour together, when it is ready, and if

thickening of soup or stew is intrusted to inexperienced hands, it

often results in something very different from what it should be, while

with ready-prepared thickening (_roux_, the French call it) a blunder

is less possible. The ironing being out of the way then on Wednesday,

she resolved to make that and several other things, or rather to

superintend while Marta carried out her orders.

“Marta, put half a pound of butter in a small saucepan or bowl to melt,

and while it is doing so, weigh and sift half a pound of flour. Skim

the butter; now pour it off carefully from the milk that has settled

at the bottom into another small thick saucepan, and stir it into the

flour. Keep on stirring till it is bright brown. Watch carefully that

it doesn’t burn; that is almost dark enough. In saying ‘bright brown’ I

mean a rich, pale golden brown, not dark like coffee. Now put it into

this little marmalade jar, and when it is cold lay a piece of paper on

the top and put it away for use. It will keep for months, and when I

tell you to thicken any brown gravy, use this for the purpose instead

of fresh butter and flour. The flavor is richer than any hastily made

thickening.

“Now we will make some white thickening. Wash out the saucepan, melt

the butter, half a pound, just in the same way. Now stir in it half a

pound of flour; keep on stirring as long as you can, before it begins

to change color. It must _not be at all brown_, yet the flour must be

well cooked. Therefore stir it in a cooler spot than the other. When

the flour no longer smells _raw_, put it into a small bowl. Cover as

you did the other and put it away. This is for white thickening, for

fricassee or to dress vegetables, etc.

“Now wash the saucepan again, and we will make some caramel for

coloring. Put in it a cup of sugar and a quarter cup of water. Let them

boil till the syrup begins to change color, then watch it carefully.

Tilt the saucepan from all sides so that it may get equally brown. The

moment it is all nearly black, but before it chars in the least, put

to it a cup of boiling water; take care of yourself, for it sputters a

good deal. Now let it boil till it is all dissolved and like very dark

syrup. A tea-spoonful of this, or less, will give a fine color to gravy

or soup if not dark enough in itself. It will also color icing for cake

or custard, and in fact is always very useful.”

CHAPTER XIV.

MARKETING—APPLE PUDDING—LIVER AND BACON—BRAISED BEEF—BOILING PUDDINGS.

WHEN Molly reached her butcher’s next morning, Wednesday, she was

surprised to find Mrs. Lennox there, and by the way she hastened to the

door to greet her it was evident she was waiting for her.

“I knew you would come here, and I am going to enlist under your

banner, so you must tell me what to buy and how to cook it.”

“Oh dear me!” cried Molly in consternation.

“Do you mind? I beg your pardon, I ought”—

“Oh, it is not that, but it’s such a responsibility. Suppose I advise

something you don’t like?”

“If you did it wouldn’t be very dreadful, but I don’t believe you will.

I only know we’ve enjoyed every meal since Saturday, and I’m nearly a

dollar in pocket.”

“If that is really so I shall have something to suggest in colder

weather. You see I know nothing of your tastes.”

“I believe we like a good many things we don’t have, but anything

outside of steak and chops will be a welcome change.”

“What do you say to liver and bacon, and, as it is so inexpensive, have

a nice apple pie or pudding with it. Do you like liver?”

“Yes, but Mr. Lennox protests I do not cook it right.”

“Suppose we take one—a lamb’s liver”—

“Lamb’s? I always get calf’s.”

“I think you will find this quite as nice and less expensive,—and I

believe I will take one myself. Harry used to anathematize the liver

at breakfast in the boarding-house so vigorously, for being cooked in

thick slices like steak and whitey-brown in color, that I think he will

enjoy it now.”

“I am afraid that is the way mine generally is. Now what shall I get

for to-morrow?”

“If you had not had mutton so lately, I would suggest Irish stew; but

what do you say to a pot-roast of beef,—or, to be finer, we will call

it ‘braised beef’?”

“My dear, we have nothing but mutton and beef, so an Irish stew will be

very good; and I certainly want to know how to make it well.”

“Still, I advise the small pot-roast to-morrow and an Irish stew later.”

“Very well, either will be good. Now what meat shall I get for it?”

“Three pounds of _thick_ flank—of beef.”

The butcher handed out a thin piece nearly all fat.

“No, no, that is not the part; have you not the flank with a broad

piece of lean running through it?” asked Molly.

The butcher now produced a piece of meat about four inches thick, three

of which were lean.

“That is it.”

It was ten cents a pound. By Molly’s direction Mrs. Lennox got also

half a pound of fat bacon, and her expenditure was:—

Lamb’s liver .10

Bacon .07

Beef .30

——

.47

“Now we have meat for two days, for about what I have always paid for

one.”

“And you’ll have something for breakfast, you’ll find.”

“The great thing will be the variation of our old routine, and the

money-saving; but can’t you just _tell_ me how they should be cooked,

instead of coming yourself?”

“Yes, I will write out the recipes and send Marta with them.”

“And the apple pudding.”

“Ah, yes, you have suet in the house? Well, make a crust exactly as

you did for the pot-pie; roll it out half an inch thick. Grease a bowl

well and lay the paste in it, letting what is to spare hang over the

sides; fill it with pared and cored apples cut small, and put over them

two table-spoonfuls of sugar and a little water. Wet the border of the

paste and gather up the overhanging sides, pinching them all together,

so that there is no chance for juice to escape. Then dip the centre of

a cloth in boiling water, flour it and put it over the pudding, tie it

firmly with string just under the flare of the bowl, so that it will

not slip up; bring the four corners of the cloth up over the top of the

pudding and tie them.

“Before you begin to make the pudding, set a pot, that is large enough

to boil it in, on the stove, half full of water; when it is fast

boiling, put the pudding in and let it boil up quickly again, and boil

for an hour and a half without stopping.”

“But I suppose the water must not cover over the top of it.”

“Oh, indeed, yes; so long as the water _boils_ there is no danger of

its getting into the pudding. As soon as it stops it begins to soak;

that is why so many boiled puddings are heavy and soggy.”

“Well, I never knew that. I knew they were often heavy, but not why. I

rather supposed it was because they were boiled in too much water, and

so it got into them.”

They had talked along the quiet village streets, until Molly’s door was

reached, and half an hour afterwards Marta ran across the road with the

two following recipes:—

POT-ROAST OR BRAISED BEEF.—Remove the skin and some of the fat from

the flank of beef (put both in the oven with half a pint of water to

“try out”), sprinkle the beef with two level tea-spoonfuls of salt and

half a salt-spoonful of pepper, a table-spoonful of finely-chopped

parsley, if you have it, and a scant tea-spoonful of thyme, also, if

you have it. Roll up the beef tightly with these flavorings inside,

flour the meat and put in a thick saucepan or pot with a wine-glass

of vinegar and two cloves. Cover very closely, and if the lid of the

saucepan does not fit well put a clean cloth over it. Let it so remain

till nearly browned, turning it about occasionally. Have ready a carrot

and half an onion sliced, and when the meat has been _slowly_ cooking

nearly two hours, put them to it with half a pint of boiling water and

a dessert-spoonful of Worcestershire or any nice table sauce, _if you

have it_, and simmer very slowly two hours longer; then take up the

meat, remove the strings, carefully skim all fat from the gravy which

pour over it.

In summer put a pint of young peas into the gravy; fried potatoes are

very good with this dish.

N. B. You will observe I have said with regard to some of the

flavorings “_if you have it_.” I mean by that they are not _necessary_,

but a great improvement; and, as they cost very little, if you want

plain dishes made savory it is economical to have them always in the

house.

LIVER AND BACON.—Wash the liver, dry it, cut it with a sharp knife into

slices the third of an inch thick. Dip each slice in flour. Cut some

bacon in thin slices, remove the rind and fry it crisp but don’t burn

it; then lay in the liver, only enough to cover the bottom of the pan;

when nicely brown turn each slice; brown the other side and take it up

on a hot dish with the bacon around it. Now if the fat is not burned

(and to prevent that, it should be fried where the fire is good but not

too fierce) stir into it a scant dessert-spoonful of flour, mashing

all the brown bits and lumps with the back of a spoon; when it is all

a _fine brown_, have a cup of boiling water ready, and pour it quickly

into the pan. Stir till smooth. Let it boil down till thick as good

cream, season with pepper and salt and a tea-spoonful of vinegar or

Worcestershire sauce, and pour it over the liver.

If by chance the fat was burned pour it out of the pan, for it would

make a _bitter_, _black_ gravy, and spoil the whole. Put into the pan a

dessert-spoonful of butter and one of flour, let them get _quite brown_

stirring the while, when proceed with water as before.

If you have ready-browned flour in the house it saves standing over the

fire waiting for it to brown in the fat or butter, and as you may like

to prepare some I send directions. Of course whitey-brown gravy is very

disagreeable.

BROWN FLOUR, for thickening gravy quickly. Sift half a pound of flour

into a dripping-pan and set it in a hot oven. Look at it occasionally

and stir it well, taking care it does not burn; when it is the color

of coffee that is half milk, or pale _café au lait_ color, take it out

and put it in a tin for use. You will require a third more of this to

thicken than of raw flour.

CHAPTER XV.

ROLLS—BAKED LIVER—CROQUETTES—WHAT WAS THE MATTER WITH THEM—HOTCH-POTCH.

MARTA had twice made bread very satisfactorily, and Molly thought she

might now show her how to make plain rolls; therefore she had told her

to save out a piece of her bread dough, about a pint bowl full, and

when she returned from taking the recipes to Mrs. Lennox, Molly was

ready to show her how to make them.

It was ten o’clock, and Molly reckoned they would be warm for dinner if

made now.

“These are going to be quite plain rolls; when you succeed in these we

will try finer ones. Get a good table-spoonful of butter,—lard would

do, but I use it as little as possible for health’s sake—put it near

the fire to warm a very little; add to the dough two tea-spoonfuls

of sugar; now the butter is pliable, work it in; it will take five

minutes’ constant kneading to make the butter and dough quite smooth.

Now you see it is softer than bread dough; if a crisp crust is wanted,

work in gradually a little more flour, almost a table-spoonful,—if the

weather is cold have it warm; if a soft crust is preferred leave it as

it is. Put the dough to rise in a warm place behind the stove, but not

too hot, or it may sour; in from two to three hours it will have risen

again very light; work it over thoroughly for three or four minutes

till it is again as small as now, and set it to rise again, and when

light come and tell me.

“This evening we shall have bisque of oysters, baked liver, and

croquettes, and you can make a peach pudding by your recipe, but I want

you to use cold lamb for croquettes; I will prepare it before I go out

of the kitchen so that it will be ready whenever you are, and remember

if you forget anything to come to me.”

Molly cut the meat from the cold shoulder of lamb, removed every bit of

skin and gristle, and then chopped it very fine; she had not left that

to Marta because she might not be careful enough. She also flavored the

meat by using a bit of onion as large as a dime chopped till as fine

as sand, and a tea-spoonful of parsley, also chopped fine, and a pinch

of thyme; these were mixed with the lamb, and Marta was told to do the

rest as if making croquettes of chicken.

Molly intended asking her friend, Mrs. Welles, to come and stay a week

with her soon, and as that would entail a little extra expense, she

meant to economize somewhat for a week or two; therefore she omitted

some little items from her bill of fare, and substituted others that

would be cheaper. This interfered very slightly with her plan of

letting Marta do alone nearly all that she herself had done the last

week.

The girl would be able to make croquettes with one meat as easily as

another, and although for the sake of practice she meant to repeat the

dishes, she did not care to have them in the same order. The bisque

of oysters she would have in place of clams for the sake of variety

and of showing Marta that the principle was the same in both, and that

another time she might substitute lobster instead of either, and yet

the process would not change. Another thing she had in mind was that as

the breast of lamb she had for Thursday would be a rather slim dinner,

the oyster patties, of which Harry was extravagantly fond, would make

up.

Soon after one o’clock Marta came to say that the rolls had risen, been

worked down, and were now light enough, she thought, to _push_ down.

When she went into the kitchen she found the dough just about as light

as bread should be.

“No, Marta, this is not light enough. Rolls should rise a great deal

lighter than bread. They will need to rise another half hour—but as

I see the oysters are here, I will use some of them for patties for

to-morrow’s dinner.”

Molly took a third of the pint of oysters, and then half a gill of the

liquid, and scalded both for a minute; then, taking out the oysters,

added an equal quantity of milk to the liquor, and in another small

saucepan put two tea-spoonfuls of butter, the same of flour; and,

stirring them together till they bubbled, she poured milk and oyster

liquid to them, stirring till they were quite smooth. She seasoned this

sauce and then dropped the oysters, each one cut in four, into it. She

did not mean to use them to-day, but the oysters kept raw would not be

good; cooked in this way they would be as good as when fresh.

The rolls being now light Molly stuck her fingers two or three times

downward into the light mass, and it sank under them.

“This is what you are to do, Marta, when I tell you to ‘push the rolls

down;’ do this twice or three times after they have been _twice_

thoroughly worked over—take notice, only lightly stick your fingers in,

to let out air; don’t knead them at all, nor try to make them smooth;

leave them just so; they come up again very rapidly after the first

time, and this is the secret of having rolls of a close, exceedingly

light texture, that will have no doughy inside.”

An hour later the rolls had risen and been pushed down three times, and

Molly, after working them all over again, took a little piece of butter

on her hand, broke off bits of the dough as big as an English walnut,

and rolled them between her buttered palms, and then dropped each on to

a greased tin two inches apart. They were set to rise till they would

be like small balloons—each quite double the size it was when first

made. They would perhaps take three quarters of an hour to rise, but

Molly cautioned Marta that she could not go by time in bread-making,

for that differed so constantly; in summer it would be less, and in

winter more; the degree of heat in the kitchen would make the greatest

difference; also, some kinds of flour rose more quickly than others.

It must not be supposed Molly had forgotten Mrs. Gibbs; she had her and

her family in mind when she ordered the liver. The neck end of her lamb

this week she was going to make into a nourishing Scotch broth, and out

of the dollar, of which she had spent only fifteen cents as yet, she

bought ten pounds of rye flour and five of white.

This would provide bread for a month, and as the poor woman was yet so

weak, Molly meant to have it made at her own house for the present.

When the rolls were light enough to bake, they were brushed over with

white of egg. The chicken pie on Saturday, it will be remembered, had

only taken part of the white left from the forcemeat balls; the rest

was beaten with a tea-spoonful of water and set in the ice-box for just

such an occasion as this, and was now used to brush over the rolls.

While the rolls baked, Molly prepared the liver for the dinner, and

told Marta to make the Scotch hotch-potch for the Gibbs family.

“Cut the meat up in pieces; put it in a saucepan with two onions, half

a small cup of Scotch barley, a carrot and a turnip, a quart and pint

of water, and a tea-spoonful and a half of salt; in an hour shred up a

quarter of a cabbage and add it. Let it all simmer for two hours and a

half, or until the barley is very soft.”

Molly, while Marta was doing this, washed and dried the liver, cut

about a dozen strips of fat pork as thick as her little finger, and

with a narrow knife made many incisions through the liver and then

inserted the pork. When all was done she floured it, sprinkled a little

salt over it and it was ready for the oven.

When the liver was cooked—it took just half an hour in a hot oven—it

was taken up, put on a hot dish, and a half cup of boiling water poured

into it; round the pan was a great deal of thick glaze; this was all

rubbed off and dissolved in the gravy; a tea-spoonful of Worcestershire

sauce was added and a pinch of salt, and then the gravy was poured over

the liver.

The dish was a great success. Harry, without an idea that it had cost

but ten cents, cut it in slices a quarter of an inch thick, which,

where mottled with the pork and the rich brown gravy, gave quite an

air to the homely viand. The bisque of oysters Marta had managed very

nicely, and also the peach pudding, all but the foaming sauce, which

Molly had shown her how to make; it was a good sauce, but did not foam;

the only real fault was with the croquettes, which were like sausage

meat and not at all creamy. Molly made no comments at the time, knowing

that a much more experienced cook often made no better, but next

morning she meant to find out where the mistake was.

“Did you notice, Marta, that the croquettes last night were not quite

right?”

“Yes, they were harder, but I went exactly by the directions.”

“I want you to tell me just what you did, and then we will see where

the mistake came in. You managed everything else so nicely.”

Marta repeated the recipe correctly and Molly was puzzled.

“Are you sure you did just as you say?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Then show me how you measured half a pint.”

“Ah, there it is; you have really only a little more than a gill. Did

you measure like that yesterday?”

Marta confessed that she had, and the puzzle was solved, and more

understandable still when Molly saw what she called a table-spoonful

of flour; it was really near two, for she had used the large kitchen

basting-spoon, and used it heaped.

“Now, Marta, I want to tell you something. You are anxious to cook like

the man cook you once knew; that is, you want everything you do to

turn out always right, and they will only do that by your being very

exact about measuring and weighing. A tea-spoonful more or less seems

a trifle, and yet it will spoil many things. Remember, if you have a

recipe that calls for a table-spoonful, it means just that, if the

recipe is good for anything, and half a pint is exactly that measure

_full_, not partly full.

“Gouffé, the celebrated French cook, who wrote a remarkable book for

other cooks, was so particular that he explains exactly how much he

means by weight when he says ‘a pinch of salt,’ and he directs one to

weigh each carrot and turnip for soup till one’s eye is accustomed to

the sizes.”

CHAPTER XVI.

RYE BREAD—OYSTER PATTIES—KNUCKLE OF VEAL, À LA MAÎTRE D’HÔTEL—A SAVORY

DISH.

MOLLY knew the virtues of rye bread; and in perfection, as had she

eaten it once in her life, she had enjoyed it much,—it had been so

sweet, so light, and seemed to have the quality of never getting

stale. She knew that to some people rye bread represented a loaf that

cut like liver, that was sweet in flavor, but in wheaten bread would

have been called heavy; and to others it was a sour, dark bread, much

approved by Germans. But that rye bread need be neither of these she

knew well, but she had no recipe. Then she remembered Mrs. Merit and

her experience; perhaps she could help her with rye bread, as she was a

famous economist.

She therefore paid a visit to her neighbor, and after a respectable

amount of small talk broached her subject.

“Rye bread! laws yes—when my family was large we had it, because it

don’t cost more than half as much as wheat flour does, and it’s as

easy to make as mush. You just make a thick batter of one third white

flour, two thirds rye; stir into each quart two tea-spoonfuls of

baking-powder—and bake.”

This was a new recipe to Molly, and she meant to try it some day; but

for the Gibbs family, she was satisfied that a properly yeast-leavened

bread would be more wholesome, and she therefore resolved to see what

she could do. She had quite a library of cook-books, but rye bread

for general use did not seem to be in them. On thinking it over she

couldn’t see why rye bread should not be made in the same way as

white. Finally she went to work to make it exactly as white bread,

making a sponge with a pint of white flour and half a cake of yeast,

dissolved in a pint of warm water, a table-spoonful of sugar and two

tea-spoonfuls of salt. When this was as full of holes as honeycomb, she

put to it two pints of rye flour and used as much warm water as would

make all into a _soft_ dough. She kneaded it, but began to understand

why it was usually stirred, for it stuck to her hands like bird-lime,

and to use flour enough to free them would, she knew, spoil her bread.

She worked on, regardless of stickiness, and when it was mixed divided

the dough in three, put it in tins to rise, and when each was double

the first size, they were baked in a very moderate oven one hour.

When they were done Molly saw she had attained the secret of her

friend’s bread, for it was sweet, spongy, and with a tender crust. She

kept one loaf for her own use and sent the rest to Mrs. Gibbs, with

the remains of the liver made into savory collops, as follows: It was

chopped fine, and an equal quantity of bread crumbs added, a quarter

tea-spoonful of powdered marjoram, half one of thyme and pepper and

salt; to these were put a few scraps of cold fried bacon and a little

cold ham left from Wednesday morning’s breakfast, both chopped fine.

The mince was just moistened with broth (from boiling down lamb bones

with an onion), and a table-spoonful of flour stirred with it. Molly

then made it into three good-sized balls, put them into a small, deep

pan, poured in the rest of the broth, and put them to bake in the hot

oven for half an hour.

It may be thought Molly was taking great trouble for Mrs. Gibbs. She

knew that, and had she had it in her power to give money enough to be

of substantial service to a destitute family, would not have done it.

In this case, as with her husband’s income, she looked on her time as

money, since by it she could make a little money go far. A dollar given

to Mrs. Gibbs would have done little—bought bread for a week, perhaps,

and a meal or two besides; the liver sent round to her cold would have

been eaten so, and been miserable and insufficient for a dinner; the

neck of lamb the same; but by the time, not an hour after all, she had

double the value of what she could give, and the bread she would make

from the flour would last three times as long as baker’s bread. In

addition to this she went to the house where she bought her cream and

asked what they did with their skimmed milk, and was told they made

it into pot-cheese when they had much, but half the time they gave it

away; she then obtained a promise that they would give Mrs. Gibbs two

quarts a day if she sent for it. Being sure of milk, Molly felt that

the best thing she could do now was to buy ten pounds of corn meal

and send it to them for mush. This exhausted the dollar, and beyond

making the bread and sending an occasional meal, to be concocted out of

something that would not much enlarge her own expenses, she knew that

she could do nothing, but did not despair of interesting others.

Molly did not want to let her little lecture on croquettes grow cold

in Marta’s mind, and therefore meant to have them again very soon.

To that end she made a tour of the butcher-shops in Greenfield, of

which there were several, in order to find, if she could, a knuckle of

veal. This would kill two or three birds with one stone. Veal is not

plentiful in September, yet is sometimes in market, and for the knuckle

she knew she would have to pay very little, for in this country it is

looked upon as only good for stock, while in Europe it is very choice.

She was fortunate enough to get one; it was quite large, that is, the

meat was not cut too far down, and because of this extra size she

paid twenty cents for it instead of the usual fifteen cents. She also

bought a piece of salt pork (very sweet, which she could tell by the

pinkish fat) for twenty cents, and four lamb’s kidneys for breakfast

for five cents. So surprised was the Greenfield butcher at her wanting

them that at first he had seemed to think they were hardly worth a

price; evidently he did not know that they were quite a dainty in the

fashionable markets of New York, and as Harry would not eat beef

kidney, but was very fond of others, she made up her mind to have them

often.

The knuckle of veal was to be boiled the next day very gently, in just

water enough to cover it, for two hours, with a small turnip, a bay

leaf, and a carrot, an onion, and a bouquet of sweet herbs. The pork

was to be cooked in the same water, and served to eat with the veal,

which would have a rich parsley sauce poured over it, fried potatoes

and fried smelts.

Molly thought it a good plan to have fried fish, instead of soups, or

boiled fish, every day when the rest of the dinner was boiled.

From the veal there would be the stock for soup, and, as there would be

more meat than would be eaten, what was left would make croquettes. She

did not mean to have them for dinner so soon again, but for breakfast.

The practice for Marta was what she wanted.

Molly had some “rough puff paste” which she intended to use for the

oyster patties. She rolled it out half an inch thick, then with a

biscuit-cutter cut several rounds; these she put one on another three

deep, and on each pressed a smaller biscuit-cutter half way through.

She had cut twelve rounds of paste, which made four patties (three

rounds or layers to the patty), and each had a circle (cut with a small

cutter) on the top layer. These were put on a baking-tin and brushed

over with a feather dipped in white of egg, and put in the oven, which

was very hot, yet not likely to scorch. To try the heat Molly put in

her hand and began to count seconds; when she had counted twenty she

was forced to take out her hand, and knew the oven was right.

While she waited for them to bake, she proceeded to finish the oysters

for filling, first telling Marta to beat up the remaining white of egg

with a little water, and put it away for use.

The yolk was just what was needed for the oysters. She strained them

from the sauce, which she put on to boil; then when quite boiling and

smooth she dropped the oysters in (it will be remembered they had been

not more than scalded yesterday), and in about two minutes they were

firm, yet not shrunken. She took them from the fire and stirred in

the yolk of an egg, already whipped, with a tea-spoonful of the cold

sauce. They were thick before, but immediately became thicker as the

heat cooked the egg, and the sauce was now about the consistency of the

cream filling used for cream cakes or éclairs.

By this time the patties were baked. They were more than three inches

high, and after they had been out of the oven a short time, Molly

carefully removed the centre of the top layer marked out with the small

cutter, and laid it aside, for it was the cover of the patty; then with

a small coffee-spoon she scooped out the half-cooked paste from the

centre, and then replaced the top. They were now ready to be filled,

but as they would have to be made hot for dinner she did not fill

them, as the paste would be burnt up before the inside would be warm;

she therefore directed Marta to stand the oysters in boiling water a

few minutes before serving them, and keep them stirred, and to put

the patty-cases in the oven at the same time; let them get thoroughly

heated, and when both were hot, put the oyster filling in them with a

spoon. Molly gave these directions for the moral effect, but, having

strong suspicions that Marta would be unequal to such neat-handed work

and might cover the outside of the patties with the filling, saw to

that part herself before going to the table.

CHAPTER XVII.

MR. AND MRS. BISHOP BECOME MEMBERS OF A DRAMATIC CLUB—CROQUETTES OVER

AGAIN—WHERE THE MISTAKE LAY—WHITE SOUP.

HARRY and Molly had talked over the matter of the dramatic club, and

whether they could afford to join it. Molly was old enough, not being

a school-girl bride—did I ever mention that she was twenty-four?—and

had seen enough of the world to know that, although a woman’s ideal

of married life may be to sew in the evening, while her husband reads

to her, or, if he is weary, to read to him while he rests, a man very

often prefers something more exhilarating. Although Harry had never

seemed bored by a tête-a-tête evening, she remembered that he had

never yet been subjected to the long uninterrupted quiet of country

winter nights, and she wanted to run no risk of him finding their life

humdrum. He was not a reader in the true sense of the word,—that is

to say, he read for amusement’s sake. If the book he read was not to

his mind, he threw it aside, or fell asleep over it, and he was not

so fond of reading aloud as Molly could have wished. However, this

was one of the little disappointments most women, and some men, have

to put up with, and she was thankful there was nothing worse. It is

true that, finding Harry cared less for reading than herself, she had

devoted herself to chess, of which he was very fond, and their evenings

seldom passed without having the men out; but Harry was too much in

sympathy with his wife not to know that chess, to her, was a sort of

loving pleasure, and had often pretended disinclination; therefore the

prospect of a weekly social meeting and the many little entertainments

that would grow out of it was, for Harry’s sake, a pleasant one.

“What are the actual expenses?” she had asked.

“I don’t know, but from what Framley said, I imagine these are merely

nominal, outside the entertaining of the club, which falls to every

one’s share once in the season.”

“Yet as we are so limited in money matters, we can run no risks; what

would be nominal to people with double our income may be serious for

us. I think I had better wait and see Mrs. Framley.”

That lady called before Molly had been quite two weeks in Greenfield;

she was very handsomely dressed, but of rather formal manners, which

Molly came to know were natural to her, and rather a distress to

herself. After the usual chat of a morning call Mrs. Framley said:—

“I believe Mr. Framley spoke to Mr. Bishop about our reading-society.

Mr. and Mrs. Winfield were members, and as we limit the club to fifteen

couples we thought it would be very pleasant if you and Mr. Bishop

would take their places.”

Molly colored a little, hesitated, then said:—

“Will you please tell me the exact conditions and expenses?”

“Well, there are no particular conditions, except that no member is

admitted that is not acceptable to all. Your names were proposed by Mr.

Winfield and warmly welcomed; the expenses are nominal.”

Molly smiled. She had braced herself to be quite frank.

“But what is nominal? I may as well tell you our income is little more

than sufficient for our needs, and we cannot risk incurring expense

that may be quite beyond us.”

“But there are several of our members who are in the same position,

and for that reason we made a few rules at the start so that our club

should not break up, as so many have done, on the rock of emulous

hospitality. The actual expenses have never exceeded $2 each person

for the winter, and have oftener been under a dollar and a half. This

is outside the cost of entertaining. Every member having a house is

supposed to have the meeting once in the season, and as all our members

are householders, and some very hospitable, when anything occurs to

make such reception inconvenient it is gladly taken by some one else;

but as some are much wealthier than others, a rule was made that no

ice-cream, oysters or bought cakes were to be allowed, only sandwiches,

tea, coffee and home-made cake, and I am glad to say one lady, one of

the most wealthy, has nothing but home-made wafers and coffee.”

“Then I think Mr. Bishop and myself can accept the membership with an

easy conscience, although I hardly see what acquisition I can be, for I

cannot act. I don’t know whether my husband has any talent that way.”

“I think you may have hidden your light,” said Mrs. Framley, politely,

“but at least half of the members are honorary and only give us the

pleasure of their presence; in fact, I myself am only an onlooker.”

“Then I will have courage. When is the next meeting?”

“Next Wednesday, at my house, and I am pleased to think your first

evening will be there.”

Molly thanked her, and soon after Mrs. Framley rose to go.

“I hope we shall see much of each other, Mrs. Bishop. Mrs. Winfield

told me we should have a great deal in common, being both devoted to

cooking-school.”

Molly responded suitably and Mrs. Framley left.

Molly had made some mixture for croquettes early in the morning, going

minutely over every detail with Marta, using cold veal with a slice

of the boiled pork, chopped together very fine, in place of chicken.

Some of the stock in which the veal was boiled, which was now a firm

jelly, was used, and as there was no cream, Molly used half a gill of

milk to the gill of stock, and an egg beaten; the milk and stock were

stirred to the butter and flour (see recipe for chicken croquettes) and

boiled till thick and smooth, the meat and seasoning then added, and

when it was all hot, the beaten egg. After this was in, the mixture was

only stirred one minute, and then taken off the fire, the object being

to bring the whole to boiling-point, but not to curdle the egg. The

mixture was put out on a dish and set to get cold and firm, and Marta

told to make it into croquettes according to her recipe.

As Molly was very anxious that Marta should thoroughly master the art

of making croquettes, she had intended to oversee the forming and

frying of these, which were for her lunch; but Mrs. Framley’s visit had

interfered, and when she went to the kitchen she found Marta had one

croquette on paper in the colander and was fishing in the hot fat with

her skimmer.

“What is the matter, Marta?” asked Molly, although she could guess what

had happened.

Marta pointed to the top of the fat, which was covered with crumbs of

meat, and lifted two empty shells of croquettes from it.

“I see what has happened, Marta, but don’t be discouraged. You have

some mixture left, and you must do this over again for breakfast

to-morrow. I can tell you the reason of this accident, and once we

know the cause of a failure, it can easily be set right. Had it not

been for that one perfect croquette I should have said that the fat

might not have been hot enough; that is a frequent cause of croquettes

bursting,—they have time to melt inside before the crust is formed, but

in this case the fault has been in the size. You must have made them

too large. Don’t you think that one, which is perfect, was smaller than

the others?”

“Yes, it was. I was afraid that one was too small.”

“It was just right, you see, and after this I think you’ll know.

Before you put that croquette mixture away, Marta, keep out a large

tea-spoonful, and after luncheon I will come and make some balls for

soup.”

The veal stock Molly had carefully skimmed and strained in the morning,

and intended to have a white soup for dinner. There was about a quart

of strong jelly. One pint she put aside. It was so valuable that she

did not mean to use a tea-spoonful more than necessary; the pint, with

half a pint of milk, would be all that was required for soup; but as

she had neither asparagus tops nor mushrooms nor celery to put in it,

and veal soup is apt to be a little insipid without, she decided on

forcemeat balls, made in the following way: To a large tea-spoonful

of croquette mixture she added one of finely chopped parsley, as much

thyme as would go on the end of a penknife, and a dessert-spoonful of

bread crumbs; she beat an egg, and used enough only to make the whole

into a soft paste; this she seasoned rather highly with pepper and

salt, and made into little balls not larger than marbles, and they were

set away till wanted.

As the soup was one Marta could not be expected to make, Molly went

into the kitchen herself, half an hour before dinner, to do it; indeed,

although she had left the cooking to Marta pretty much, she could not

risk Harry’s comfort by waiting for the dinner to straggle in as Marta

would have had it. This seemed her chief failing, an inability to see

the necessity of dishing up quickly. After she had cooked a thing well,

she ran the risk of spoiling it by her slowness in getting it on the

table. No mishap had yet occurred, because Molly was on hand to rescue;

but white sauce was left in the saucepan with risk of burning, and

vegetables, after they were dressed, the same; but Molly hoped that, in

a few weeks, seeing the importance she herself attached to time might

have its effect on Marta.

The pint of veal stock, flavored, it will be remembered, with the

vegetables boiled in it the day before, was put on to boil, and in a

small saucepan she put a table-spoonful of butter and a scant one of

flour, and stirred them together till they bubbled. She allowed them to

cook together _for a minute_, stirring all the time, and called Marta’s

attention to the fact.

“The white sauce you made last, Marta, although very smooth, had a

little raw taste; this was because you added the milk before the flour

was cooked sufficiently in the butter,—you put it in as soon as it

bubbled.”

“I was afraid it would burn.”

“Of course you must not let it do that, but you see, once it bubbles,

I draw the saucepan to a cooler part and stir till the flour is on the

point of changing color, then I quickly add the milk or broth. The

sauce will be an ivory white instead of the rather dead white that even

fairly good sauce often is.”

She poured the stock to the flour and butter and stirred till smooth,

and then added half a pint of milk,—“and, as I have no cream, Marta,

I kept the egg left from the forcemeat balls—I used very little of

it—to add to this soup the last thing, just as you do for the bisque of

clams.” While the soup was all coming again to the boiling-point at the

back of the range, Molly dropped the tiny forcemeat balls into boiling

water, let them simmer half a minute, then strained them out and added

them to the soup; then, with a caution to Marta not to let the egg

curdle, she went to add a few touches to her toilette before Harry came

home.

CHAPTER XVIII.

BROILED LAMB’S KIDNEYS—MRS. LENNOX STARTLED—CORN-BEEF HASH.

WHEN Molly had said Marta was to make croquettes for breakfast, she had

forgotten that she had kidneys in the house; but, remembering it before

she went to bed, she told Marta she would come down and broil them

herself, which she accordingly did, knowing kidneys are very easily

spoiled by bad cooking.

She split each kidney down the back, or thick side, but did not

sever the core or membrane, so that when opened they lay flat, but

still in one. Then she ran a long skewer through the centre bit of

fat and brought it out again, in such a manner that the kidney lay

open flat _under_ the skewer, which was attached to it only by that

stitch through the middle; then a second kidney was run on in the same

way till they were all threaded, the skewer lying across them all;

but nowhere did it pierce the flesh of the kidney. This arrangement

prevents the kidneys’ curling up in unsightly fashion and secures their

being equally cooked.

They were laid on a hot gridiron, and a dish and plates made very

hot to receive and serve them on; and while Molly cooked them, Marta

carried in breakfast, for kidneys are things that are spoiled by

waiting.

She turned them often for about four minutes. During the process she

had put in the little dish that was to receive them a piece of butter

the size of a butternut, a level salt-spoonful of salt, a little

pepper, and a tea-spoonful of Worcestershire sauce. When the kidneys

were done they were removed from the skewer, and each well rolled in

the hot butter and seasoning. They were just enough cooked in that

four minutes for the gravy to start when the fork pricked them; if

over-cooked they become tough.

“Kidneys!” cried Harry, as Molly removed the heated

vegetable-dish-cover she had used to send them unchilled to table.

“Dear Molly, where do you scare up these metropolitan dainties in the

wilds of Jersey?”

“Nothing so easy; actually, the butcher throws them in with his tallow,

and seemed surprised that I wanted them.”

“I’m afraid such ignorance can’t last,” said Harry “and when he

finds lamb’s kidneys are really very desirable, he will value them

accordingly.”

“No, not until he has customers who do; and I suspect, although the man

I buy from sells good meat, that he is not the fashionable butcher of

Greenfield.”

“They are cooked to a turn, Molly.”

“I am glad. I should have had them on toast in the orthodox way, but

knew you preferred fresh bread.”

In the afternoon Mrs. Lennox came with her work-basket to sew, while

she paid Molly a visit.

“I want to have a little talk with you, but can only spare the time if

I bring some darning with me, so you will excuse me.”

“I am glad, for I also have my sewing,” she said, and she colored a

little as she displayed a dainty little garment.

“I am so glad,” said Mrs. Lennox; and there was congratulation in the

tone, although she said no more. “You have done me so much good since

I have known you, Mrs. Bishop, that I feel I may trouble you a little

further about my affairs without exhausting your patience.”

“You certainly may, if I can do anything.”

“I must seem a perfect ignoramus to you, and yet I’m an old married

woman and you’re a young one; but the fact is, I was married directly

after I left school. I knew nothing of housekeeping, for my mother had

been such an invalid that we always boarded at that time. Mr. Lennox

was full of hope that he would rise to great things,—all young writers

are,—but, unluckily, the hard times of ’73 came, and the magazine of

which he was sub-editor, and which he hoped to edit, succumbed, and

ever since then he has been forced to plod on, at what insures us

bread. He has never dared to try for better things, and I know he frets

at seeing me so overworked, and has been telling me for years if I

would sew less, and cook more, I should be better; but first one must

‘know how’ to cook, and I don’t. There is one thing, however, I _do_

see now, that I never did before; and that is, that if I give my time

to preparing the food, I can save enough to get the sewing I cannot

do done for me. I never realized this before, but now I do. This is

Friday, and we have lived nicely—I mean we have had food we enjoyed,

and I have spent $2 less; and the sewing I should have done in the time

I have cooked would not have amounted to one full day’s work, which I

can get done for a dollar.”

“I am glad you see it so. I was sure of it, and I am sure that the

effort to do so much sewing and the housework, too, is far more wearing

than double the quantity of either alone would be.”

“Yes, because I dread to lose a minute, and the cooking always seemed

such a loss.”

“I wonder you have not thought it cheaper to keep a servant.”

Mrs. Lennox dropped her work in her lap, and looked at Molly in

astonishment.

“Cheaper! why, I should feel I was ruined at once.”

“Let us talk it over a bit, and see if my idea is right or yours. You

pay a woman to wash?”

“Yes, I spend $8 a month in getting help, a dollar a week for washing,

and the other dollar I divide between the heavy ironing and roughest

cleaning; the rest I do myself.”

“And the ironing that is left is quite a day’s work?”

“Well, it takes all my spare time on Tuesday; and I have been running

down so much lately, that I am afraid I cannot do it through next

summer.”

Molly looked at her. She did, indeed, look as if she were worn out. She

could understand that doing all the work for her family, washing, even,

included, was nothing extraordinary for some women; but for this one,

with her ambition to dress her children prettily, not to _look_ poor as

well as _be_ poor, her fastidious husband, and her bringing-up,—it was

an effort that was wearing her out.

“Now this is the way I reckon,” said Molly. “You can get a strong,

newly landed girl, for six or eight dollars a month. She may have

nothing but health and industry, although I have known girls as capable

as those who ask more, but more self-distrustful. Will not such a girl

do more to help you for $8 the month than you get now for that money?”

“Oh dear, yes. It seems to me if I had only some one to wash dishes

every day I should be easy; but you forget the food.”

“No, I do not; but, really, if you have time to give your own attention

to that, and you would have then, your food would cost less, even with

one extra to feed than now. It would not be so if you had to get an

extra large steak or chops each day for that one, but with the varied

cooking you could then practice, you would find it make only such

difference as you can easily make up in some other way; for instance,

you use baker’s bread; make it at home, and the difference in cost will

be more than your girl will eat of it; then, as all children like rye

bread, use it once or twice a week. You will make your expensive flour

go much farther. Then if rye is not liked, or they get tired, use one

week Indian and wheat bread, another, rice bread. I don’t think your

husband or children would consider these breads anything but a treat,

or know they came cheaper, and I should say nothing on that point till

you found out their real tastes. One thing I don’t want to advise; and

that is, the providing of any unpalatable or unwelcome food, be it ever

so wholesome or cheap. Food eaten without relish is _not_ wholesome;

and that is why, unless _time_ is given to cooking, the coarser parts

of meat are not economical, because they require careful cooking. A

hurried, slap-dash way of preparing any part of meat spoils it. Only

the finest steaks or chops are eatable, when so abused; but it requires

all their excellence to make them so.”

“I am taking in all you say. You have startled me wonderfully about the

girl; and the way you put it makes it seem as if it would be almost

cheaper.”

“It would be as cheap, and your health would be better. You may not be

lucky enough to meet with a good girl at first; but we all run that

risk, and I am sure of one thing: if you should give double the wages

you would be equally exposed to it, and I am in favor of taking girls

who have nothing to unlearn. I went on that plan with my Marta; and,

although she is not all I could wish, I don’t think I should have done

better by taking one who professed to know.”

“I don’t think you could; but she seems to me an exceptional girl.”

“Fortunately for me, she has a fondness for cooking, and seems

thoroughly respectable; but, if I had more work in my house, I should

not be able to keep her; so I am hoping you may be able to find one

equally good and a little quicker, if you resolve to make the trial.”

“I would like, but I am afraid. I have always heard that a servant

increases the expenses out of all proportion to what she eats.”

“Of course, if servants are left to themselves in their inexperience,

they waste far more than they consume; but you will oversee everything.”

“And then I shall get the reputation of being dreadfully stingy.”

“What matter? You might be wasteful, and still be called so by those

who wish to do it; but economy is not stint. I am sure you will never

look more keenly after odds and ends than I do.”

Mrs. Lennox looked incredulous.

“It is true. If there is _one_ potato left I have it put away; _one_

spoonful of rice, a fag end of beefsteak. Although I am new to keeping

house in this country, I am an old housekeeper; for my mother left

everything to me, and, our means being small, and she fastidious (by

which I mean only that she could do without anything, better than have

it second rate), I had to set my wits to work; and I’ve too often known

the time when _one_ potato was just the thing to finish, or make her a

little dish, to despise it.”

“But how?”

Molly laughed. “Impossible to say, for one never knows what may happen;

but I can tell you what it once did. My mother and I lived alone,

and so rarely had joints of meat that we seldom had much more than

enough in the house for our needs, in the way of fresh meats, but

potted dainties we always had. However, one wet, chilly evening, a

visitor arrived unexpectedly, an American traveling, and he had come

considerably out of his way to see us for a half an hour. I was at my

wits’ end, for our solitary maid had her holiday, and we were about to

sit down to a cozy cup of tea and toast, with some anchovy paste and a

little fruit. All we had in the house was a few slices of corned beef,

not presentable, for they had been cut off for tea the night before.

Now I knew our friend expected no dinner; and to give him as good a one

as a French cook could send up would be no treat, for he was leading

a hotel life. The only thing he would really enjoy would be some real

American dish. There was little time, for he had to catch a train in an

hour. I flew down-stairs in despair. I must have something hot to set

before him. I looked at the safe; there were about a cup of cold mush,

a solitary potato of good size, and a few half-dried scraps of corned

beef. I took them all into the kitchen, blessing the French charcoal

stoves, which are always ready, and, arranging the oven for baking, I

chopped my beef, then the potato, not too fine. When done there were a

cup of beef and rather less of potato. I put some beef-dripping into a

pan, and set it to get hot; and into a saucepan put the beef and potato

mixed, and a little salt and pepper, and stirred them round; and then

I added a small half cup of thick cream. While this was heating, I cut

the mush in slices, floured each, and when the dripping was smoking hot

I laid them in; I tasted the hash, and found it just right. There was

no time to brown it; but I left it long enough for the cream to dry

sufficiently away, while I beat the yolks of four eggs and the whites

to a stiff froth, then added to the yolks a little salt and three

table-spoonfuls of milk, stirred the whites to them gently, and then

took up the hash. The mush, which I had turned, was now pale brown;

and I laid it round the dish on which was the hash, then poured the

fat from the saucepan, put a bit of butter in it, and when it melted,

which, as the pan was already very hot, it did in a moment, I poured in

the eggs. Happily, the table was ready, and my mother always made tea

on it; so I waited only to split a few pickled gherkins to garnish the

hash, and then my omelet being half set I put it, pan and all, in the

oven, while I carried my Yankee dish to table. I had been absent only

twenty minutes; everything was ready, and, while the traveller’s tea

was being poured out, I ran down and doubled my omelet over and turned

it out. I am quite sure nothing short of canvas-back ducks, or New

England turkey and cranberry sauce, could have been such a success as

that hash.”

“‘Dear Mrs. Holmes,’ our friend said to my mother, ‘I assure you I have

dreamed of corned-beef hash and fried mush, and longed for them many

times when the table has been groaning with every French dainty, and

believed I could not hope to eat them on this side of the Atlantic.’

“Since that time I never think anything too small to save; it comes in

when least expected; and, had my cooked potato not been there, I could

have made no hash.”

CHAPTER XIX.

SUMMARY—LAMB’S HEART—FLOUNDERS—CORNED BEEF—CANNELON OF BEEF.

IT has been said that Molly was providing for visitors by economizing

slightly in her table. She was always economical, but it made some

difference whether the fish she bought was the inexpensive flounder,

made by the art of good cooking into the aristocratic _filet de sole_,

or what passes for such where veritable sole is not to be bought for

money, or a more expensive sort; whether she used veal instead of

chicken, or clams in place of oysters, and tomato or potato salad for

lettuce. On Saturday, after Sunday’s marketing was done, her account

stood thus:—

Monday—Sundries $2.80

Tuesday—Sweet corn and milk .10

Wednesday—Oysters .15

Liver .10

Knuckle of veal .20

Pork .20

Thursday—Kidneys .05

Yeast .02

Sweet corn .06

Friday—Beets .05

Corned beef .40

One flounder .12

Soup meat .15

Saturday—Steak .16

Chicken .50

Ice .40

Fuel .50

Milk .56

———

$6.52

This made the week’s expenditure 23 cents less than the last week.

It will be remembered that Monday’s dinner was formed, with the

addition of oysters, from what was left on Sunday; and therefore the

lamb bought on Monday did not come into use till Tuesday, when three

chops were used for breakfast, and the shoulder for the evening dinner.

Substituting, then, the lamb for the steak of the Tuesday before, and

on Wednesday using lamb’s liver in place of the roast breast which was

used on Thursday, the bills of fare were substantially the same as

those of the preceding week, until Friday, when stuffed lamb’s heart

for breakfast, and corned beef and flounders and beets for dinner, were

new items, as was also the steak for Saturday, in place of the cutlets.

Dessert and puddings of the first week were repeated.

Twice Molly had found in market green corn young enough for their

taste, and had bought half a dozen ears. The beets, also, were moderate

enough in price now to come within Molly’s purse. Needless to say,

all articles which were expensive, only because too early or too late

in season, had to be eschewed; but in autumn, in the country, where

vegetables are rarely so plentiful as in New York, the market needs

watching. One grocer may have a stray basket of string beans, quite

young, or a few dozen of sweet corn, long after they have disappeared

generally; and these are often quite cheap.

Molly had chosen a cheap part of corned beef—the plate—in preference to

the round, at double the price: properly boiled, she liked it better. A

small piece of four or five pounds of round of beef is very dry, even

if the careful boiling prevents its being hard; therefore she got four

pounds and a half at eight cents. She knew, from her cooking-school

experience, the New York price was seven cents; but she had learned

that most things were a little dearer in Greenfield. As she wrote down

the recipes for cooking the heart, the corned beef, the flounders, and

steak, I give them in that form.

LAMB’S HEART BAKED.—The heart, which came with the lamb’s liver,

instead of being cut up and fried in dry rings, as it is usually done,

was cleansed of blood, the gristle (or “deaf ear”) cut away, and a

veal stuffing made of a heaped table-spoonful of bread crumbs, a small

tea-spoonful of parsley chopped very fine, and a pinch, between thumb

and finger, of thyme, pepper and salt. Make this into a paste with

butter by working a piece the size of a walnut into it, then fill the

cavity in the heart with it; cut two thin slices of fat pork, wrap the

heart in them, flour it and put it in a hot oven, in a small dish. Bake

it twenty minutes, turning often so that it will be quite brown. Take

it up, pour into the dish a _very little_ boiling water or gravy (Molly

had some of her veal stock), season nicely; if water is used, add a

few drops of sauce or catsup; stir it well round the little dish to

remove dried gravy, then serve with the heart, which thus makes a very

appetizing dish.

The corned beef was washed, and, as the butcher had told Molly it was

only moderately salt, she did not soak it.

BOILED CORNED BEEF.—Although it was quite a small piece, Molly intended

it to come so very slowly to the boil that she had it put on the stove

in cold water at two o’clock. The water was only at the boiling-point

at three, and it was kept till six so slowly cooking that one had to

look carefully in order to see that there was any movement in the water

at all. At six it was taken up, and the bones drawn out, the rough

edges trimmed off, carrot and turnip cones set round it, and boiled

cabbage served with it. After dinner, it was put between two dishes,

and two heavy flatirons set on it, and it was allowed to get cold under

pressure, in order that it might cut in neat slices.

YOUNG BEETS BOILED.—The beets to be carefully washed, the roots _not

cut off_ at all, and the tops left an inch long; the idea is to prevent

the skin being broken in any way. Put them in boiling water, and, if

they are of average size, one hour will boil them tender. Try, without

a fork, by pressing in a cloth; then pour the water off, and peel and

slice them (or they can be left whole if preferred), and make the

following sauce: A dessert-spoonful of butter, a scant one of flour;

let them bubble one minute, put to them a scant half-pint of water;

let it boil, season with pepper and salt, and then put in a large

tea-spoonful more butter; stir till mixed, and add the juice of half a

lemon; put the beets in this sauce, and let all come to a gentle boil

together.

TO BONE FLOUNDERS, and prepare as _filet de sole_. Take a flounder

weighing as near two pounds as possible,—if too small they will make

poor filets,—have the head removed, lay it on the board before you, and

with a sharp knife make a cut right down the middle of the back, from

neck to tail, letting the knife touch the bone all the way; then run

the knife carefully between the flesh and the bones, working always

towards the edge or fin, and keeping close to the bone; you have now

detached one quarter of the flesh. Do the other side in the same way,

and when the side uppermost is thus entirely loose from the bone, turn

the fish over, and do the same with the other part. You will now find

you can remove the bone whole from the fish. You have now two halves of

the fish; cut away the fins, and you have four quarters of solid flesh,

or filets. Lay each one, skin downward, in front of you; hold the end

of the filet firmly, and with the knife cut the filet from the skin by

pressing the edge of the knife downward _on the skin_, which you hold

firmly with thumb and finger, and _pushing_, as it were, the flesh

up from it. You will find the skin and flesh will separate without

destroying the shape of the filet. Now bread them; have either a good

supply of bread crumbs dried in the oven and _sifted_, or cracker meal;

beat an egg with a table-spoonful of water, lay each filet in it, both

sides, then lift it out and lay it in the crumbs; turn it over that

both may be well covered, and press gently; then lay it aside, and do

the other three. Have enough fat in a deep pan to cover them; let it

get very hot, trying it with a bit of bread. If it brown _at once_, put

the filets in, two at a time; have brown paper ready, and lay them on

it when they are a fine golden brown, and serve on a hot dish.

STEWED CANNELON OF BEEF, OR ROLLED STEAK.—Take a piece of the upper

side of the round of beef, cut broad and thick. Make a veal stuffing in

the following way: A cup of fine bread crumbs, a scant table-spoonful

of finely chopped parsley, and a very scant tea-spoonful of thyme and

marjoram mixed (if any one objects to either of these herbs, leave

it out), a very little nutmeg, a half tea-spoonful of salt, and a

half salt-spoonful of pepper; chop or mix all together with a good

table-spoonful of butter; lay the steak on a board, and with a large

knife hack it _closely_ across and across, all over on one side only,

then along the centre of the hacked side lay the stuffing; roll the

meat over and fasten it with toothpicks to keep it, while you envelop

it in thin slices of fat pork, round which you wind twine. When neat

and compact, lay it in a saucepan with a pint of water, and a piece of

carrot and onion cut fine, a salt-spoonful of salt, and a tea-spoonful

of vinegar. Let this _simmer_ very gently for three hours, closely

covered, then take it up, lay it in a baking-pan, remove the strings

and toothpicks very carefully, dredge it all over very thinly with

flour, and set it in a very hot oven to brown quickly. If the saucepan

was kept closely covered, and the simmering slow, there will be at

least half a pint of thick, rich gravy in it; which strain, and skim

free from fat (a table-spoonful of cold water thrown in will make it

easier to skim). When the meat is brown, pour this gravy round it,

and serve. If the gravy should have dried away too much, a little

boiling water may be put into the saucepan, and well stirred, before

straining,—but a _little rich_ gravy is better than much and poor.

This dish Molly prepared herself, and it was a great success. Harry

pronounced it better than _filet de bœuf_.

“Yes, it is either a very good dish, or a wofully bad one,—hard and dry

and altogether unsatisfactory.”

But Molly knew it depended so entirely on great care, that the meat

should be hacked thoroughly, yet not anywhere cut through, and then

so very slowly simmered, so quickly browned, that she thought it one

of those dishes she would always have to cook herself. She was not

expecting too much from Marta. If she profited by her instructions

sufficiently to know the rules of cooking, and abide by them so far

that she might be trusted not to spoil a dish if left to watch it,

and be able to cook _a few things well_, so that she could do when

necessary unaided,—that was all Molly looked for.

CHAPTER XX.

PREPARING A CHICKEN—GIBLETS—SPOILT BREAD.

WHILE the beefsteak, on Saturday, was being converted into such a

savory dish, Molly, who wished to oversee the simmering, took that time

to prepare the chicken. The one used for the pie, last Sunday, she had

prepared, while Marta was busy elsewhere; this week she wanted to show

her how it was to be neatly done.

She had ordered the chicken (or rather, yearling fowl; for it weighed

over three pounds, and Molly was not paying the price of chicken in

September) to be sent home _with the feet on_, for two reasons: first,

because the butcher usually chops them off at the joint, or above it,

when they should be taken off just below, else when roasted the flesh

shrinks up, and they display an unsightly bare bone; and, secondly,

because the feet, properly prepared, are too valuable, for gravy, to

lose.

Molly began by picking over the bird to remove a few stray feathers;

then she took off the stove-lid, put some paper in the fire, and

quickly moved the bird over the flame, taking care not to blacken the

skin.

“Now, Marta, if you are ready, I want you to pay great attention,

because if you can clean a fowl you can also clean a duck, goose, or

turkey; the process is the same, and either, improperly done, though

you may remove everything that ought not to remain in it, will never

taste the same. If the entrails are broken, it imparts the odor of the

barnyard to the whole.

“You see I cut the neck off close to the body, leaving as little of

it on as I can; but, before beginning to cut, push the skin well down

toward the body, so that there will be plenty of skin to cover the

place where the neck has been. Cut off the feet just _below_ the joint;

then cut the skin at the back of the neck, an inch or so down, and with

your forefinger loosen the crop all round, and take it out without

breaking or emptying it. Next cut a slit right under the rump, large

enough to run two fingers in. If this were a goose or turkey, you would

need it large enough to admit your whole hand into the body. Before

attempting to draw out the entrails, loosen with your finger all the

tiny strings that attach them to the body. Be certain your fingers

can pass between the contents of the stomach and the body in _every_

direction without obstruction; then bend your hand or fingers round the

mass, and draw it forward; this will bring the whole out in a ball. Be

careful not to drag it by any particular part, or you will break the

entrails, and the whole process be an unclean one; or you may spoil

the fowl by breaking the gall, the bitter of which cannot be washed

away. Cut off the vent, which will free the main entrail. If properly

managed, the bird will be quite clean inside, and need only wiping with

a wet cloth; if not clean, pour lukewarm water through it.”

Molly worked while she talked, suiting the action to the word when

possible; and when the entrails of the fowl lay on the table, quite

unbroken, she showed Marta the clean inside.

“You see this needs washing neither inside nor out; and that is the

great object,—to prevent the contents of the entrails getting on the

bird; for if they do, to my mind, no amount of washing will cleanse it.”

“Now I lay the bird aside, and prepare the giblets, which make gravy.

You see this small, dark-green bladder attached to the liver? That is

the gall. I cut it off, but am careful to leave a bit of the liver

with it to avoid breaking. Put the liver in cold water. This hard,

silvery-blue lump is the gizzard; it must be freed from all skin and

strings; and by cutting it carefully on the _wide_ side, without

penetrating the inner skin, it can be peeled off, leaving the inside

whole, thus avoiding the usual mess. This outer flesh throw into the

water with the liver. Now for the feet.”

Molly put them in a quart bowl, and poured water from the kettle—which

she was careful to see was _actually boiling_—upon them, covering them

all over.

“Now, Marta, if you do this yourself, never attempt to scald with

water that is not boiling, however near the point it may be; and do

not put them in hot water and set them on the stove to come to the

boiling-point. Either of these methods will so _set_ the skin that it

will not come off without the flesh, while these, you see, will peel

easily enough.” She had taken, as she spoke, a clean cloth in one

hand, and with a fork lifted one of the feet out of the hot water,

then quickly rubbed the thin, yellow skin, which came off as readily

as the skin from a ripe, scalded tomato; then she bent back each nail

and that, too, came off, leaving the foot delicate, white, and clean.

The rest were done in the same way. “The only thing necessary is great

quickness; the skin gets ‘set’ as the water cools.

“You can put the fowl away now till to-morrow, Marta, but the giblets

I will put on to stew for gravy. Here are the feet, the heart, the

neck, gizzard, and liver, all well cleaned. They need a pint of water,

a slice of onion, a piece of carrot, as big as your thumb, cut in it,

half a tea-spoonful of salt, and a sprig of parsley. Now if I had not

these vegetables in the house, I should do without; but having them,

the gravy will be much better. Let these giblets stew down very slowly,

till only half remains; then strain, and you will find it is a solid

jelly, when cold.

“Ah, Marta, what is the matter with the bread? and how comes it so late

to-day?”

Marta was just taking from the oven the one loaf which formed the

tri-weekly baking, and at a glance Molly knew it was a failure. It was

a peculiar color,—a drab tone, instead of the bright, yellow brown it

should have been,—and it looked flat.

“That I don’t understand,” said Marta; “it seemed to-day as if it would

never rise.”

It must here be said that after Molly showed Marta bread-making, her

bread had been very good. She had made it three times so well that

Molly thought that part of her teaching was over. This was the fourth

time, and it was evidently a failure.

She thought of all she had heard from experienced housekeepers,—how

thankless a task it was to teach servants, for when they attain

perfection, they lack the ambition to keep to the mark; they “run

down,” as it were. For a moment Molly was appalled at the prospect

of working so hard and faithfully with Marta, if it was to end thus;

and then she remembered, if it should prove so in this case, it could

not be possible that some girl would not be wise enough to see the

advantage to herself of keeping up to a standard.

“Even if I have to change several times, at last I certainly shall

find one who repays me; then I shall have a year or two of peace and

comfort.”

But she did not make up her mind to the worst about Marta from this

failure. It had been gradually becoming clear to her that Marta had

some good qualities and many faults. Whether the qualities balanced the

faults was something she had seriously to consider when she had had

longer trial; and which would depend much on whether, once knowing a

thing thoroughly, she could be trusted to do it.

“Marta, nothing of this sort can happen without a cause; try to think

what it can be.” Molly studiously refrained from showing her vexation,

for she really wanted to find out whether Marta had erred through

carelessness or ignorance; and the only way to get at the facts was,

not to frighten her into deception by seeming angry.

“I cannot think, unless the yeast was not good; I was very careful.”

“Get me the rest of the cake of yeast.”

When she brought it, Molly broke it. It broke off short, and smelt

quite good; had it been stale it would have pulled like dough, or smelt

bad.

“No, the yeast is good, and in proof of it I must make something else

with it. But I think you must have put it in too hot water.” As she

spoke she had cut the loaf. “This looks just like bread made with

scalded yeast, or that had risen too slowly from having too little

yeast.”

“No, ma’am, I am sure the water was not too hot.”

“And it could not have been chilled when you set it to rise, I know.

Ah, there’s one thing, Marta! perhaps you forgot to stir the yeast

after you dropped it in the water, or did not do it sufficiently, and

it remained at the bottom and never went into the bread at all.”

This seemed the certain solution, if what Marta said about the water

was true; but the girl shook her head.

“No, I am sure I stirred it, and it all went into the flour.”

Molly looked at her,—could she be telling the truth? If she had not

known the bread had had long enough to rise, she would have thought it

had been put into the oven directly the dough was in the pan, without

being allowed to rise; but that she knew could not be, for she had seen

it rising, and wondered why it should be so late. She wished now she

had asked before it was baked; but Marta had been out of the way, and

when she returned to the kitchen the matter had slipped from her mind.

“I have told you to warm the flour. I suppose you didn’t make it very

hot.”

“No; I did everything just as you showed me.”

Molly said nothing. Marta must be untruthful; this was a more

unpleasant thing to discover than the failure of the bread.

“Well, we must have bread; it is four o’clock, and Saturday. I will

make a rye loaf, because it needs to rise only once after it is mixed,

and by seven o’clock it will be ready to bake.”

Molly measured the flour and set it to warm (she meant to make this

bread herself, because she was much quicker than Marta). As she poured

the hot water into the cold, to make the right temperature for the

yeast, a thought struck her;—she always dissolved the yeast in the tin

pint measure, and Marta did the same.

“Marta, after you put the yeast in the water, did you set it on the

stove?”

“Yes, ma’am, the water was a little cool, and I set it there to

dissolve; but I did not let it get a bit hot, and it was quite back of

the stove.”

“That is the mystery then!” Molly had remembered hearing a lady speak

of having done the same thing herself; and though it was back of the

stove, and the water could not get hotter, the yeast, being at the

bottom in contact with the hot iron, had baked or scalded. Of one

thing she was very glad; Marta had immediately owned the fact, and the

failure had not come from her neglect of any of the rules Molly had

laid down,—only from not understanding cause and effect.

CHAPTER XXI.

TO MAKE A FOWL TENDER AS SPRING-CHICKEN.

AS I have said, the fowl was a yearling, and Molly meant to try with

it an experiment she had seen practiced in France, by which fowls,

not quite young, were made very tender, without being converted into

fricassee or pot-pie. On Sunday morning, before going to church, she

had taken a large sheet of soft paper, and, after twisting the wings

over on the back, and forcing the legs up against the body snugly,

securing them there with skewer and twine, and fastening the skin of

the neck neatly on the back with a toothpick, she seasoned it and

wrapped it entirely in the paper, which was large enough to cover it

twice. She then tied it up with twine.

“Marta, put this chicken in the oven at half past eleven; that is, half

an hour earlier than if it were a young chicken. Let the oven be hot,

and, at a quarter past twelve, remove the paper. Take care to let all

the grease that may be in it run into the pan; flour the fowl a little,

and set it back in the oven and roast it. Take care to turn it often,

and let it get well browned; when you take it up, remove skewer and

string, pour the gravy from the giblets, with the liver and gizzard

chopped very fine, into the dripping-pan; set it over the stove,

season, and, if it should not look a nice rich brown, put about two

drops of caramel in it. Send the gravy to table in a sauce-boat.”

Marta promised to follow directions carefully, and Molly left the

kitchen; and then, remembering a mistake Marta might make, hastened

back.

“I told you _to flour it_, but I mean only to shake a very little over

it from the dredger; if it is at all thick there will be a white, pasty

coating on the outside, instead of a crisp, brown one.”

After church Molly went to the kitchen to see if everything was going

right, and saw on the table a cupful of pretty yellow balls. “What are

these?” she asked, taking one up, but found it collapsed between her

fingers. It was simply a wind ball, and the outside as thin as paper.

“They are German noodles for soup,” said Marta, her face beaming with

pride.

“They are very pretty; and, though I know several sorts of noodles, I

have never seen these.”

At dinner the clear soup, with the addition of Marta’s noodles, was

excellent, and she found that steaming the fowl in paper, before

baking, agreed just as well with the American bird as a French one; the

limbs fell from under the knife, as Harry carved, and the oft despised

yearling might have rivalled the youngest and juiciest spring chicken.

CHAPTER XXII.

DOLLARS AND CENTS.

MOLLY reached the end of her first month’s housekeeping, and now could

see exactly where she stood, and could plan for the coming month to

advantage. Referring to her note-book, she found she had spent 53 cents

less the second week than the first, 75 cents less the third, and 60

cents less the fourth. She had, therefore, in hand nearly $2, and

provisions in the house for a couple of days. She had also salad-oil,

olives, Worcestershire sauce, cooking-wine, pepper, salt, mustard,

corn meal, and vinegar, to last a month at least. There was also over

a pound of coffee left; and she would need only three pounds of lard

in place of five, as there was nearly half left, and two instead of

four pounds of coffee. She had, therefore, that much to deduct from

her second month’s grocery bill, and several additions to make to it,

for she had so far done without many articles she liked to have in the

house; she found, too, that the twelve pounds of sugar she had allowed

must be increased to fifteen, twelve granulated, three cut loaf.

Her order for the grocer stood for the second month thus:—

Three pounds loaf sugar $0.30

Twelve pounds granulated sugar .96

Flour 1.00

Kerosene 1.00

Potatoes .40

Lard .36

Coffee .60

Tea .75

Soap .25

Toilet soap .10

Starch .08

Cracker meal .15

Cheese .18

Capers (small bottle) .30

Two pounds of currants .20

One pound of Valencia raisins .14

One pound of Sultana raisins .18

One half pound of citron .15

One half pound of shelled almonds .23

Gelatine .18

Hominy .10

Extract of vanilla .25

Alcohol .10

Extract of rose .10

Oil bitter almonds .10

Pickled gherkins .35

Two cans of peas (American) .30

Graham flour .16

Lemons .20

Carrots, turnips, onions .40

Apples .40

Parsley .05