month, which had not been grated. As they were squeezed, the pulp was
scraped out, and then they were dropped into a gem-jar of salt and
water, a handful of salt to the quart. She meant to do the same with
oranges, through the winter, and to candy them. A cup of candied lemon
or orange peel is a great addition to a fruit cake or to many puddings;
and, as the only cost was the sugar used in candying it, she would
always keep a good supply in her store-closet. The alcohol was to make
lemon flavoring; and, as soon as it came, she took a fresh lemon with
a coarse rind, and with a sharp knife carefully pared off the yellow
as thin as possible; this, cut into small pieces, she put into the
alcohol, then corked it tightly. In two or three weeks this would be
very fragrant extract of lemon, growing stronger the longer it was
kept. The extract of rose, of vanilla, and of almond, she bought of the
druggist; they were much stronger than those put up in bottles, and of
course very much cheaper, and the ten cents’ worth would last months.
The extract of rose was to take the place of rose-water in flavoring
cakes or icing; a very few drops would suffice.
“Now,” thought Molly, as she surveyed her new stock of provisions, “I
can have some variety in dessert and cakes, and these little bottles
will work wonders in my commissariat. Charlotte and I will have a real
good time when she comes.”
“Charlotte” was Mrs. Welles; and she was to come the second week in
October, when the hills would be in the full glory of autumn color; and
Molly was full of anticipation of pleasure in having her old friend in
her own house.
“That alone pays for all the extra care and work of housekeeping,” she
had said to Harry,—“the pleasure of asking your friends to your own
house instead of some one else’s.”
“Oh, it’s a paying thing in every way,” said Harry. “I confess I’m
completely converted.”
Harry had kept up his little jokes about their housekeeping; had
laughed gently over her weekly savings, and still more when she told
him it was to meet the extra expense of visitors.
“But, Harry,” she had said earnestly, “we must do that, you know, or
else get just as much behind as I am now before-hand. Of course, if
we were a large family keeping a bountiful house, one more or less
would not need providing for; but when just two are living as well as
they know how, on a certain sum, that amount will not stretch to take
in extra. Every one who _manages_ has to calculate so; only perhaps I
need not have spoken of it. Many things are all right until they are
spoken, and then they do, I confess, _sound_ very small. Of course, if
we cooked a large roast to-day, ate it cold two or three days, baked
once a week several loaves, and had large pots of weak coffee, half to
be thrown away, we should not need to provide very much for a visitor;
but we aim to live differently; and it is only by making one thing fit
in with another that we can live quite within our means, and be able to
welcome a visitor without anxiety.”
Molly was flushed, and her eyes sparkled; for she was a little wounded.
“My dearest little woman, you mistook me; I wasn’t laughing at the
planning at all; I was laughing in admiration at the way you steered
your little bark so very near the wind, and trimmed so very neatly.
And to think, too, how clever you were to cut down the table-expenses
after the first week without my guessing it. I declare, I thought I was
living quite like a prince. I am lost in admiration, Molly, and feel
ashamed to be so much better off than most fellows.”
He spoke in a sort of jesting earnest, and pressed Molly to him. She
understood him well; the slight cloud lifted, and, with his arm about
her, they went over the month’s accounts together.
“Now do you regret the experiment of housekeeping?” she asked, when he
had congratulated her.
“No, indeed, I don’t. No more boarding for me if I know it.”
“I am so thankful to hear you say that.”
“Now, my dear, you’ve had your little innings, listen to mine. I have
$20 a month, remember, to give an account of. You know we set out,
when we married, with the brave purpose of reserving $10 a month for
emergencies. But with board and laundress coming to nearly $90, and
the numberless trifling expenses, car fares, etc., in New York, in the
whole twelve months we did not save $10.”
“I know, and it worried me very much; to live right up to one’s income
seems terrible.”
“Not so terrible in our case, because I’m sure of a steadily increasing
salary; and I propose we do not increase our expenses for some years to
come.”
“Oh, no indeed! Whatever the increase, it must be saved so long as we
have health.”
“Well, I find by living in the country that drain of small expenses is
avoided; and I actually have $12 in hand.”
“Oh, I am so thankful, but”—anxiously—“you have not been going without
lunch?”
“By no means; but I find fruit or a sandwich and glass of milk makes me
as good a lunch as I want, and averages ten cents a day.”
Harry’s commutation ticket was $6 a month, $3 only of which had to come
from the margin of $20. (It will be remembered that the amount they
allowed for their rent, servants, and table was $77. The $3 saved from
their old boarding-house expense of $80 partly paid the commutation
ticket.) Harry had therefore limited his personal expenses to $5 for
lunch and newspapers, tobacco, etc. Molly was very proud each time she
remembered how freely he had spent money before their marriage, and
how cheerfully he had resigned the cigars and expensive luxuries that
were almost second nature, for her sake. How could she grudge any pains
that should make his house a little like the one he had been accustomed
to? They had both decided to be very economical in dress; and it is
astonishing how very little will keep up a wardrobe once well supplied,
provided one does not easily tire of the same garments. Altogether
Molly thought the outlook was bright enough; and, after thus summing
up, they spent a long, happy evening laying plans.
“Oh, what is your conclusion about our light-handed Phyllis; will you
keep her?”
“Oh yes; she certainly is rather exasperating sometimes, and I have
thought it over seriously whether I should take the trouble to go on
with her or change; but she has some very good qualities; she is very
clean, and very saving, and really about cooking very intelligent.
Outside of the kitchen I can’t say much for her; but another might be
stupid there, too, so I think I’ll bear the ills I know.”
Marta’s wages were but $10; but Molly had found it absolutely necessary
to hire a woman for two days, that Marta might see how washing and
ironing was to be accomplished in this country, which Molly herself
knew little about. She knew what the result should be, but how to
attain it she did not know. When the woman came, she was careful to
profit, herself. She watched the process, and asked the woman a dozen
questions.
“It seems to me that Marta rubs enough and works hard enough, but
nothing looks just right,” she had said, as she watched the apparently
easy movements of Mrs. Hall, who was considered an excellent laundress.
“Lor bless you, ma’am, it ain’t the rubbin’ with clothes like your’n,
it’s the rinsin’, and the washin’ in plenty of water—many ov ’em stuff
the tub just full of clothes as they can pack, and then puddle them all
through in a little water one side the tub, when it’s just as easy to
have a few bits in at a time. Then when they’re a bilin’, the biler’s
chuck full, and no room for ’em to scald; and they’re put right out
of the bilin’ suds into the blue rinse water, ’stead ov bein’ suddled
first.”
“What is suddled?”
“Well, just being put into a tub ov clear or near clear water, an’
gettin’ the soap out of ’em; then they kin be tossed into the rinse.”
“You think, then, it’s not the labor, but the water?”
“Stan’s to reason, if the cloes come out of thick water,—I don’t
mean dirty; _your_ cloes wouldn’t make dirty water if you was to
try,—they’ll look thick.”
This was a great thing for Molly to know. She saw the principle of it,
and she knew Marta grudged no work; it was only that she did not expend
it in the right direction. Less rubbing, but more water, then, was no
doubt the secret.
With ironing she learned less, Mrs. Hall’s views on the matter being
of the Bunsby kind. Molly had been reading all she could find in books
about it, but she believed a few words from a practical laundress would
enlighten her more than much reading. She had only one clear idea
herself; and that was that the most beautiful laundry-work she had ever
seen, she had been told, was due to long boiling of the starch.
“I boil it till it runs off the spoon like melted silver,” the woman
who did it told her.
“What do you think about starch? Ought it to be long boiled?” she asked
Mrs. Hall.
“Oh, I don’t know. Some says so, some says not, but I never makes no
differ; if I’m not ready the starch biles, if I am, it don’t. It’s all
in the ironin’, I say; if you kin iron, you kin.”
“But surely sometimes starch sticks.”
“Yes, if you don’t understand it.”
Molly gave up; but she found Marta so far improved by what she had
seen, that the money was well expended.
But to return to the dollar and cent question. Her grocery bill for the
coming month was $10.02 against $11.22 for the last (see Chapter IX.),
and the weekly proportion of that would be $2.50½. Of several articles,
such as flour and potatoes, she had renewed the supply; not because
they were really exhausted, but would be in a few days; all of which
small “lap-overs,” however, would make a little difference to one who
watched her expenses so closely as Molly.
CHAPTER XXIII.
CHIEFLY SOCIAL—MRS. FRAMLEY’S OPINIONS.
MOLLY during the month had become acquainted with all Mr. and Mrs.
Winfield’s friends; they had gone to the “readings” each week, and,
not being hypocritical young people, but very ready to be amused,
had enjoyed themselves much. The “readings,” she found, were really
modified theatricals; and as happily no great tragedies or legitimate
dramas were attempted, but bright comedies or farces, they were usually
well done; and where they were not the fun was greater.
Molly was glad they had found so many pleasant people in Greenfield; it
made the ordeal of a winter in the country for Harry far less trying.
She was expressing an idea of this sort to Mrs. Framley, who said:—
“But you don’t seem to think the ordeal is as great for you, who are in
the country all day. I’m afraid you spoil Mr. Bishop.”
“Oh dear, no,” laughed Molly; “but I do think it right to make life
just as pleasant to him as I can.”
“My dear, don’t you think women do too much of that? Isn’t it just as
much a man’s business to see that his wife enjoys herself as hers to
cater to _his_ amusement? You told me the other day you don’t care for
chess; yet you make a point of playing it. Why shouldn’t Mr. Bishop
make a point of doing something you like?”
“I don’t know; but I don’t believe he would think of it; if he did, no
doubt he would try to amuse me.”
“That’s just it! You are so self-effacing that it doesn’t occur to
him. I am no woman’s rights woman; I don’t want to vote; but I do not
believe in catering to a husband’s taste any more than he caters to
mine.”
“I haven’t thought much about it,” said Molly slowly. “It just comes
natural to me to do what I can to please Harry, but I don’t know that
it is any credit to me, for I enjoy it just as much as he does; perhaps
if I didn’t I might not do it.”
“Well, you are newly married, but later you will find you have made
him thoroughly selfish; at least, he is a remarkable young man if he
doesn’t get so. Look at Jane Carlyle!”
Molly laughed. “I love Mrs. Carlyle, and I am always surprised at
the tone of commiseration adopted toward her. I think she thoroughly
enjoyed ministering to her husband—why shouldn’t she? She loved and
admired him, and it was her life work; and I think I understand such a
woman well enough to feel sure she was happier drudging for him than
she would have been with some smaller man drudging for her. All her
letters, for the first twenty-five years of her married life, show that
she rather gloried in overcoming her difficulties. I dare say she would
have pitied some other woman doing the same things; but we all leave
out, in thinking of others, the personal affection which makes the
things we do and suffer for those we love a pleasure.”
“My dear Mrs. Bishop,” cried Mrs. Framley, laughing, “I had no idea you
could be so eloquent. I think, at one of our meetings, instead of a
reading, we will have a lecture from Mrs. Bishop, entitled _The labor
that we love physics pain_. You haven’t convinced me, though, because
my opinions are founded on principle, and the conviction that women
ought, out of self-respect and for the sake of other women, to expect
that a husband should sacrifice his tastes and pleasure, and consider
it his duty to amuse and entertain his wife as much as she does him,
and not consider his duty done if he provides for her and treats her as
well as he would a favorite horse.”
“I can understand if people, man and wife, or brother and sister,
begin to draw the line as to what is to be conceded and what
expected, and what they do for those they love becomes a _conscious_
self-abnegation,—that life under such circumstances may be looked upon
as one of self-denial; but I fancy few really are denying themselves
while pleasing a loved one.”
Mrs. Framley smiled. “You are the last person I should have thought
romantic, but I see you are; talk to me ten years from now, my dear,
and I’ll listen respectfully.”
Molly thought the matter over when she was alone. Was she really in
danger of spoiling Harry? She certainly had known husbands who took
all the comfort of their homes just as their right, and never seemed
to think they need do anything toward the family pleasure beyond
paying the bills. Molly was devoted to her husband; but she was not so
blinded by her love as not to see that Harry was in no way a perfect
man. He was pleasure-loving only in the sense of seizing life’s
enjoyments,—even his generous impulses were part of them,—and he was
too fastidious for a poor man; and Molly could quite realize that he
might not be a loving husband to some women just as good as she was,
and yet she knew his faults were faults of temperament. How could he
help it, if he liked brightness and gaiety and rather shirked the
dreary side of life? She sympathized so much with him that she had no
dread of the future; she had no wish to make him over to her standard.
(Herein lies the secret of half the “incompatibility” in marriage,
if Molly had but known it; but she was not, consciously, a social
philosopher.)
“Well, I can’t help it; I don’t believe Harry will be more spoiled
by being made happy in his own way than if I try to make him make
me happy in mine; and if he does I can’t help it. It all depends, I
suppose, whether one loves a man well enough to enjoy his pleasure
and find one’s own in it; and I can’t help thinking Mrs. Carlyle was
just as happy as those who pity her, until she got ill and morbid; the
sacrifices she seemed to make of her own comfort were not so, for her
pleasure was in promoting that of her great husband.”
On the whole, Mrs. Framley’s warning had done no good or harm. While
boarding, although Molly had been as reserved as politeness permitted,
and limited her intercourse with the ladies to formal acquaintance,
it had been impossible for her to escape many such warnings, uttered
good-naturedly, often by the way of joking a young wife; but she knew
then, as now, she could lay no deliberate plans to secure her husband’s
love and attention; if she gave more than she received, she could not
help it—she loved to give. “If it is really necessary to measure one’s
devotion in order to secure happy married life, then those women who
love least have most chance of happiness; but it cannot be.”
CHAPTER XXIV.
A VERY PLAIN PUDDING—HOW TO COOK ODDS AND ENDS—BILLS OF FARE FOR A WEEK.
MOLLY’S enlarged circle of acquaintances enabled her to ask aid for
poor Mrs. Gibbs; and several had subscribed small sums, which, put
together, bought the poor soul fuel for a couple of months; and
others who regretted inability to give money—having so many calls
already—gladly sent to Molly odds and ends of food, fag ends of steak,
the tops of mutton chops, etc., which, long and softly stewed and left
till cold,—when the fat came off in a cake which made nice dripping for
Mrs. Gibbs to fry mush or potatoes in,—then stewed again with onions
and potatoes at some times, vegetables and barley at others, made a
very appetizing dish; thus with a very little of Molly’s time and what
would have been thrown away by one or two families, savory, nourishing
food was provided for the destitute woman and children. Had the meat
and vegetables been sent to Mrs. Gibbs herself, they would have done
comparatively little good; they would have been fried, and the fat
probably thrown away, and the tough meat eaten without relish. A large
bread pudding, too, was made once a week; and, as it cost so little and
was so good, Mrs. Lennox asked Molly for the recipe:—
PLAIN BREAD PUDDING.—Soak stale bread, crust and crumbs, in skimmed
milk till soft; press out the milk, and beat the bread fine; add a
table-spoonful of molasses, a tea-spoonful of ginger, and the third
of a nutmeg to each quart of beaten bread; sweeten to taste; pare the
yellow rind of an orange or lemon, or both, chop them fine, and add
them with one or two cups of currants, according to the size of the
pudding; put the whole into a pan, smooth it over the top, and strew it
thickly with nice beef dripping or butter. Bake a three-quart pudding
_slowly four hours_. Better cold than hot.
This pudding, if care is taken with the flavoring, will by no means
taste poor. It is especially nice cut in slices and fried, or—in hot
weather—eaten cold with milk or cream and sugar.
Mrs. Gibbs was getting now strong enough to do sewing, and one lady
lent her a sewing-machine she was not using; Molly felt there was now
some hope of her getting work enough to partly support her family.
Mrs. Lennox and Molly had often talked again over the advisability of
the former getting help in her house, or not; Molly was strongly of
the opinion that, as her health was before everything, it certainly
was advisable and truly economical, but she did not venture to urge
it, because she knew everything would depend on the kind of girl they
would get; yet it seemed that any one with but two good qualities,
willingness and strength, must be a great gain to a woman situated as
her friend was.
“I do dread green girls, they generally are so stupid.”
“I confess they often are; so are those not green, only they conceal
their stupidity better, and often add conceit to it; but it seems to
me what you are in urgent need of is a pair of strong arms; if you get
those, you can do without the brains, or supply them; you never stop to
ask if the woman you hire to wash and iron is stupid or not, she simply
does the work set for her; and if one pays a girl low wages, and she
does just the work you show her, like a machine, every day instead of
two days a week, won’t you be better off?”
“Yes. When I think of the matter like that, I see I should, even if I
have to follow her round for a month or so.”
“Yes, you will be saving your muscles.”
“And I might then get time to think of my children’s minds as well as
their bodies; my life is so sordid, I never read a line; and when Mr.
Lennox reads to me I am sorry to say I am too pre-occupied to listen.
It is a frightful waste of life.”
She sighed, and on the last of these conversations said: “Mrs. Bishop,
I’ve resolved to try the experiment. I am not so afraid of the
increased butcher bills since I have so many of your recipes.”
“I don’t believe you need be; but you can easily get an idea of what
you will spend. I think it a good plan to write out a sort of list
every week; it saves thinking each day what to have for dinner, and, of
course, can be modified according to market prices. I limit myself to
certain prices: and, if I find some articles dear one day, I can easily
change; for instance, cauliflowers have been wonderfully cheap this
fall, and twice I have got a small one—large enough for us two—for 10
cents; to-day I meant to have fried cauliflower, and found a very small
one was 20 cents; of course I did not get it. You might draw up some
sort of a list of provisions for a certain time, allowing for the extra
person, and get a close idea of your probable expenses.”
“I wish you would help me.”
“I will, gladly.”
Later in the day, Mrs. Lennox came in much excited. “My dear! Mrs.
Framley’s chambermaid has a sister expected to arrive from Ireland this
very week, and she is trying to get a place for her; and I am tempted
to try her. She is sixteen, and the sister says for the first three
months she will let her live with nice people for very little.”
“I would by all means engage her if Mrs. Framley thinks well of the
sister.”
“Yes. She says she is respectable and clean.”
“That’s about all one can hope for, and I think it is a fortunate
chance.”
“I shall decide. Oh, think of my having another pair of working hands
in my house: such a weight will be off my shoulders, and this saves me
going to Castle Garden.”
Molly had decided to write her own bills of fare for the week, as it
would save her thinking each day, and she could manage better, knowing
beforehand all she would need. Accordingly, on the first of the month,
she wrote out the following as her programme for the week’s dining. The
breakfasts so often came out of the dinner that she did not need to
make special arrangement:—
BILLS OF FARE.
_Noodle Soup._
_Braised Beef._ _Cabbage à la Crême._
_Fried Potatoes._
_Beets._ _Cheese Omelette._
_Polka Pudding and Sauce._
———
_Filets de Sole with Béchamel Sauce._
_Miroton of Beef._
_Green Peas._ _Potato Balls._
_Iced Cream Coffee._
_Cake._ _Fruit._
———
_Black Bean Soup._
_Chicken Fricassee._
_Potato Croquettes._ _Peas._
_King William’s Pudding._
_Fruit._
———
_Cod, with Hollandaise Sauce._
_Roast Mutton._
_Stewed Onions._ _Scalloped Potatoes._
_Frozen Bananas._ _Cake._
———
_Clear Soup with Royal Custard._
_Fried Fowl (French fashion)._ _Sweet Bread._
_Tomatoes, au gratin._ _Stuffed Potatoes._
_Vanilla Soufflé Pudding, Hard Sauce._
———
_German Soup._
_Boiled Mutton._ _Stewed Onions._
_Potatoes._
_Macaroni._ _Cheese._
_Spoonful Pudding, Almond Sauce._
_Fruit._
———
_Raw Oysters._
_Mutton, Re served._ _Stewed Onions._
_Dresden Patties._ _Potatoes._
_Old English Fritters._
_Fruit._
CHAPTER XXV.
MARTA’S NOODLES—BRAISED BEEF—HOW TO ADAPT ONE’S MATERIALS—POLKA PUDDING
AND SAUCE.
I HAVE said before that Molly had repeated, as often as she could, the
dishes she had first taught Marta, so that she might not get confused,
and might know thoroughly a few things. She hoped by this means to
be able to depend upon her for certain dishes. At the beginning of
this new month Marta seemed to have learned thoroughly how to make
clear soup, white sauce, bread, and to fry; and to Molly this did not
seem a bad result. In knowing how to make clear soup, she knew the
principle of soup-making, and could make any other meat soup,—also in
learning this she had learned what _slow boiling_ really meant, and
could therefore boil meat well. To make white sauce perfectly meant
to do many other things of which that, or its modifications, are the
foundation. Whether Marta’s intelligence was quick enough to show
her the value of the key she held, that good white sauce meant good
béchamel sauce, good celery sauce, lobster sauce, poulette and all
the long list of sauces with high-sounding French names, that seem so
hopelessly unattainable to ordinary cooks, as well as all kinds of
white soups, and many sweet dishes,—that she would see and apply all
this was a great deal too much to hope; but if she would only keep her
execution of what she could do up to the mark, Molly would feel that
her efforts were far from wasted.
“If she will only not be content with having accomplished these things
a few times, and will _not_ become careless as she gets familiar, I
must be very thankful;” but this was just what Molly did fear. The
bread, although light and good, was never twice alike, unless Molly
superintended the making; which assured her that Marta had taken to
“guessing” or, what was as bad, to measuring carelessly. Carefully
she explained to her that a pint of flour did _not_ mean all that
could be taken up on a pint measure, or that a pint of water did not
mean the larger half of a quart measure; but the bread still came to
table, sometimes coarse-grained, sometimes very close, showing it was
sometimes made very wet, at others stiff, but always light and sweet
so far; but she feared this lack of exactness might run into other
things. If so, it could not be helped. Molly knew that many very good
cooks, who turned out excellent dishes, never measured, could never
tell how they did it, or give an intelligible recipe. Such cases had
been often quoted to her as a reason why the precision of scientific
cooking, as taught in cooking-schools, was nonsense; but she knew that
those who cooked thus, although they might produce excellent results
four times out of five, the fifth time might make a failure; they are
always subject to good and bad “luck” with their cooking; and she
knew, too, there are a certain few who are gifted with such a correct
eye for quantity that they could calculate the weight of a thing to a
quarter of an ounce,—she herself had this gift to a certain extent,
but she never trusted to it,—yet she understood that a cook with that
exceptional gift might do as well without weighing as with it; the only
misfortune was that the generality were not so gifted, but believed
themselves to be so, and the result is the frequent uncertainty with
which one so often awaits the appearance of Dinah’s or Delia’s efforts,
that result depending on their “good” or “bad luck.”
However, Molly was convinced that she had done her part with Marta,
and that if she failed in the things she knew, it would not be because
she did not thoroughly understand; and she could now try to teach her
several new dishes.
The bill of fare for the day was noodle soup, braised beef, cabbage
with white sauce, fried potatoes, and polka pudding.
About a pint of clear soup was on hand, and Molly had many times
intended to let Marta show her how to make the German noodles that had
so pleased her when she first saw them; but on days when clear soup
was made or used, something had always called her attention; and even
to-day was ironing-day, but she helped Marta through with her work, so
that there might be half an hour to spare without putting the ironing
back, and then while Marta was finishing she prepared the dessert.
She had a recipe for polka pudding which she had often heard praised,
and now, as she had the materials, would try. I say she had the
materials; but Molly was very clever in “cutting her coat according to
the cloth.” The recipe called for bitter almonds as well as sweet; she
knew by flavoring a portion of the sweet almonds with the extract of
bitter she would have the same effect. Rose-water also was called for;
she poured a few drops of the extract of rose into a table-spoonful of
water, and she had it, or at least the effect.
The recipe was as follows:—
POLKA PUDDING.—One pint of milk, boiling hot, two table-spoonfuls of
corn starch mixed smooth in a _little_ cold milk; then pour the boiling
milk on it and stir all the time; thicken over the fire and mix, when
cooked, with a table-spoonful of rose water, a table-spoonful and a
half of thick cream; or stir in one and a half of butter, one ounce of
bitter almonds and one of sweet ones blanched, and beaten with a little
white of egg to prevent oiling; beat the yolk and the rest of the white
with another whole egg very light. Mix all together, let it come to the
boiling-point, put it into an oiled mould, and set in ice.
There were one or two peculiarities about this pudding; it was
unsweetened, except by the sauce, which might make it a pleasant change
from sweeter dessert, and it was to be served ice cold on hot plates
with hot sauce.
The first thing was to blanch the almonds, which she did by putting
them in a bowl and pouring water over them, which she was careful to
have quite boiling; when they had stood two minutes, she took them out
of the water with a fork, laid them on a coarse cloth, and pressed
them between her thumb and finger, when they slipped easily out of
their skins. She dropped them as they were done into cold water to
keep them white. When all were finished, she dried and weighed them
(two ounces of almonds _blanched_ being very different from the same
weight in their skins), and then, as she had no mortar, she took the
chopping-bowl, assured herself it bore no odor or trace of herbs, and
first chopped them fine; then with the potato-masher, which she never
used for its legitimate purpose, pounded them.[2] One-half of these she
flavored strongly with bitter almond and the rest of the recipe she
followed exactly, using cream instead of butter, as she had it, having
saved it from dessert the day before for this purpose.
She measured the table-spoonfuls of corn starch very carefully, for
nothing is more disagreeable than too much, and she boiled it in a
saucepan set in another of water, so that the starch might be long
cooked without burning. She removed it from the range to the table,
and allowed it to go slightly off the boil before stirring in the
eggs; then returned it to the range and stirred till it came to the
boiling-point again.
When all was mixed, she poured it into an oiled mould and set it in
the ice; and then prepared to watch Marta, who was delighted with her
accomplishment, and to see it so much appreciated. Her face fairly
beamed as she found herself giving instead of taking instruction. She
said very little, but Molly stood by and noted what she did.
She beat one egg till it frothed, put to it a pinch of salt, and
then worked in as much flour as it would take, _about_ three
table-spoonfuls; she kneaded it till it was a smooth and firm, yet
elastic, paste. This she rolled out on the pastry-board (very slightly
flouring it) till it was as thin as writing-paper. So far, this was
exactly the recipe for home-made vermicelli noodles, which was familiar
to Molly. When the paste was as thin as she could get it on the board,
Marta lifted the sheet of yellow paste, laid a cloth folded on the
board, and then the paste on that; this enabled her to roll it still
thinner; then she removed the cloth and folded one-half the paste,
and asked Molly for her thimble. Molly washed it and gave it to her,
and Marta stamped a couple of dozen little disks out of the _double_
paste. They were so closely stuck together that they looked like little
circles of yellow card. Marta now took a little pint iron saucepan,
put into it two large table-spoonfuls of lard, and set it to get
smoking hot. While this was reaching the point of heat required, she
took the little sheet of paste she had not used, and which was still
single and had got very slightly dry, while the disks were being made,
which she explained it was necessary for it to do. She then rolled up
the thin sheet closely, and cut it at intervals of the third of an
inch; the paste now looked like so much yellow tape; and these, she
informed Molly, were either to be dried near the fire on a sieve and
kept for soups, or to be boiled in water and dressed with butter. As
she spoke, she tossed the shreds up lightly with a fork for some little
time. The fat was now hot; as hot, Molly remarked, as for croquettes,
proved by the fact that the little disks when dropped into it (they
became balls the minute they were in the fat) took a pale, golden hue;
one-half minute colored them all alike; they were then lifted out with
a skimmer, and Marta laid them on a clean cloth. Molly said nothing,
because she did not want at this time to interfere with what was
Marta’s specialty, but in doing them herself would use paper to drain
them instead of greasing a cloth.
“I am ever so much obliged, Marta; these are a real novelty. Now we
will have the others boiled for luncheon and some day you can make them
for dinner. Mr. Bishop is so fond of anything of the sort. I want to
see you cook them.”
It was time for them to be cooked now, Marta declared, and she put on
water to boil with a tea-spoonful of salt in it; then she grated about
a table-spoonful of cheese, and when the water was fast boiling dropped
the “noodles” into it. She knew no other name than this for both the
balls and the ribbons. They were to boil a quarter of an hour, she
said, and every now and then she carefully stirred them up with a fork
_not so as to break them_, but to keep them separate. She put a large
table-spoonful of butter in a little saucepan and set it to get hot.
When the noodles were strained off, the grated cheese was sprinkled
over them with a little pepper and salt, then the butter was put to
get _boiling hot_, and immediately poured over them. They were again
stirred up with the fork, and, when the butter was well through them,
Marta pronounced them ready; it was of course quite a small dish, but
Molly told Marta if it proved half as good as it was pretty, she would
be called on to make it very often.
It did not belie its appearance. “Marta, this is quite a discovery! I
wonder if you can make any more German dainties?”
Marta smilingly said she knew only one or two really nice things.
“Then you shall make them; but don’t you see, you silly girl, that when
you knew how to fry those little balls you knew how to fry many other
things?”
“I see it now, but I did not before. I thought everything else had to
be done in a different way in a flat pan.”
“Well, when you make these ribbon noodles again, you will have to
take the whole of the paste made from the egg, and double the butter
dressing; for I’m sure Mr. Bishop will be delighted with them.”
In the afternoon, as the irons were on the stove, Molly put the beef in
the oven and made what Soyer calls a “roast-braise.” She took a small
earthen crock or pan and put into it a large onion, a small carrot and
turnip, two sprigs of parsley and a bay leaf; on these she laid some
fat pork shaved, and on that the meat beef neatly skewered and tied.
Over this meat she put a thin layer of fat pork, and over all a cup of
water and a flour and water paste, so that the steam could not escape.
This was to be left in the oven, which was not allowed to get very hot
for the first two and a half hours,—just hot enough to keep the roast
simmering.
FOOTNOTE:
[2] An equal weight of almond paste may be used.
CHAPTER XXVI.
FRIED POTATOES—POLKA SAUCE—CLEARING GRAVY OF FAT—A VARIETY OF CAKES
FROM ONE RECIPE.
MOLLY had intended showing Marta how to fry potatoes, so as to have
them crisp. If she gave directions merely, the girl would naturally
think, being so much smaller than other things, they would be cooked
as soon, and the result would be brown and flabby. She had waited to
do this until some other dish needed her in the kitchen till the last
minute before dinner, and to-day, as the sauce for the pudding had to
be made, she could direct the one while she made the other, and she was
anxious, too, to see to the taking up of the beef and making the gravy.
She went to the kitchen in good time to attend to this. Half an hour
before the meat was to come out, the oven was allowed to get very hot.
When the paste was removed from the crock, the savory steam filled the
air. The beef was lifted from the crock, put in the dripping-pan and
set on the top shelf of the oven, now quite sharp, for half an hour,
to brown, while Marta prepared the cabbage. The potatoes, peeled and
cut into thin slices, had been lying in ice-water since morning. They
were now drained and dried _thoroughly_, and the kettle of lard was put
on the range to heat. Then Molly skimmed the fat from the gravy in the
crock and poured it through a strainer into a small saucepan, and she
then set Marta to rub as much of the vegetables through as possible.
“Marta, you need not chop the cabbage to-night; for a change you will
press all the water you possibly can from it, cut it across pie-fashion
when it is in the dish, and make a gill of nice white sauce, using,
remember, _half_ a table-spoonful of butter, _half_ one of flour and a
gill of milk.”
Molly was draining the cold water from the cabbage as she spoke, and
put it into the boiling water; then, as it was too soon to make the
sauce, she went to arrange the dining-table—which was something she
found quite impossible to teach Marta.
When she returned Marta had rubbed the greater part of the vegetables
through. Molly put a cup of boiling water into the crock, stirred
it well round the sides, then poured it through the remains of the
vegetables in the strainer into the saucepan, and then set it on the
range to boil fast; it was still thick with fat.
“Marta, when that boils throw in a little _cold_ water, then skim it;
do that three or four times till it is quite clear of fat, then set it
where it will boil rapidly, to get rid of the water you have thrown in.
When the grease is entirely off it, you can stir in a dessert-spoonful
of brown thickening.”
Molly needed for the polka sauce one table-spoonful of butter, well
washed to remove salt, two large table-spoonfuls of powdered sugar, and
a glass of wine, and the directions were as follows:
“Beat sugar and butter till very light and white, make the sherry quite
hot, add it gradually to the butter and sugar, beating all the time,
stand it in a saucepan of boiling water, and do not cease beating till
all are at the boiling-point.”
Molly had to content herself with beating the sugar and butter to a
very light cream and measuring the wine; she must trust Marta to finish
it while they were at dinner, as it was evidently a sauce that could
not stand.
When Marta had thickened the gravy for the meat, Molly seasoned it with
pepper and salt, let it boil fast till very rich, then took it from the
range and left it to stand for a few minutes. Marta had the soup on,
and the noodles in the bottom of the tureen.
“Now, Marta, try the fat, and put in the potatoes if it is as hot
as for your noodles. You must leave them till the fat recovers the
heat—it is of course chilled by the cold potatoes going into it. If you
were frying for a large family you would only put in part at a time,
but for our little dish you may safely put in all.”
In about one minute they were drawn away from the intense heat.
“That is because they take at least eight minutes to cook. They will
be tender before, but not crisp, and if they were kept in the hottest
part they would be dark in color long before ten minutes. Understand,
you must _not_ put them where they will cook _slowly_, but where they
will cook _more slowly_ than right on the fire, and you can safely make
your white sauce while they cook. As I am here I’ll take up the meat,
but I want you to notice that the gravy has still a little fat which
has formed on it like a skin, and can be lifted with a fork. One way of
clearing very greasy stock or gravy is to boil it fast, let it stand,
then remove the skin that forms, repeating this process several times
if necessary. Where there is time, this is really the best way, for
there is no need to watch it; simply put it on the fire and remove it
as you go about your other work.
“Now those potatoes are done—lift them out with the skimmer, lay them
on that brown paper I have put ready, sprinkle salt on them and then
turn them into a dish. The beef is brown now—you can take it up, pour
part of the gravy round it and put the rest in a sauceboat. Now I’ll
leave the rest to you.”
The polka pudding Harry pronounced delicious, and exactly to his taste,
but Molly thought she would have preferred it slightly sweetened; but
the combination of hot and cold, eccentric as it seemed, was very
pleasant.
After dinner Mrs. Lennox came in for a chat, as she occasionally did,
leaving Mr. Lennox at home with the children. She wanted to tell Molly
that she expected her new maid by the next Inman steamer. Her sister
was going to meet her on its arrival and bring her right out.
“Make up your mind to possess yourself in patience for the first few
days,” said Molly, “for you will no doubt need it, and then you may
have real comfort.”
“Oh yes, I think I am patient. To-morrow I am going to make a cake; can
you give me a good recipe? Better than the one I have, I mean.”
“That depends on what it is. Do you want a cup cake?”
“Yes, the one I have is what they call feather cake, and very light
and nice, but I would like a change, I confess. The recipe is one
table-spoonful of butter, one cup of sugar, one cup and a half of
flour, half a cup of milk, one quarter tea-spoonful of soda, half one
of cream of tartar, two eggs and a pinch of salt. Then I stir butter,
sugar and eggs together, beating them hard, then add flour in which the
cream of tartar is mixed and milk by degrees, and I dissolve the soda
in the least drop of boiling water, and bake it in a good steady oven.
I use the same recipe for jelly cake.”
“I know that cake,” said Molly; “it is an old favorite, and for a quite
plain one it is very good indeed, and for children or where it is
quickly eaten up I should use it; but I have to make a richer cup cake,
using very much more butter or butter and lard, because for one thing
I like a cake that is more like pound than sponge, and, for another,
I want it to keep fresh. One loaf made with a cup and a half of flour
lasts us a fortnight, and by using nearly half as much butter as flour
it is better the last day than the first.”
“I thought so much butter would make it heavy.”
“No, if properly made you may use equal quantities of butter and flour
as in pound cake, or half a pound of butter to one of flour as in queen
cake; but a cake with much butter needs more care in baking, and it
takes longer than one with less—pound cake takes from two to three
hours.”
“I am fond of pound cake, but I never aspire to make one.”
“It is easy enough to make, but not so easy to bake; While eggs and
butter keep fairly cheap, I think I shall make one to keep, so that
it will be always on hand, for the minute eggs and butter get more
expensive I shall use as few as possible and make only fruit cake.”
“Why don’t you get eggs now while they are cheap? I get eggs from a
farmer at twenty-two cents, but he tells me they will be twenty-five by
the end of the month.”
“I pay that now at the store, but if I can get a few dozen at
twenty-two cents, it will be an economy to take them. I will put them
down in lime.”
“That is what I have wanted to do, but I tried once, and put ten dozen
down when they were fifteen cents, and they did not keep at all.”
“We’ll do them together if you like; but to return to the cake, I don’t
believe you can improve on feather cake for your purpose, but you can
vary it _ad infinitum_. By leaving out a good table-spoonful flour and
adding grated chocolate and flavoring with vanilla you have a very nice
chocolate cake, or by stirring in it a cup of grated cocoanut or one of
walnut meats it is delicious, or even by grating the peel of an orange
and part of the juice, or lemon-peel. If you add fruit you need more
butter, say two table-spoonfuls, or it will be crumbly and dry.”
“Thank you; I never thought of chocolate cake. I shall try it
to-morrow.”
CHAPTER XXVII.
CANDIED LEMON-PEEL—TO WHIP CREAM SOLID—ICED CREAM COFFEE—MADELEINE
CAKE—POTATO BALLS.
THE next day not being a very busy one for Marta, Molly proposed to
candy the lemon-peels, that had been lying in brine until enough had
been collected. There were now the peels of nearly a dozen. These
were put on in cold water, and when they had boiled an hour this was
thrown away and fresh cold water put on them, the object being simply
to freshen them. When they began to get tender Molly tasted them to
see if any salt remained in them, but she found them quite fresh; had
they not been, she would have changed the water once more. When they
were tender enough to run a straw through them, which was when they had
boiled nearly three hours, they were poured off, and a pint and a half
of water and a pound and a half of sugar were put to boil to syrup,
while Molly and Marta cut the peels into chips less than an inch long
and a quarter inch wide. To accomplish this quickly Molly told Marta to
cut each half lemon-peel into three equal sizes, then to lay one on the
other, and cut across all three; the chips were about the right size
thus cut.
When the syrup boiled the chips were dropped in; it was allowed to
boil again, and to keep boiling slowly till the peels were clear, then
more rapidly till there was so little liquid that they were in danger
of burning; then they were drawn to the back of the range for the
remaining syrup to dry away without burning. When they were at this
point Molly sprinkled half a pound of sugar through them and spread
them out on plates, telling Marta to put them in the oven with the
door open, and let them remain all night to dry.
She explained to Marta, if ever she tried to do them alone, to remember
there must be always enough syrup to cover the peels at first, made in
the proportion of a pound of sugar to a pint of water.
Of course, although the process was a long one, the only attention
required was to prevent the peels burning toward the last.
Molly knew she would be in the kitchen a good deal this week, for she
did not expect Marta to be able to do much alone. The day on which she
candied lemon-peels she planned to make iced cream coffee, a cake, and
show Marta about the dinner.
Mrs. Winfield’s freezer was very small, the cylinder holding only a
quart. Molly had not tried it hitherto, but home-made ices were so
economical that she was anxious to become familiar with it. After
breakfast a cup of black coffee was made by pouring half a pint of
water through two table-spoonfuls of finely-ground coffee, in the same
way as their usual breakfast coffee was made, only of double strength.
To this was added a gill of thick cream and half a pint of boiled milk,
and four table-spoonfuls of sugar. This was poured into the cylinder
and frozen. Molly had ordered half a pint of cream to be kept for her
the day before, so that she would be sure of having it from twenty-four
to thirty-six hours old, and the other gill was left in the ice till it
was thoroughly chilled. Buying cream in such small quantity she could
not afford to have the usual milky residuum, and knew the only way to
whip it _solid_ without one tea-spoonful of waste, was to have it _at
least twenty-four hours old_, and _thoroughly chilled_, then to beat
it steadily, without taking the beater out till it was as solid as
the white of egg. This usually happens in ten minutes with a pint of
cream, but if the kitchen is warm and it does not “come” in that time,
it is often an economy of time to set it in the ice, just as it is,
to get chilled again; there is no occasion to remove the froth as it
rises,—the whip will be finer and firmer without.
Marta made the Madeleine cake, while Molly stood by, recipe in hand.
“This cake, Marta, has no milk, and therefore requires no
baking-powder; neither queen cake, sponge cake, pound cake, in fact
none of the finer cakes have milk, and they are raised entirely with
eggs. But several very good imitations of these cakes are made with
baking-powder; the saving is not great, and a cake made without
chemicals keeps fresh much longer.
“MADELEINE CAKE.—For Madeleine cake you must weigh four ounces of
butter, half a pound of sugar, half a pound of flour twice sifted; then
grate the rind of half a lemon into the sugar, separate the yolks from
the whites of three large or four small eggs, put two table-spoonfuls
of wine in this cup, and, before you begin to make the cake, butter a
small cake-pan. Now beat the whites of the eggs till you can turn the
bowl without their slipping, cream the butter well, then beat the yolks
of eggs into it, then add the sugar and wine; beat _well_ again, and
then add flour and whites of eggs alternately, and when all is well
mixed, pour it into the pan, and bake it in a rather slow oven for an
hour.
“I am having only half the recipe made, so the cake is not very
large; but we are such small cake-eaters that we get tired of a large
one. Another time, if you make this cake, you may put rose-water or
peach-water instead of the wine, and chopped candied lemon-peel instead
of the grated peel. You see the batter is much thicker than for the
cup cake you made, but if at any time you use flour that absorbs more
moisture, you must add another egg; this is, as it should be, as
thick as pound-cake batter,—which means, as thick as can be stirred.
It is more a paste than a batter. Will you remember that, when you
have a recipe which says ‘thick as pound-cake batter’? Any cake with
baking-powder made as thick as this would be spoiled. It would be
tough, with great holes here and there, so you must be very careful not
to confuse the two rules,—_moderately thick_ batter for plain cakes,
with milk and baking-powder; very thick batter for the richer ones,
made without. Yet, of course, they must be stirred with a spoon; if
too stiff for that, your flour is very absorbent, and you need another
egg. Remember there is _never_ any harm in adding an egg; it will never
spoil your cake as too much milk would do.
“All cakes without baking-powder or its equivalents, soda and cream of
tartar, require a much slower oven than those with them. A slow oven
ruins a plain cake, a quick one spoils a rich cake, and you must be
especially careful to turn it very gently, and, in taking this or _any_
cake with much butter in it from the oven, to put it on the table very
gently. I have known a cake to come from the oven perfect, yet, from
being dropped hastily on the table, to collapse with a puff of steam
issuing from it. The same thing may happen from taking it from the pan
while quite hot, or from its not being quite cooked through; cakes
require to ‘soak’ a few minutes even after a broom straw comes out
clean. Lack of knowledge on these small points is one of the reasons
why many people who make excellent plain cakes—by which I mean all the
variety of cakes with baking-powder and little butter—do not succeed
with richer ones, and why so many look upon pound cake as so very
difficult, while it is really as easy as any other.”
Marta had twice succeeded admirably with the cup cake, which her
unfortunate bang of the oven door had spoiled the first time.
Instead of frying the _filet de sole_ for dinner, Molly intended to
have what is called by cooks _turbans of sole_, with béchamel. She put
the bones and fins left from boning a flounder (see directions, Chapter
XIX.) into a pint of water, and let them stew slowly at the back of the
range; then she rolled up the filets and fastened each with a wooden
toothpick, and set them to keep cool until she was ready to cook them.
For the miroton of beef she cut from the braised beef of the night
before some very delicate slices and laid them in an oval dish; then
she put a large table-spoonful of butter in a small saucepan, and let
it get very hot, and poured into it a cup of rice, which had been
boiled till just dry and tender, but not broken; this was fried, with
frequent stirring, till pale brown, when it was poured over the beef,
making a cover. The cold gravy, which was a solid jelly and rather too
highly flavored for the purpose, was diluted with an equal quantity of
hot water and a pinch of salt; a tea-spoonful of brown thickening was
stirred into it, and enough poured over the rice to moisten the whole,
but not make it “sloppy;” the dish was then put into the oven to remain
for half an hour.
Marta had put on the potatoes early, and when they were boiled she
mashed them (keeping them quite hot) with a fork, beating it rapidly
back and forth till they were white and light; then Molly took them
herself, and told her to strain the bones from the fish broth or stock,
to put a salt-spoonful of salt in it, and set it to boil again; then to
chop some parsley _very fine_, to cut a thin slice of blood-red pickled
beet, and cut from it with a thimble (in the absence of the proper
tube) little disks the size of a dime.
Molly seasoned the potatoes highly, putting to them (there was a scant
pint) a dessert-spoonful of butter, salt, pepper, a grate of nutmeg,
and a little parsley. Then she beat an egg and added part of it,
keeping out only enough to brush over the balls when made. She formed
each about the size of a small orange, and brushed them over with the
egg. They were placed on a buttered tin and put in the oven to brown.
The turbans of fish were now put in the boiling stock, and boiled
till they were milky-white instead of clear—about eight minutes; then
Molly took them up with a skimmer, and in a small saucepan stirred a
dessert-spoonful of butter and one of flour together, letting them
bubble a few seconds, and then poured a gill of the fish stock and half
one of milk to it, stirring all the time (in fact, making white sauce,
but using part fish stock instead of all milk, which makes béchamel for
fish; made with veal or chicken stock it is béchamel for meat). When
seasoned with a little pepper, the little rolled filets were placed
standing up in a small dish, and the sauce poured all over them to mask
them entirely; then Molly took a little parsley on the end of a knife
and carefully sprinkled it over the same, which, being thick, allowed
it to rest upon it; then a disk of the blood-red beet was laid deftly
on the top of each turban, and a very pretty dish was the result.
“Now, Marta, I leave you to bring the dinner in as soon as Mr. Bishop
is ready. I have left the iced coffee packed ready; all you have to do
is to wipe every spot of ice and salt from the outside, and then fill
two cups from it. Pile each cup very high with the whipped cream, and
bring in the cake at the same time.”
CHAPTER XXVIII.
FRICASSEED CHICKEN—LEMON HONEY—FRENCH ICING TO KEEP.
THE next day Molly, while showing Marta how to cook the dinner, added
two other articles to those she liked to have always ready. Cake, as
she said, was so little eaten by Harry and herself that a loaf lasted a
week, even with Marta’s help, for she, like most of her countrywomen,
lived largely on soups, and salad, and vegetables, and cared little for
sweets. She did not care to have the same cake, over and over again,
and had she had preserves in the house, would have found it easy to
convert it into something more attractive. Had she been keeping house
long enough, jams and jellies would have been in her store-room;
peaches were now the only available fruit, and by the time Molly was
settled enough to think of doing them up, they were both poor and dear,
and in the boarding-house they had been rather surfeited with canned
peaches, therefore she had let them go. She had lately been unearthing
several old recipes of her mother’s and grandmother’s, and some of
them she meant to try. There was one called “lemon honey.” It was of
more modern date than the others, and as her mother had written under
it “nice change from preserves for cake,” she decided to make it. She
required for it half a pound of sugar, the rind and juice of a large
fresh lemon, the yolks of three eggs and white of one, and three ounces
of sweet butter.
She followed directions, which were to put the butter and sugar
together in a saucepan. (As the butter was rather salt she took the
precaution of washing it first.) While these melted, she beat the eggs
thoroughly, grated off the lemon peel into them, taking care to remove
all the yellow, which contains the flavor of lemon, yet not to grate
deeply enough to remove any of the white, pithy rind, and then mixed
all together over the fire until as thick as honey, taking care it did
not scorch. When done it was thick, smooth, yellow, and semi-opaque.
She poured it into two small jelly-glasses, and put it away.
While she was doing this, Marta had been picking over a scant half pint
of black beans for soup, which when washed she put over the fire in a
quart of cold water, in which she also put one small onion, two cloves,
a tiny pinch of marjoram, one slightly larger of thyme, and two sprigs
of parsley. These were to simmer slowly, until the beans could be
rubbed through a strainer, and then a pint of strong beef stock, which
had been making all morning, was to be added, and all boiled together
for an hour.
When the soup was on, Marta prepared a fowl as Molly had shown her, and
when it was done she directed her how to cut it into neat joints for
fricassee, without mangling it. While Marta was doing this Molly put a
pound of sugar and a small cup of water into a small iron saucepan that
she assured herself was beautifully clean, and set it over the fire.
While the syrup came to the boiling-point she turned her attention to
the fricassee, and told Marta to lay the pieces in a saucepan with
boiling water to just cover them, to cut an onion and half a medium
carrot and put it to them, with a level tea-spoonful of salt and the
sixth of one of pepper. These were to simmer very slowly until the fowl
was tender,—about two hours,—then the fowl to be taken up, the gravy
strained and put to boil very fast, till there was less than half a
pint, while in another saucepan, half a pint of thick, white sauce was
made (a good table-spoonful of butter and a full one of flour to half a
pint of milk). This was added to the chicken gravy; they were stirred
smooth together, and the chicken returned to it and allowed to simmer
in it a few minutes.
When Molly had seen the fricassee prepared and slowly stewing, she
turned to the sugar, which was now boiling fast. She removed a little
bluish scum, very carefully, not to stir the syrup. When it had boiled
a quarter of an hour, she began to try it, dipping the fork into it,
and when all the drops had run off, watching if a long thread remained.
At first the drops ran off quickly, and she waited a minute before
trying again, when she dipped in the fork. Drops came now slow and
thick, and after the last one a short thick end remained, and she knew
the point had nearly come. The next dip left a long, floating hair, and
Molly took it from the fire and put it to get cool while she prepared
the pudding, for which she used the following recipe: Two apples,
finely chopped, two ounces of grated bread, two of sugar, two of
currants, two eggs and the rind of a lemon, grated with just enough of
the juice to give a perceptible acid, about a third of a pinch of salt,
and the third of a small nutmeg, grated. Stir all together and pour
into a small, buttered bowl that it will just fill.
Molly followed the recipe, tied a cloth over the top (see directions
for boiled puddings, Chapter XIV.) and put it into fast-boiling water
to boil continually an hour and a half.
Lemon sauce was prescribed for this pudding, but as she had used eggs
freely lately and it required two, she substituted hard sauce.
The boiled sugar was now about blood-warm, and a thin crust like ice
had formed over it. This she was vexed to see, but she picked it off.
Underneath, it was as thick as very thick molasses. She stirred it with
a spoon, which was rather hard work, and in about five minutes it began
to look milky; this by continual beating changed to a texture like
lard. Now she could use the spoon no longer, and worked it like dough
in her hands. When it was a compact, smooth mass she pressed it into a
tumbler and covered it with oiled paper.
Marta had been looking on with wondering eyes to see simple sugar
change from a crystal-clear syrup to cream, and then to a paste, and
now asked what it was for.
“That is for icing cakes, and as it will keep just so for months, it
is always ready. I should have called your attention to the boiling,
only there was too much on hand, and there are such delicate degrees
in boiling sugar that you would need your whole attention; some time
you may take sugar and experiment; there can be no waste—unless you
burn it, but that will not be likely—for it can be boiled over and
over again. When it is _perfectly_ boiled, that thin crust is not upon
it, only a jelly-like skin; but when it does form, if you find it is
only on the surface, you can take it off and keep it to sweeten other
things, but should it be _grainy_ all through, you must put water to it
again, and boil it back to the ‘thread’; on the other hand, if you take
it from the fire an instant too soon, you will find that, instead of
forming a paste that you can handle, it will remain thick cream. This
would do for icing, as the cake absorbs some of the moisture, but it
would not do to keep, nor could you add much flavoring or coloring, so
it is always better to boil it to a higher degree. To-morrow I’ll show
you how it is to be used. Now I think you understand the principle of
frying well enough to make the potato croquettes if I read the recipe
to you. This is it: Two cups of potato, mashed very smooth without
milk, a dessert-spoonful of butter, salt to taste, a pinch of white
pepper and a very little nutmeg (rub the nutmeg across the grater
twice), and the yolk of an egg. Mix all together; and for economy’s
sake I am going to use only the white of the egg for crumbing; beat it
with two tea-spoonfuls of water. Make the potatoes into the shape of
small pears, roll each in the white of egg, then into cracker meal, and
fry just as you do the other croquettes, in very hot fat. When they are
done, stick the end of a sprig of parsley into the end of each one to
simulate the stalk.”
CHAPTER XXIX.
BOILED CUSTARD—FROZEN BANANAS—USES OF FRENCH ICING—SCALLOPED
POTATOES—HOLLANDAISE SAUCE—ROAST OYSTERS—UNEXPECTED VISITORS.
FOR next day’s dinner Molly bought a piece of cod about three inches
thick, and a leg of mutton (the cod weighed three pounds, the mutton
six and a half, which she directed the butcher to cut in half), and
half a dozen bananas.
As soon as she reached home she made a boiled custard with two eggs and
a pint of milk, in the following way: The eggs were whipped while the
milk came near to the boiling-point. When that was reached, two heaped
table-spoonfuls of sugar were added to the milk, and when dissolved it
was poured to the eggs, stirring all the time. Both were then returned
to the saucepan—which was set over the fire in a vessel or saucepan
containing boiling water—and stirred. When the water in the under
saucepan boiled round it, the custard was removed a few seconds, the
stirring continuing all the time, and then it was returned. This was
repeated till it was like thick cream. The object of removing it was
this: The eggs must not boil or they will curdle; they must be _cooked_
or they will not thicken; if left in the boiling water they would boil;
by removing every minute for a few seconds, you keep the custard at the
boiling-point till it thickens, without running risk of its curdling.
Frequently, in the fear of custard’s curdling, it is taken off the fire
just at the boiling-point, and it remains thin, unless corn-starch has
been first boiled with the milk; in the proportion of two eggs to the
pint, corn-starch is not needed for moderately thick custards. When it
was done it was set to get cold, and two bananas were cut into small
pieces. While the cooking was going on, Molly got out the Madeleine
cake, cut side slices from it the third of an inch thick, cut the dark
crust off as thin as possible, and spread three of the slices with the
lemon paste she had made yesterday. The other three she laid on these,
sandwich-fashion.
“Now, Marta, I’ll show you what I am going to do with my _fondant_
icing.” As she spoke she put a table-spoonful of it in a cup which she
set in boiling water over the fire. “You see I stir this, because, if I
simply left it to melt, it would go back to clear syrup; by stirring,
it keeps opaque like cream. I do not let this get too hot, only just
warm enough to run easily.” When it had reached the point of being like
_double cream_ or molasses, she put the saucepan and cup on the table
and added to it a few drops of vanilla and stirred it; then with a
tea-spoon she iced each slice, pouring the _fondant_ on and spreading
it, allowing it to run over the sides.
“You see this icing cools as you do it, and it may happen in cold
weather that it will cool before you finish (and if the candy has been
boiled rather high, the same thing may happen any time); then you
must dip a knife in boiling water, shake off the drops quickly and
smooth with that; then you use the knife. Now if I had cochineal in
the house I should have melted only half the quantity in this cup and
half in another, and flavored one with rose, and added a very little
coloring,—three or four drops,—and used it for half of these cakes; but
as it is, I leave them all white.”
Molly worked as she spoke; the three slices were iced, then she held a
sharp knife on the range till it was quite warm, wiped it, and cut the
cake into neat tablets an inch wide and the width of the cake,—about
two inches. Each slice made four, so she had a dozen small fancy cakes.
“You can see, Marta, how easy it is, if your icing is always ready
and you have preserves, to have a plate of very pretty cakes in a
few minutes. You may make a dozen and a half, or more; then half a
dozen may be white with lemon between; half a dozen with red currant
jelly, and icing colored with a small piece of unsweetened chocolate
melted in a saucer on the stove and then stirred to the icing; and the
others with peach, and pink icing flavored very slightly with bitter
almond; and for very ornamental purposes, a dozen almonds, blanched and
chopped to size of rice and sprinkled over the pink and white while
the icing is still warm, make a very pretty change; in fact, very many
varieties can be made once you have got the idea, and remember never
to mix flavors badly. Vanilla and chocolate always agree; so you can
use the same icing for the white and chocolate by doing the white
cakes first, then putting the melted chocolate—and just a drop or
two of water from the end of your finger or a spoon—to it. Chocolate
stiffens so much that you are more likely than not to require a knife
dipped in boiling water to spread it. When all are done you may mix
your pink and chocolate candy together, if the flavors agree (vanilla
and chocolate and rose go exceedingly well, but almond or lemon not),
work it together with hand or spoon, and the result will be a lovely
ashes-of-roses color. You may put it away so flavored and colored for
future use, or you may use it at once for other cake, which is better,
as color fades if kept too long; but remember one thing: this icing,
having been made hot, will be stiffer than when you began, and to be
melted over again will need perhaps a dozen drops of water mixed with
it; if it has become sugary and rough, you can’t use it; but if on
taking a pinch between your finger and thumb it will spread smoothly
like putty or dough, it is as good as ever, which it is almost certain
to be if you have worked quickly.
“The only art in this French icing is to have everything ready before
you begin coloring and flavoring, to have almonds, if you use them,
blanched and chopped,—in short, have to leave off for nothing; then
you can work quickly, and the icing is not allowed to cool, and will
not need reheating once or twice before you have finished. At first
such quickness may not be easy, and if the icing chills, you will find
it unmanageable; all you have to do is to return it in the water to
the fire, and melt as at first; it will usually stand melting two or
three times before getting grainy. Stir, while melting, only enough to
mix the melted and unmelted together. Of course it is always easier
to melt a quantity of icing in a bowl, and do a number of cakes, than
a table-spoonful as I have done, because it holds the heat better,
and you have abundance to work from; but I don’t want to destroy the
delicacy of what I put away by melting all up. You see I have a little
ball left.”
She had gathered the icing from the cups and spoon and worked it
between her hands into a little shining ball, simply to show Marta what
could be done if more had been left. “This is not worth putting away,
but several little marbles like these if dipped into melted chocolate
would make chocolate creams. You see how one thing leads to another in
cooking.”
The custard was now cold, the bananas were stirred into it and they
were put into the freezer, and ice and salt in the proportion of one
third salt were packed round it. After it had stood a few minutes,
Marta turned it for a quarter of an hour, when it was frozen.
Just as Molly was about to begin to write directions for the scalloped
potatoes, concluding she herself would need to make only the
Hollandaise sauce, and could leave the dinner to Marta, a hack drove up
to the door, and Molly saw Harry’s mother and father in it.
To say she did not tremble would not be correct; for an instant her
heart sank; if she had only known they were coming! She wondered if
everything was as nice as she would wish it in the little sitting-room.
She generally had it, not trim, or oppressively tidy, but with only
the pleasant disorder of a room that is lived in; but Marta had a
way sometimes of leaving her brush or dustpan—sometimes a kitchen
cloth—where it ought not to be. Molly looked at herself, but she was
neat, and no one had a right to expect a housewife at eleven in the
morning to be ready for company. While Marta went to the door she
removed her apron and washed her hands, and when she reëntered the
kitchen just waited to say:—
“Marta, make some of your nice noodles at once; leave your up-stairs
sweeping till later, and I’ll let you know what to get for lunch.” She
passed into the parlor, having in the short interval recovered her
composure, and welcomed her unexpected visitors as if their coming were
a pleasant surprise, and not an embarrassment.
“Will you come up-stairs and take off your things?” asked Molly,
thankful that in consequence of her wanting to show Marta how to make
custard and use French icing, the sweeping was not begun and the whole
place topsy-turvy and draped in sweeping-sheets.
“Well, I don’t know about staying; we just thought we would run out and
see what sort of a place you had here, and take the next train back.”
“Oh, you would not do that?” cried Molly, all her hospitable instincts
revolting. “What would Harry say? You must stay till he comes home, and
he can perhaps induce you to stay all night.”
“Oh dear, no—no, thank you; Mr. Bishop rarely stays anywhere from home
at night.”
“No, no, my dear,” echoed her father-in-law, “I am as old-fogyish as a
bachelor, and I like to be at home.”
“Well, at least you must stay the day.”
“Well, if we shall not put you out, we will remain an hour or two.”
“Come up-stairs, then; you will rest better when your cloak is off.”
Molly had never felt as if her house was a bandbox till now. Mr. and
Mrs. Bishop seemed literally to fill the parlor, yet they were not
very large. Harry was much taller than his father, but they both
had a ponderous way with them. Mrs. Bishop’s voice, too, was a deep
contralto, which she used in a manner which, had it been affected,
would have been haughty, but, natural as it had become, yet seemed to
impress people against their will with a sense of her importance.
“And so this is your little cottage? Do you find room in it?”
“Oh, yes,” said Molly, smiling, “plenty;” but as she followed her
mother-in-law up the narrow stairs, which had never seemed so narrow
till she saw the rich dress and velvet-clad shoulders fill the whole
space, she could see how very tiny it might seem to one accustomed to
large rooms and broad spaces.
Mrs. Bishop glanced around the pretty bed-room.
“And Harry and you really are contented here?” she asked.
“Indeed, we are more than contented; I’m as happy as the day is long.”
“Well, it’s very strange for Harry; he was always the most fastidious
boy; but happiness is everything, I suppose.”
“We think so.”
Molly helped Mrs. Bishop off with her cloak, which was so handsome as
to look strangely out of place in that simple cottage room, and then
said, “If you will excuse me, I will send you up some hot water and
give orders for luncheon.”
“Thank you, thank you; don’t let me keep you; and please don’t make any
preparation.”
“No, I will not; I must only see that sufficient for three persons
instead of one is on the table.”
She ran down-stairs, took Marta’s rolling-pin out of her hand, told her
to take a pitcher of water up-stairs, and rolled the noodle-paste till
she returned.
“Marta, directly your noodles are made, go to Mrs. Framley’s and ask
her to please telephone to the fishmonger for a quarter of a hundred
oysters in the deep shell, to be sent here for one o’clock. Be as quick
as you can, and when you come back you will find on the dining-room
table full written instructions for what you are to do.”
Molly went to the parlor and found Mr. Bishop reading his paper.
“Go on reading for a minute, please; I will write a line. I know if you
have not got through the morning news you will be glad to do it.”
“I just glanced at the money market at breakfast, and I’ve too much
respect for my eyes to read in the cars.”
Molly went to the davenport and wrote Marta’s instructions. Her first
impulse had been to use her materials for dinner, to have the frozen
bananas for dessert; but on second thought she resolved to give just
what she meant to have for her own lunch, with oysters to make enough;
the bread was fresh and very good; therefore she wrote the following:—
“Make the cold bean soup boiling hot, boil one egg hard and cut it in
quarters lengthwise, then across; lay it in the soup-tureen and pour
the soup on it. Cut four thin slices of lemon and drop them in as it
comes to table. When the oysters come, set them, in their shells, in a
dripping-pan; put on each a bit of butter, size of a hazel-nut; pepper
them and set them over the fire till the liquor in the shells bubbles;
watch till the butter melts, then they are done; take them off the fire
immediately. Use a cloth to put them on a hot dish; take care you do
not spill the gravy. Serve with hot plates.
“Cut the cold pudding in finger-lengths, make a batter of two
table-spoonfuls of flour, a pinch of salt, and milk to make it as thick
as thick cream; dip each piece into the batter, and fry in deep fat
till brown; sift sugar over it, and serve with hard sauce.”
As Molly wrote the last words she heard Mrs. Bishop coming down-stairs,
and wondered much what she could do to entertain her. She had actually
never been with her without Harry before, but the matter solved itself,
for the elder lady questioned her as to her mode of life, what she did
with her time, how Harry and she spent the evenings, and when told as
simply as Molly knew how, she laughed, with a sort of good-natured
sarcasm.
“Quite idyllic, I declare; so Harry reads aloud while you sew,—or else
you both play chess.”
“Yes; of course we are almost strangers in Greenfield. When we are
better known no doubt we may go out more, but all our neighbors are
very pleasant.”
“Now that is one thing I wanted to caution you about; one of the
penalties of living in a place like this is that you must know every
one, and are apt to make intimates that you can not shake off easily
when you go away.”
“But,” said Molly, with some dignity, “I shall make no intimacies I
should ever want to shake off; people good enough to be my friends now
will be good enough at all times.”
“My dear, I think when I was your age I had just such ideas, but I
found as I grew older I had to do as others do.”
The time did not pass very gayly, and Molly wondered how she would get
through the afternoon if they should stay, for she believed that she
and her mother-in-law had nothing in common.
When the time came, Molly excused herself and went in to help Marta lay
the cloth. The silver and glass were always bright, so there was no
hasty rubbing and polishing at the last minute. That morning Harry had
brought in from the tiny flower-bed a handful of geranium and coleus,
saying: “We have to take them as they are ready; frost may come at any
time now.”
And they were now ready for the centre, arranged in a deep glass dish,
the rich coleus round the edge, the geraniums in the middle. They gave
the little table an air of brightness that nothing but flowers could
have done.
Molly did not want to be many minutes from the parlor, as she knew Mrs.
Bishop would think great preparations were being made, and she would
rather have given them bread and cheese than that, but she thought she
would trust Marta to follow her written directions, as the only things,
except the oysters, to cook were those she was very familiar with. The
result justified her. It is true the soup had the eggs cut in slices
instead of as directed, but that mattered little.
When they were seated and Mr. Bishop, who was a _gourmet_ if not a
_gourmand_, exclaimed: “Capital soup! capital! why don’t we have it at
home?”—Molly felt a good deal relieved and a little triumphant, for
Mrs. Bishop was very proud of her cook.
“Why, my dear George! I did not know you cared for bean soup!”
“I don’t, unless it’s first rate.”
When soup was removed and Marta entered with the large dish of oysters,
Molly gave one hasty glance,—would they be shriveled into leather,
or flabby and half cooked? But the error had been on the best side;
more than half were perfectly cooked, the others barely hot through.
Poor Marta had followed instructions, but had not thought to turn the
pan. However, Molly was only too thankful to have so little wrong, and
helped the best to her visitors. They were still almost boiling in the
shell; and after this came a pretty dish of noodles that Marta had
arranged round a mound of grated cheese.
After the luncheon Mrs. Bishop said with a tone of approval which Molly
was determined not to think patronizing, “I declare, Molly, you keep
house very nicely.”
“You must have a remarkable good cook, by Jove!” broke in Mr. Bishop.
“I am glad you think so,” said Molly, smiling.
“Where did you get her?”
“Castle Garden.”
Mrs. Bishop almost screamed when she heard it, and then Molly found the
right conversational key was struck, for her mother-in-law had a great
deal to say about her own troubles with servants, and the troubles of
her friends; and when the “hour of digestion” had passed, she asked if
they would like to go out and see some of the beauties of Greenfield.
“Well, that depends on what train we take.”
“I hoped you would stay and see Harry.”
Mrs. Bishop looked inquiringly at her husband, who said:
“Oh, we must stay and see Harry, I suppose.”
Molly smiled inwardly, as she thought that his luncheon had reassured
him as to his dinner. They all went out for an hour; there was not much
to see but some pretty, well-kept Queen Anne houses, and Mrs. Bishop
let drop the remark that she had little expected ever to see a son of
hers living in the second-rate neighborhood of a country town, which
remark Molly prudently ignored.
When they returned to the house, Mrs. Bishop, at Molly’s suggestion,
went to lie down, and her husband stretched himself on the sofa, and
Molly slipped from the room, for she could see he too was drowsy. She
went to the kitchen, told Marta how well she thought she had managed
the lunch, and then gave directions for the dinner in writing, for she
wanted to attend to her guests as much as possible. What she wrote was
as follows:
“At five o’clock, put the mutton in the oven as usual, and the fish
into salt and water. At a quarter past, put white onions on to boil
in boiling water; and potatoes. When the potatoes are just done, cut
them in slices thick as a dollar. Have ready a pint of white sauce,
remembering to use _two_ table-spoonfuls of flour and _two_ of butter
to the pint of milk. Chop a dessert-spoonful of parsley very fine, lay
the potatoes in a dish, sprinkle a little parsley, pepper and salt
among them, pour white sauce over them enough to moisten without making
them sloppy, and strew grated bread crumbs over all; put them in the
oven to brown. Keep the rest of the white sauce for the onions, which
must be boiled very tender, poured dry immediately after they are done,
and then put into the white sauce, and allowed to stew a few minutes.
“As soon as you have the potatoes ready for the oven, put the fish,
which you have nicely wiped, on a plate, lay that on a napkin and set
both in a saucepan of boiling water, with two tea-spoonfuls of salt and
two of vinegar. It will take twenty minutes to boil.”
Molly had told Marta to take the peg out of the freezer and let off
the water, at luncheon. She now went to see if the frozen banana
custard was in good condition, and found it all right; then she took
out the paddle, worked the custard down from the sides, and covered it,
packing in more salt and ice.
“How glad I am we happened to have cold dessert,” she thought; “it will
save Marta so much at the last moment.”
She read over the written instructions, although there was nothing
new but the manner of cooking the potatoes, assured herself Marta
understood everything, and told her she would come out herself and make
the fish sauce.
It was after four o’clock, and she laid the table just as she wanted
it, went up-stairs and put on one of her prettiest dresses, and then
returned to the parlor. Mrs. Bishop was just rousing as she passed her
door, but did not descend for some few minutes, which Molly took to
glance over the paper.
All the time she was talking with his mother and father, Molly pictured
Harry’s surprise at finding them, and knew it would also be a pleasure.
She did not know what to augur from this visit, whether it was simply
curiosity, or meant any return of the old parental tenderness for him;
Harry would know, for he knew their ways better than she did.
At last she heard his steps on the plank walk; she flew to the door.
“What’s up, little woman? you look like an exclamation point in person.”
The next moment he caught sight of his visitors.
“Mother! father! why, this is a good surprise.”
Molly slipped out of the room while Harry was hearing all about their
arrival, whipped on her apron and made the Hollandaise sauce. She
put into a little iron saucepan a large table-spoonful of butter, a
dessert-spoonful of flour, and let them cook one minute; then she
poured to them two thirds of half a pint of boiling water, stirred
till smooth, then added, gradually, the yolks of three beaten eggs;
when she put the eggs in she stood the saucepan in another of boiling
water, and stirred it well; after the eggs had thickened she put two
tea-spoonfuls of lemon juice, salt, and as much cayenne as would go on
the end of a penknife, and it was done. Marta had taken up the fish,
and Molly directed the sauce to be poured entirely over it, herself
seeing that there was not a drop of water from the fish in the dish.
A sprig or two of parsley was laid at each end of the dish, and lemon
in slices round it; then casting her eye round to see that Marta had
everything ready but the meat, she told her to bring the fish in when
she should hear Mr. Bishop come down.
The dinner was very nice, although, as Molly was glad to think, simpler
than they often had when alone, and it was eaten without comment until
the ice came on, when Mrs. Bishop expressed surprise at their getting
such things in the country.
“Oh, we can, I believe, get excellent ice-creams here, but this is
home-made.”
“Indeed!”
After dinner Mr. Bishop declared they must catch the eight o’clock
train. Harry urged them in vain to stay, and then it was decided that
Molly and Harry would go to the depot with them.
As they parted Mrs. Bishop said: “Harry, you and Molly must come home
to spend Christmas, and had better spend a week with us.”
Harry promised to do so if they could.
“Why, of course you can;—why not?”
“Oh,” laughed Harry, “we are family people now, with the responsibility
of a house on our shoulders.”
“A house! a match-box, you mean.”
With this shot they parted. Harry’s real hesitation was doubt as to
what Molly might feel inclined to do; there was no denying she had been
badly treated, snubbed and looked down upon.
“Well, if this isn’t the strangest turn; I don’t think I ever knew my
father to leave business for a day before.”
“What does it mean, Harry?” Molly asked anxiously, for it had been a
grief to her to feel she was the cause of estrangement.
“It must mean that my father, or mother, or both, are beginning to see
they’ve been in fault.”
“Oh Harry, I should be so glad if you were once more all you used to
be—to them.”
“I shall never be that, for I shall never go back to the sort of
semi-dependence I was in,—but shall we go at Christmas?”
“Oh, certainly.”
“I’m afraid _you_ may not have a very good time.”
“Oh, yes, I shall.”
“Then we accept. I tell you what, little Molly, if my father and mother
had not been favorably impressed,—had they found us living as they
expected, they would not have said a word about our going there.”
“Oh Harry, I hope so; surely, the less comfortable you were the more
you would need them.”
“No, they look on it this way: as I made my bed so I must lie on it.
Had the bed been a bad one, they would have said, ‘serve him right;’ as
it seems much better than they thought it would be, they are inclined
to think themselves wrong.”
Harry loved his parents, but he knew their pride, and that they would
not have openly forgiven the blow to it; but he knew, small as the
house was, Molly had shown them as refined a home as their own, and
they saw that, after all, their daughter-in-law would grace any station
Harry might ever attain to.
CHAPTER XXX.
HOMINY MUFFINS—FISH BALLS—ROYAL CUSTARD—“CONSOMMÉ À LA
ROYALE”—FRICASSEE SWEETBREADS—VANILLA SOUFFLÉ.
THE next morning, bright and early, Molly came down-stairs. She was
going to help get breakfast, as she always did whenever she had any
dish new to Marta. Two or three times a week the breakfast came out
of the dinner of the day before, and the stock she generally had on
hand made such warmed-over dishes very different from the flavorless
ones they too often are. For this reason alone she would have
considered it cheap to buy a small soup-bone once a week, even if she
had needed no soup, but every little drop—even half a gill—of soup
that might be left was saved, and here Marta’s German training came
in. Whatever she lacked in other ways, she had none of the disdain
of economy, confounding it with stinginess, so common with untrained
servants. Every bit of fat was put aside to try out once a week, every
tea-spoonful of gravy or soup saved, and all bones put in one crock to
be twice a week boiled down.
When there was not likely to be much left from dinner, Molly fell back
on kidneys or ham and eggs for breakfast; once a week there was always
fish in some form. This morning there was a little mutton on the bone,
just enough for mince or fritters; there was, also, quite a piece of
fish. She had bought it with that calculation, so the mutton was left
for another day. Harry did not like codfish balls of salt cod, but
delighted in them from fresh, and, as once boiled, it would keep a
week, she had intended to have them twice. Her visitors, however, had
changed that programme, but she had more than enough for breakfast.
As she herself was in the kitchen, too, she decided to make hominy
muffins, there being a cup of cold hominy.
As the frying fat would take half an hour to get hot enough, Marta had
been told to put it on the range (covered to keep in the fumes) soon
after the fire should be lighted. Molly drew it forward that it might
be ready by the time she herself was so. She set Marta to mash the
hominy fine with a fork, then to add to one cup of it a cup of corn
meal, half a cup of milk, and two tea-spoonfuls of melted butter, two
tea-spoonfuls of sugar, one egg, and one tea-spoonful of baking-powder,
and when beaten long and hard, to put it into gempans and bake fifteen
minutes.
While Marta was doing this, she herself flaked the cold fish quite fine
and called Marta’s attention to the fact that she used the remaining
sauce to moisten it.
“If I had not this sauce, I should make just enough stiff white sauce
to moisten the whole; but this is even better, and as there is egg in
it I need use only one more.”
To a cup of flaked fish and sauce, of which there were two good
table-spoonfuls, she put one beaten egg; this made it into a stiff
batter or mush that would not _run_, but _drop_ from a spoon. She
seasoned it with pepper, a very little salt, and then dipping a
table-spoon in flour, dropped large spoonfuls of it in the fat, which
was hot enough for croquettes. In two minutes they were round and light
as puffs, and beautifully brown. Knowing Marta might have to make them
some time without having any sauce, Molly wrote the recipe and gave it
to her.
One cup of flaked fish, one table-spoonful of butter, one small one
of flour, and one _gill_ of milk; melt butter and flour together, let
them cook a few seconds, pour to them a gill of boiling milk, stir well
over the fire till the mixture leaves the sides of the saucepan; then
it is done. Mix the fish with it, add two well-beaten eggs, and fry in
spoonfuls in boiling lard.
Harry called these glorified fish balls. “In fact, Molly, they deserve
some much more high-toned name.”
“Yes, but people who like the usual codfish balls, and they are the
large majority, would not like these.”
“Another reason for not calling them fish balls, but I am one of the
minority who do not like our Columbian dainty in its orthodox form; but
even minorities have tastes and some right to have them considered.
We’ll dub these ‘minority fish balls’ if you will have no more fanciful
name.” (And “minority fish balls” they have become in that family.)
For dinner there was to be clear soup with royal custard, the stock for
which had been made for bean soup, and only a pint used. Molly usually
made two quarts at a time from a three-pound soup-bone, which served
twice for soup and left a pint for gravies, sauce, etc. A pint and a
half at each meal was ample, as neither Harry or herself took half a
pint, and half usually found its way out to Marta, who straightway made
it thick with bread and any vegetables there were; she did not approve
of straining it.
To make a change, Molly intended to have in it royal custard, which
would make it _Consommé à la Royale_.
“Marta, we are coming to the end of our eggs. I must have extra ones.
Mrs. Lennox’s man comes to-day; you run over and ask her to please send
him to me.”
When Marta returned she told her to beat one egg, then mix it with
_half a gill_ of the cold stock, and, as as there was no gill measure
(something Molly had resolved to get, but had forgotten, though she
could have better done without the half-pint), and the quantity must
be so exact, she measured half a pint of water, and divided it in
four, put the fourth part in a glass and marked it, then threw out
the water, and filled up to the mark with stock. It made about _four
table-spoonfuls_. Molly looked about for something smaller than a cup,
and found a little Liebig’s “extract of meat” jar; this she buttered.
The beaten egg and half gill of soup, with a pinch of salt, were mixed
and poured into it, then a piece of paper was tied over it, a small
saucepan of water put over the fire, and when it was quite boiling the
jar was placed in it, the water reaching to the height of the custard,
but without danger of boiling into it. The saucepan was then drawn
aside so that the water might only _simmer_; if it should boil the
custard would be spoilt. It was left for twelve minutes, and when taken
out was quite firm. When cold the custard was cut into diamonds.
“When you have the soup hot, to-night, throw these diamonds into it,
Marta.”
“I don’t suppose,” thought Molly, “any one ever made quite so small a
quantity of savory custard before, yet more would be waste; we should
not need it.”
At market she found a fine pair of sweetbreads, one of the dainties her
butcher was not fashionable enough to charge a fancy price for, and
indeed she found thirty cents a pair an outside price in Greenfield;
these were twenty-five, however, and had they been as small as they
sometimes are, she would not have bought them; but they were large and
white.
As soon as they came they were put into salt and water and an hour
later into boiling water, and parboiled for fifteen minutes, and cold
water poured over them. All gristle and skin was now removed, and one
cut into small pieces.
An hour before dinner the remains of the fricasseed fowl were brought
out. Less than half had been eaten. There remained a wing, part of the
breast, a leg, and the back and side bones. Molly cut the drumstick
off, laid it with the side bones for a grill for breakfast,—it would
help out the minced mutton; the rest, which were nice joints, she laid,
covered with sauce as they were, in a plate, and told Marta to beat an
egg, dip them in it, taking care every part was covered; then to lay
them in abundance of cracker crumbs, pat them gently, and fry them just
like breaded chops.
Meantime she had gathered the sauce from the chicken, which, by her
direction, had been poured over it when the dish was changed, and put
it into a small saucepan with a gill of stock, then the pieces of
sweetbread, and put the saucepan where it would simmer. She then cut
circles from slices of stale bread, half an inch thick, each circle cut
in half to form canapées; she dipped each in milk, and then laid it in
flour, covered it well with flour, and left it so.
“Marta, when you fry the chicken, drop these pieces of bread in the
pot. Be sure to shake off all superfluous flour; handle them gently for
fear of breaking, and let them fry pale brown. Be careful for the first
minute after they are in; they will sputter, as they are wet. Lay them
round the sweetbreads when you take them up.”
Marta had already sliced some tomatoes; these were laid in a dish, and
bread crumbs, bits of butter, and pepper and salt sprinkled over each
layer, on the top more crumbs and tiny bits of butter thickly strewed;
then the dish was put to bake for half an hour.
“Marta, a few minutes before taking up the sweetbreads, stir into the
gravy a small tea-spoonful of white thickening. I see it will not
be thick enough with the fricassee sauce. Now you have potatoes on,
tomatoes in the oven, your frying-kettle back of the stove, soup ready
to heat up five minutes before dinner, chicken ready crumbed, and I
will make a vanilla soufflé.”
Gouffe’s recipe for vanilla soufflé was as follows, Molly using only a
third of the original, which calls for a quart of milk:
“One third of a quart of milk (not quite three gills), two
table-spoonfuls of flour, two of sugar, a tea-spoonful of vanilla
extract, a pinch of salt. Mix the flour with part of milk, set the rest
to boil; when it boils, mix both together as you would corn starch;
if by chance it is not smooth, strain it, return to fire, stirring
well. Take it off when it boils, put to it the yolks of two eggs, and
beat very well; then add the whites, _beaten till you can turn the
dish over without their slipping_. The whites must be stirred in with
greatest gentleness,—any quick stirring will cause them to liquefy and
spoil your soufflé; when the whites are blended, bake in a buttered
dish twenty minutes.”
Molly prepared it and told Marta to put it in the oven when she put the
soup on to get hot, that they might have about finished dinner when it
was done; but it was better for them to wait for the soufflé than the
soufflé for them, for waiting means spoiling it. Molly made some hard
sauce, which she flavored with wine, and then left the dinner to Marta.
When Harry came home his face showed he had something pleasant to say.
“Well, dear,” he said as soon as he was ready for dinner, “you’ve done
it, and no mistake.”
“Done what?” She would have been alarmed if his face had not looked so
very happy.
“You’ve captured my father.”
“Oh Harry, what do you mean?”
“He came into my office to-day, and told me he had enjoyed himself
out here very much, and he was good enough to add that his opinion of
me had not changed in the least, that I had been as wrong-headed as
possible, and that if I had chanced to pick up a pearl instead of a
pebble, no thanks to my own wisdom. I couldn’t agree, and told him I
knew all along you were a jewel, but he had the best of me, for he said,
“‘Rubbish, sir! You didn’t know that she could boil an egg or sew a
button on; no boy in love ever asks that! and you might have been a
pretty miserable pair!’
“And it’s quite true, Molly. If you could not have mended your own
clothes, and I knew it, I should have married you just the same; but
I’m glad to have a fortune _in_ my wife, and so I told the dad.”
“Well, is that all he said?” asked Molly, her cheeks flushed with
pleasure, her eyes dancing.
“Oh, dear, no, he didn’t begin that way. He began by asking me how I
expected to meet my quarter’s bills. I told him there would be none.
At first he could not believe me, and I really believe he had come to
give me a check to get us out of the need he thought we were likely
to be in; but when I told him all, and showed him your first month’s
accounts—stop a minute” (Molly made a dart forward to her desk)—“I
abstracted that first month’s figuring, my dear, and have it in my
pocket, and it will remain there; that is my property, my trophy. Well,
when I showed that, and told him that I, with my little income, lived
just as well as he did, he was conquered.
“‘How does she do it?’ he asked; and then I had to tell him that you
put your time and thought to the little money and doubled its value.”
“Oh, Harry, how could you exaggerate so?” But Molly’s head was turned
away and her eyes running over with happy tears. How well was she
repaid for the work she had taken such pleasure in! Every tone of her
husband’s voice revealed his pride in her, and his appreciation, veiled
though it was by his gay, bantering manners, and she was grateful for
the training that had made it all so easy to her.
CHAPTER XXXI.
A SURPRISE—A BOILED DINNER—DRESDEN PATTIES—OYSTERS AND BROWN
BUTTER—“OLD ENGLISH” FRITTERS.
WHEN Molly returned from her walk to the dépôt with Harry, she found on
the back stoop a barrel and a packing-case that had come by express.
The barrel she quickly saw contained apples; the packing-case was as
yet a mystery, but it did not long remain so. Molly was not frightened
at a hammer, and between her and Marta the top was soon wrenched off;
and then she saw it was full of treasures. A dozen pots of raspberry
jam, the same of currant jelly, English pickled walnuts and French
canned peas and mushrooms, and boned chicken enough to last her the
winter, a jar of Canton ginger and one of French plums, met Molly’s
wondering eyes. What luxuries for a young housekeeper! Of course they
could come only from Harry’s parents.
Had they sent her a present for herself she would have resented
it, considering how they had looked down on her, but this gift she
could take pleasure in, for it was as much for Harry as for her, and
only such things as would be very pleasant and useful, but were not
necessaries. Her housewifely mind was already reveling in the thought
of a well stocked store-room.
She had found a letter from Mrs. Welles, at the post-office, which she
had waited to read till she could do so at home and enjoy it, for her
friend was a clever and voluminous correspondent.
“Next Monday, dear Molly, if convenient, I shall leave New York for
Greenfield. Mr. Welles says you are doing a rash thing to invite me,
that I am primed and double-loaded and warranted to go off at any
moment, for he has heard me the last month saying of every new thing
(‘thing’ always being ‘dish’ with me), ‘Molly and I will do that
together when I get there.’ If you can, imagine how I ache to get away
from this hotel and into a house of my own, with a kitchen and a range.
Never, never again will I consent to be a homeless hotel waif. However,
in two weeks our house will be our own again,” etc., etc.
Molly smiled over her friend’s letter, she knew her so well. How
pleasant it would be to have her in her own house!
Charlotte Welles was an English woman five years older than Molly, who
had known her long before her marriage to the rich banker, Mr. Welles.
When Molly and her mother were living in London in very economical
lodgings at South Kensington, they had become acquainted with Mrs.
Morris and her handsome daughter, whom at first they took to be an
art-student at South Kensington. Charlotte had laughed merrily at the
mistake.
“No, indeed, I’m a cooking-student.”
Then she had told Molly and her mother how it was that being certain
she would have to earn her living, and, though generally clever, having
no special talent for anything, she had chosen her career. “As for
being a governess, I have neither patience nor meekness nor ability
enough, and as cooking is just now coming to be a recognized profession
for women who are not of the working-class, I decided on that. I don’t
find many _ladies_ among the thorough-going students like myself, but I
do see that no profession offers greater rewards to a _lady_,—perhaps
for that very reason; so I am qualifying myself to be a teacher.”
Molly’s mother, invalid as she was, had taught her daughter more than
most girls know of housekeeping, and her own taste leaned that way,
but no doubt her acquaintance with Charlotte Morris confirmed it; she
went with her sometimes to the demonstrations and worked with her at
home. When the latter left the school a medallist and went to Liverpool
to lecture, Molly and her mother had gone to the south of France for
the health of the latter, and there they heard of Charlotte’s success,
how her grace and culture (and perhaps her beauty) made her much in
request at ladies’ colleges and schools, and of the public lectures
she gave. But her career was cut short, before it was well begun, by
her engagement to an American banker of wealth,—an engagement speedily
followed by marriage; and it was through Mrs. Welles that, after her
mother’s death, on returning to her native country, Molly found the
position as governess she had held up to her marriage with Harry
Bishop. Several months before Molly came to Greenfield Mr. and Mrs.
Welles had let their house and gone to England for a trip, but returned
two months before the tenant’s term was up and had been living at one
of the best hotels since.
True to her old instincts, Mrs. Welles attended all the best
cooking-lectures in whatever city she might be, and after Molly’s
marriage they had gone together to cooking-school and practiced at
her house, which had been of incalculable service to Molly. Since her
return to America they had not met. It is needless to say she looked
forward to her visit with heartfelt pleasure, for she felt that to her
acquaintance she owed very much.
And how these good things had come just in time!
To-day they were to have a regular boiled dinner, German soup made from
the half leg of mutton boiled, and an egg beaten in it, the same that
she had shown Mrs. Lennox how to make, and the mutton with caper sauce,
mashed turnips and moulded potatoes, macaroni cheese, and pudding.
This dinner Marta could cook with written instructions, all but the
pudding, and Molly, now she had jam, meant this to be an old-fashioned
English jam roly-poly.
The written instructions were as follows:
At five o’clock put the half leg of mutton into boiling water, only
enough to cover it; put with it one carrot cut, one turnip, one onion,
and when it has boiled _very slowly_ half an hour, put in a very scant
tea-spoonful of salt. Put some macaroni to boil. Put the turnips, cut
into strips, on the fire in boiling water at half-past five, also the
potatoes. Let the turnips boil fast, the potatoes slowly.
Make three gills of white sauce instead of half a pint, never
forgetting when you increase the milk also to increase butter and flour
in same proportion; then when the macaroni is tender put a layer of
it in a small dish, pour over it a table-spoonful of white sauce and
the same of grated cheese with pepper and salt, then another layer of
macaroni, more white sauce, cheese and seasoning, and over all strew
bread crumbs and bits of butter, and bake till brown.
The turnips strain when tender and let them stew five minutes in some
of the white sauce made for the macaroni, reserving the rest for caper
sauce. To make it, add capers in proportion of one good tea-spoonful
of capers to the half pint, and just as it goes to table stir in a
tea-spoonful of caper vinegar; if it stands after this it will be apt
to curdle.
Take up the mutton, put it to keep hot, skim and strain the broth and
let it boil down fast till there is enough for dinner and no more;
beat an egg, mix a very little of the broth with it, and put both into
the tureen, with a tea-spoonful of parsley chopped fine. Let the broth
remain off the fire one minute, then pour it to the egg, stirring
quickly, then serve it.
Molly had a busy morning arranging her store-room, and making a list of
what it contained. This list she nailed behind the door, with a pencil
attached, so that when anything was used a mark was made against it.
In this way, when any article was nearly out she would be reminded to
replace it. It was not so necessary, perhaps, with a girl as careful
as Marta, or in her small family as in a larger one, but it had been
her mother’s way, and she followed it. She could then keep track of
everything at a glance.
One hour and a half before dinner Molly put on a saucepan of water to
boil, and then chopped six ounces of beef-kidney suet very fine, which
she mixed with half a pound of flour and a pinch of salt. She made a
hole in the centre of the mixture, and poured in enough cold water
to make a stiff firm paste (not so stiff as to be hard to roll out);
it was handled as little as possible, only worked enough to keep it
together. It was rolled out _once_ to a sheet half an inch thick, then
spread with raspberry jam, which was not allowed to come within an inch
of the edge all round; the edge was wetted, the paste rolled up and the
ends pinched closely to prevent the jam coming out, as was also the
flap along the centre. A pudding-cloth was scalded and floured, the
roly-poly laid on one side of it and rolled up; each end was tied close
to the paste, and the centre _pinned_. No string was passed round the
centre, as Molly had sometimes seen done, for as the pudding swells the
string cuts into it. When finished the cloth was not very loose on the
pudding, nor tight, but what may be called an easy fit. When it would
leave the water, after an hour and quarter _constant_ boiling, it would
be swelled and plump.
Molly saw that the water boiled fast when it was dropped in, and that
there was plenty of it.
“Marta, take care that the pudding never ceases to boil, and once in
a while look that it floats round, so that it may not stick to the
bottom.”
The next day Molly had to make Dresden patties, and some fritters the
recipe for which she had unearthed from the old last-century book; it
was written in the quaint language and indefinite fashion common to
cooking-books of that date. Molly had often thought, in reading them,
that housekeepers’ wits must have been much more brilliant in those
days, or the books could have done little good.
But she had thought out the matter, and her knowledge of old cook-books
told her that a “handful” probably meant a man’s hand full, as the book
was written by a man cook; that when you were told to “beat and search
your sugar” it was because they had not latter-day improvements and
probably no powdered sugar was sold. Reduced to present-day terms and
small dimensions, the recipe was as follows:
The yolks of two eggs and a tea-spoonful of flour, and a scant half
pint of milk or cream, a pinch of salt, a quarter of a small nutmeg
and a table-spoonful of sugar. The flour and yolks of eggs to be well
beaten with a little of the milk, the rest to be added warm, and all
beaten very well together with the sugar and salt and nutmeg. This
will make a custard, to be baked in a shallow round dish till firm,
then put to get cold. Make a batter of a gill of milk (half cream, the
recipe called for), one whole egg and enough flour to make it thick
enough to quite mask the back of a spoon without running off,—two
level table-spoonfuls are about enough; beat one of the whites of eggs
left from the custard till it will not slip from the dish; put to the
batter, which must be quite smooth, the grated rind of half a lemon,
a pinch of salt, and then add the beaten white of egg, stirring very
slowly after this is in. Cut the custard into six pieces, pie-fashion,
and dip each piece into the batter, and drop it into boiling lard.
The recipe sounded very well to Molly, and her mind went over all
sorts of improvements in flavoring, from simply adding vanilla to the
introduction of chopped citron or crumbled macaroons into the custard;
but she would make the recipe as given, or as nearly as she could
interpret it, first.
Although the fritters would be much better hot, perhaps, the book
gave no clew to that; she knew they must be good warmed over, or even
cold, and as she did not want to leave the dinner-table to attend to
the frying,—being an experiment,—she felt she must do it herself.
She decided to cook them at once; the custard required very careful
handling while it was being dipped in the batter, and she found the
safest plan to prevent breaking was to pour the batter into a saucer,
and take up the fritter, when dipped, on a broad knife. The batter
completely hid the custard, and when dropped into the fat, which was
very hot, it puffed up outside and doubled the size.
They took two minutes to get pale brown, and then they were laid on
paper to drain; and after the sugar was sifted on them they certainly
were pretty to look at, and at dinner were found to bear out their good
appearance, and Molly added them to her special recipes.
The Dresden patties she wanted Marta to understand making, because
they were so easy, so useful, and so pretty. With a view to making
them, Molly had kept half a stale loaf that was as light as baker’s
bread,—too light, she thought, for the table; from it she cut two
slices two inches thick and from them she cut, with a medium sized
biscuit-cutter, three rounds; the cutter was simply a circle of tin
with a handle over it, so that the cutter went right through the bread;
had it had a top to prevent it going through, she would have cut them
with a half-pound baking-powder box. On the top of each round of bread
she cut a smaller circle as for pastry patties; now she beat an egg,
added half a pint of milk with a pinch of salt, and stood the three
patties in it, telling Marta to let them stay so at least an hour,
turning them about, but being careful not to break them, the idea being
to let the egg and milk soak well into them, and to make them as moist
as possible without breaking. It will be remembered that one sweetbread
only was cooked two days ago; the other was now cut into dice, two
tea-spoonfuls of flour and butter and a gill of stock made into
béchamel sauce, and the sweetbreads put to it with a table-spoonful
of oyster liquor (as she happened to have it). This thinned the sauce
sufficiently to let the sweetbreads cook in it without burning. By the
time they were done the sauce would be reduced again and very thick
(or, if it should not be, the sweetbreads would be taken out, and the
sauce boiled fast and stirred till very thick).
Marta had the lard ready, very hot indeed, when Molly came out to
show her how to fry the patties. She put them to drain, using a
cake-turner, for they would not bear handling.
“At some times these are rolled in flour, at others in egg and crumbs,
and I think they are prettier for crumbing; but it is not necessary,
and I will save an egg. Now I am going to drop them into the fat,
which is as hot as it can be without burning. Stand aside, for it
will splutter very much.” Each one was dropped from the end of the
cake-turner, and, as Molly said, they “spluttered.”
“I leave them on the very hottest part of the fire, because they are
filled with cold custard, which will keep the temperature about right
for five minutes; then draw them a little aside if they are brown,
and let them remain two minutes.” When taken up they were a bright
brown, looking almost like a doughnut that had been shaped like a
small Charlotte Russe. The centre was then scooped out, leaving about
half an inch of crust all round, which was filled with the fricasseed
sweetbreads piled in the centre.
“The beauty of these patties is that they can be made early and heated
in the oven, and that they are suitable for dessert with preserves, or
are excellent filled with any kind of rich minced meat or oysters.”
Molly had long wanted to make an experiment with oysters; she believed
simply panned and served with brown butter they would be delicious.
She had never heard of “oysters _au beurre noir_,” but, knowing they
must be good, resolved to try the experiment. She waited, however, till
Harry was in the house, for they would spoil by standing.
She made the sauce first, because the oysters must not wait. She put
a good table-spoonful of butter into a little saucepan and watched it
till it got golden _brown_, but did not burn; then she put it aside to
cool a little, and heated a tea-spoonful of vinegar in a cup, Marta
meantime draining the oysters. They were put in a stewpan with pepper
and salt, covered tightly and set over the fire and tossed round once
or twice, the heated (but _not boiled_) vinegar was put to the brown
butter, they were made very hot together, and when the oysters were
plumped in their own steam, they were drained off and turned into a hot
dish, with the brown butter over them, and served at once. They were
such a success that this became a favorite oyster dish with the Bishop
family.
CHAPTER XXXII.
VEAL AND HAM PIE—BEEFSTEAK PUDDING—TRIFLE.
MOLLY’S expense-book at the end of the first week of her second month
(October) stood as follows:
3 lbs. butter $0.75
Eggs .50
Milk .60
Tea .40
Fuel .50
Suet .08
Soup meat .20
Beef (flank), 3 lbs .36
Beets .05
Bacon .15
Cream .10
Flounder .15
Beans .04
Fowl .45
Oysters .40
Mutton (leg) .75
Bananas .25
Codfish .24
Sweetbread .25
Corn starch .02
———
$6.34
In addition to the usual week’s supplies, she had bought extra:
Eggs $0.25
Ice .10
Milk, 3 pints .12
———
$1.47
The groceries for the month came to $10.02, against $11.22 for last
month. The week’s proportion was therefore $2.56, making a total of
$9.32.
Molly had not been specially economizing this last week, and had had
some little extra expenses. She was rejoiced to see that, even so,
she had a margin. Of course, towards the end of October would come an
increase in the price of butter and eggs. This she proposed to avoid
to some extent by ordering at once a pail of fine October butter at
twenty-five cents, which would last for cooking through the winter,
even if it should not continue sweet enough for such fastidious
butter-eaters as herself and Harry to use at table. Of eggs, too, she
had ordered a gross from a farmer at twenty-five cents. This would give
one dozen a week for cooking through the twelve weeks when they were
dearest, and within this dozen for cooking she meant to keep; as soon
as they should be dearer, she would make fewer things that required
eggs, and avoid their use whenever she could do without them. And,
so far as she could, she would supply herself with everything that
would keep during winter and grow dearer as the months passed; but as
the margin she now had reassured her against any little accidental
expenses, she might safely reckon it would not grow less, unless she
knowingly increased her expenditure for any purpose, and she would have
always a little reserve to meet contingencies without touching anything
outside the ten dollars a week.
On Monday of the second week in October, Mrs. Welles was to arrive.
Molly did not lay herself out in great preparations for her, for she
knew her friend would be happiest in being allowed to help her, and do
exactly as if she were in her own home. She knew she could give her no
greater pleasure than by so ordering her table as to be as different
as possible from anything that money alone could buy; and simple,
old-fashioned dishes, that no hotel would supply in perfection, she
would have during her stay. She did want to arrange, however, so that
she need not even think of luncheon for a day or two, and would have
something in the house. Happily, in doing this, she could gratify Mrs.
Welles’s English taste, for she would make one of the veal and ham
pies so dear to English palates, so rarely to be found in perfection
out of England. Molly had been taught by Mrs. Welles herself to make
them.
On Saturday, Molly had ordered two pounds of breast of veal and a pound
of very fine ham, cut thin; she would not need much of it, but the rest
would be nice for breakfast. The breast of veal was cut up into pieces
two inches long and about an inch wide, and put on in boiling water to
simmer _very gently_ one hour, the bones with it. The water being just
enough to cover the meat, no salt was added, for the meat should retain
its juices. When done, the meat was removed from the broth, the bones
left in it, and all gristly parts and bones that could not easily be
removed when raw cut from it and thrown back into the saucepan; the
meat was then put aside, and a salt-spoonful of salt, a quarter one
of pepper, and half a bay leaf, with a small pinch of thyme, one of
savory, and two sprigs of parsley, were put to the broth and bones,
and it was left to cook gently two hours longer; then it was allowed
to reduce to half a pint by boiling faster with the cover off, then
strained and put away. Molly, at the same time, made some rough puff
paste (see recipe, Chapter VI.), and left it on the ice till Monday.
This morning, therefore, she had nothing to do but put the pie
together, which she did in the following way:
The ham she cut in very thin strips, using about a quarter of a pound.
These she poured cold water upon, and put where they would come slowly
to the boiling-point. Had she had any cold boiled ham, she would have
used it in preference; but she could remove any strong taste by this
parboiling. While it was doing, she made forcemeat balls thus:
Half a cup of fine bread crumbs, a tea-spoonful of finely chopped
parsley, the eighth of a tea-spoonful each of powdered thyme and
marjoram, one squeeze of lemon juice; flavor with nutmeg by just
rubbing it once across the grater, a suspicion of lemon peel, a scant
salt-spoonful of salt, a quarter one of pepper. Chop into this a good
table-spoonful of butter (or finely chopped suet, she would sometimes
have used); the whole made into a stiff paste, with an egg well beaten
with a table-spoonful of water. It did not take all the egg; about a
table-spoonful was left, which Molly reserved to glaze the pie. In
making the forcemeat into paste, she was careful to handle lightly, not
to _squeeze_ or _knead_ it, and when it was well mixed she sprinkled
flour on her hands, took a tea-spoonful of forcemeat, and made it into
a ball. She used the remainder in the same way.
Then she took a deep oval dish, and put at the bottom a layer of the
ham, then one of veal, and four forcemeat balls (one at each corner),
a little salt and pepper, and a few more bits of ham, another layer
of veal, and half a dozen forcemeat balls. The dish was now full.
She piled more meat and a little ham towards the centre till it was
dome-shaped, and then filled every crevice with the strong jelly formed
from the meat and bones.
Now she rolled out the paste, and cut a long strip the third of an inch
thick and an inch wide. She wetted the lip of the dish, laid the paste
round, and pressed it close on the _inner_ side, so that the gravy
could not boil up under it. Then she moistened the upper surface, laid
the sheet of paste over the pie, and with both hands gently pressed the
paste into the groove formed between the dome shape of the meat and
the dish; then, with a sharp knife, she cut off the overlapping paste,
so as not to drag it in the least; and then, with the back of her
forefinger, laid on the top of the border, pressed the upper and under
paste gently, _but closely_, together, but was very careful to leave
the _edges_ untouched.
She cut a hole in the centre to let out steam, rolled a piece of paste
very thin, cut from it four diamonds two inches long from point to
point, laid the four, with the points to the centre, round the hole;
and, rolling another bit of paste as thin as paper, dusted it with
flour, folded it up several times, then turned the four corners of the
little many-folded square to form a little ball as large as an olive,
and cut a cross deeply, and with a sharp knife, across the top; then
turned back the corners as if she were opening a pond-lily bud; and
there was a rough imitation of a flower. This she inserted in the hole
in the pie, which it was large enough to cover, without closing up too
much for the steam to get out. With a feather she now brushed the pie
over with the yolk of an egg, not leaving a spot untouched, _except the
edge_, which was not glazed. Molly explained to Marta, who asked the
reason for the omission as she passed on her way to the boiler, for she
was washing.
“If I washed the edges with egg, the paste could not rise so well; for
the leaves would be glued together, as it were. This is the rule in all
use of pastry: _Leave the edges quite untouched_; do not even smooth
them with your finger. Smoothing them and pressing them with your
thumb, which I have told you _not_ to do, is the reason why your pies,
even if I make the paste, are never as handsome as mine. You smooth the
life out of the paste and squeeze all the air from between the leaves
which one is at such trouble to make; and it is the air that causes the
flakes.”
Molly put the pie in the oven, which was about the right heat for
bread,—that is to say, she could count twenty-five while her hand was
held in it. In an hour, it was pale brown all over. It was taken out
of the oven, and left a few minutes on the table till the contents had
ceased to boil; and then what remained of the jelly was warmed, the
pastry “rose” was lifted gently from the centre, a funnel inserted in
the hole, and the jelly, warmed, was poured carefully through it into
the pie. Molly watched, while pouring slowly, that the last disappeared
before adding more, for fear the pie might overflow; then the “rose”
was replaced.
This pie is good hot, but in England is always eaten cold, and cold
she knew Mrs. Welles would prefer it. The great thing to be desired in
these cold pies is plenty of savory jelly in between the meat, and very
light crust.
While the pie was baking, Molly had set the pastry back on the ice,
while she made the filling for some cheese cakes.
Properly they should be made of _sweet_ curd, dried and crumbled, hence
the name. But Molly had eaten excellent ones in which ground rice,
boiled to thick mush, was the foundation; others in which bread crumbs
were substituted, the object being to get a body of some plain material
other than flour, with which the rich ones could be incorporated; but
her own favorite way was to use rolled cracker. She put two heaped
table-spoonfuls in a bowl, and three table-spoonfuls of sugar. She beat
two table-spoonfuls of butter, from which the salt had been washed,
till it creamed, added the yolks of two eggs, and the juice of half
a lemon, and the peel of one, grated. Then she blanched and chopped
fine as possible two table-spoonfuls of almonds, and added to them a
few drops of bitter almond; then all were put together, and a large
table-spoonful of wine was added.
Molly tasted to see if the bitter almond was pleasantly perceptible,
and then rolled out the paste and lined patty-pans with it, taking care
to press only the centre to make it adhere, _not the edges_; then a
large tea-spoonful was put into each (the patty-pans were small), and
they were put in the oven and baked a beautiful pale brown. They needed
watching closely, as the filling would easily burn.
The dinner was to be a homely English one, which would not necessitate
her being in the kitchen at all after her friend arrived, as it would
consist of:—
_Clear Soup._
_Beefsteak Pudding._
_Stewed Onions._ _Fried Potatoes._
_Trifle._
The soup, for which the stock was made on Saturday, could be left to
Marta; also the vegetables. The pudding required three hours’ constant
boiling, and therefore could be made and be cooking before Charlotte
arrived. The trifle, also, could be ready.
She had bought in the morning half a dozen small sponge cakes and a
dozen macaroons. She now made some very thick custard with the yolks of
two eggs, a small tea-spoonful of corn starch and half a pint of milk,
and sugar to taste.
The milk was put on to boil, the corn starch mixed with a very little
of it, cold, and stirred into the hot milk. Both were boiled together
five minutes; then it was allowed to cool very little, and the beaten
yolks and sugar added. The object of boiling the corn starch is to
_cook_ it, as, after the eggs are in, the custard must not boil, but
only be kept at boiling-point till they thicken. (See directions for
boiling custard, Chapter XXIX.)
When the custard was made, it was flavored with almond, set to cool,
and Molly laid the sponge cakes in a glass dish, about two inches deep.
She poured a glass of wine over them, moistening them thoroughly, and
sprinkled them with sugar thickly. Over this she spread a layer of
raspberry jam half an inch thick; then the macaroons were laid over it.
Then she poured the cold custard on it. While it had been getting cold,
she whipped half a pint of cream, sweetened and flavored with vanilla.
This was now piled high over the custard, and it was put in the ice-box
to get very cold. At the last it was to be decorated with little knobs
of red currant jelly and blanched almonds cut in strips.
Now there was the pudding to make. She was getting all done early,
because she was going to meet Mrs. Welles; but the pudding would not be
injured by standing half an hour before it went into the water, which
it should do at three o’clock.
She had a pound and a half of very fine, juicy round steak. This she
cut into pieces an inch or so square, rejecting all gristle and skin,
but using a very little of the fat. This meat she seasoned highly with
pepper and salt, stirring it up among the pieces. Then she made a
suet crust (see recipe, Chapter XIII.) and greased very well a quart
bowl. When the crust was rolled to an even half inch thick, she laid
the sheet in the bowl, pressing it gently all round. Into this she put
the meat, and, when the bowl was _full_, poured in a half cup of water;
then she gathered up the overlapping paste, and pinched it together to
form a cover, _leaving no cracks_ through which the gravy could get
out. A floured cloth was now put over the pudding, and a string passed
twice round the flaring parts and tied securely. The four ends of the
cloth were brought over the top and tied. The pudding could be lifted
by these knotted ends as if it were a basket or bundle.
Marta had now done washing and cleared up, and was able to attend to
Molly’s directions.
“Marta, I shall see this pudding in the pot before I go to the train,
and watch it come to the boiling-point quickly again; but you must
remember it must never cease boiling, or it will be heavy. When you go
to take it up, remove the cloth and string; then run a thin knife round
close to the bowl, and turn it out gently on a hot dish, trying not to
break the pudding in doing so.”