into halves. Pour boiling water over them to mellow their pungency.
Leave them in this until they are cold and set them on ice to get firm.
When ready to cook them fill each half with minced giblets seasoned and
moistened with gravy. Put the halves together, fasten in place with
skewers or toothpicks, set in a bake-dish; pour in enough stock to
prevent scorching and bake, covered, twenty minutes.
FAMILIAR TALK
LIVING TO LEARN
When one is too old to learn anything, his day of life is virtually
over, so far as usefulness to his kind goes. The ten or twenty years
left to him upon earth are a blunder on the part of some one, and we
know that the Creator and Father of us all makes no mistakes. In the
eloquent (and pessimistic) description of old age from the pen of the
royal preacher-poet, we read that the aged shall be afraid of that
which is high. The shrinking from new emprises, characteristic of the
days when the almond-tree shall blossom and the knees that upbear (or
keep) the house, shall tremble, is excusable when physical infirmity
has enfeebled nervous forces and digestion. There is no excuse except
this for the cessation of mind-growth.
This may sound didactic. It is written with a purpose. Given a sane
mind in a sane body, and learning should go on indefinitely. The man
or woman of mature years leaves off lessons because he chooses to get
out of the habit of study. The prejudice against old cooks—said by one
authority to be either drunk or crazy as a class—is founded upon this
disinclination to learn novel methods. She who honestly aspires after
excellence never thinks that she has reached it. When, in saying, “that
is not MY WAY,” a cook believes that she has put an end, not only to
controversy, but to any suspicion that the world may have moved an inch
or two since she learned her trade—she registers herself among the
incurables.
The mistress who yields to the earliest manifestations of an
inclination to draw the dead line in housewifely progress is weakly
indulgent or blindly foolish. In one wealthy family, not a hundred
miles from a great city, “a valued old servant” played the tyrant for
over a score of years. Little by little, the employers, mindful of her
long term of faithful service, admitted her pleas that this or that
new-fangled way was opposed to her habits and inclination, until family
bills of fare were monotonous to boredom, the style of serving that of
a preceding generation. At last Elizabeth died and was buried at the
master’s expense.
“It’s dreadful, I suppose,” piped the youngling of the long-suffering
band on the way home from the funeral. “But it ought to be some comfort
that we won’t be obliged to have rice pudding three times a week any
more.”
Faithful Elizabeth had her epitaph.
Nothing is more solemnly and sadly sure in this rushing age than that
he who does not keep up with it will be thrown down and trampled out
of sight. It is a trifle, apparently, when a woman tabooes oil in
salad dressing because she “has never been used to putting it in,”
when she thinks mint sauce a “trashy” accompaniment to roast lamb,
and “won’t hear of hot sauce with cold pudding,” or whipped cream as
an accompaniment to ice-cold raw tomatoes. When the vegetable dishes
must all be set on the table with the meat, “as she has always had
them,” and lettuce be cut up and dressed in the kitchen at the cook’s
convenience, instead of being served, crisp and cool, from the deft
fingers of some member of the family who is “up in salads.”
Each protest is a symptom of decadence which is wilful, not inevitable.
She has stopped learning because she _has_ “stopped.” In time, mental
muscles become stiff, but disuse is the cause of the change.
“I account that day lost in which I have learned no new thing,” said an
aged sage.
Our housewife may lay the saying to heart. If there be a better way
than hers of doing anything—from making pickles to giving a wedding
supper—she should be on the alert to possess herself of it. It is not
true that it is easier for young people to keep themselves and their
houses abreast of the times than it is for their elders. The first step
that counts in the downward road is the tendency not to take any step
at all. To stand still is to be left.
Many who believe that they cultivate the seeing eye, the hearing ear,
and the willing, receptive mind, live and die without learning the
great truth that the mighty thing we call Life is made up of minute
matters. They see and admire the coral reef that heaves a back a mile
long out of the surf, and give never a thought to the coral builders.
A man who thinks much and observes much, once told me that one
essential difference between a man’s work and a woman’s is that he
grasps general principles while she gives her attention to details.
A man, according to this authority, is an impressionist painter,
handling his brush boldly, dashing in broad effects of light and
shadow, while a woman finishes each object carefully, sometimes, after
the manner of the Dutch school of painting, showing the very hairs upon
the brawny peasant’s arm.
(I may be excused for saying, in passing, that, being a woman, I
founded upon his general principle the particular moral that one sex
supplements the other, and that the Creator meant the work of the world
to be done by them in concert.)
He had turned from his desk to talk with me and, while talking, looked
ruefully at an inky forefinger.
“I should keep some pumice stone, or acetic acid, or acetate of soda,
or ammonia, here to remove ink-stains,” he said. “I always spill ink in
filling my fountain pen.”
A box of matches was in a pigeonhole; a wet sponge, used for stamping
and sealing letters, was close to the disfigured hand. I bade him wet
the match and rub it upon the stain until it disappeared—the work of
a minute. The sulphur in the ever-convenient match acted upon the
black spots without blackening the skin, whereas any one of the four
detersives he had mentioned would have left a hard, disagreeable
sensation upon the cuticle. He was all right as to the principles. The
one driblet of practical wisdom was for the moment worth them all.
A bright young woman whom I am glad to know, has written a little book
entitled, “FIRST AID TO THE YOUNG HOUSEKEEPER.” It includes scores
of things which everybody ought to know, and which everybody else,
especially the writer of household manuals, takes it for granted that
the housewife _does_ know. It is intelligent attention to this very
matter of detail that constitutes the “finish” of work of whatever
kind. One of the “Sunday books” of my childhood was a series called
“THE WEEK,” a story of English cottage life. I can recall many
sentences and the whole story in substance. One remark was to this
effect: “Mary was a good housekeeper; Nanny an indifferent. Nanny’s
hearth was free of ashes and cinders, but dusty in the corners. Mary’s
was not only swept, but pipe-clayed. Mary’s kettle was bright and
black; Nanny’s clean, but brown and dull.”
That is, Nanny had mastered general principles; Mary looked to details.
I read last week in a woman’s corner of a daily paper a letter from a
grateful housewife whose hall carpet had been deluged by the kerosene
from a broken lamp. By the advice of a visitor she promptly covered the
great spot with dry oatmeal. When this was swept off in the morning not
a trace of the oil remained.
“My husband explains this by saying that the oatmeal is at once an
alkali and an absorbent,” she writes. “I pass the useful knowledge on.”
A careless servant knocked a lamp from the table in the bedroom of my
summer cottage and the matting got a full quart of the best kerosene.
I had the floating oil wiped up with a clean, soft cloth, opened the
windows, shut the door, and let no one enter the room for twelve hours.
Not a trace of grease remained at the end of that time. The volatile
oil had effaced itself. The alkaline absorbent was not needed.
“We are all fond of cauliflower; my husband and sons like young onions
in the season,” said the mistress of a big house. “We can not have
either of these vegetables cooked on account of the odor. It fills the
house from cellar to attic.”
A housewife who lives in a tiny city flat has both of these dishes
whenever she likes. The vegetables are put over the fire in cold
water; a little salt is thrown in, and the pot is left uncovered. If
these rules be strictly obeyed, the rising odor during cooking will be
scarcely perceptible.
A physician, driving with his wife through a lonely country
neighborhood, heard screams issuing from the open door of a cottage and
went in to see if he could be of use. A child had upset a kettle of
boiling water upon its legs and feet and was in agony from the scald.
“Have you linseed oil and lime water in the house?” asked the doctor.
Before the distracted mother could say that there was neither, the
doctor’s wife said, “Do you burn wood in any room?”
There was a wood-stove in the parlor. There is always lard in the
country pantry. In three minutes an ointment of lard and soot from the
stovepipe was beaten up and spread upon old linen; in five minutes the
scalds were covered with it. The relief was speedy; the cure complete
in a day or two.
The wise housewife gleans a great store of precious driblets against
the hour and minute of need. Such study of details is like sweeping up
gold filings. The separate particles are nominally valueless, compared
with the mastery of great principles. When massed and assorted, they go
far toward making life easy.
A suggestive German fable is of a trooper who saw a loose horseshoe on
the ground as he was going into battle, got down, picked it up and hung
it about his neck by a string. In the first charge a bullet struck the
horseshoe and glanced aside harmlessly.
“Ha!” said the trooper. “Even a little armor is a good thing, if
rightly placed.”
The horseshoe was “a detail.”
[Illustration: CROQUETTES]
GENERAL DIRECTIONS
(_Which the housewife is particularly requested to read_)
Two things are essential to the excellence of croquettes. The mixture
composing them must not be too stiff. The fat in which they are cooked
must be boiling when they go in, and deep enough to float them. If
these conditions are neglected, you will have a pasty, sticky compound,
soaked with grease and misshapen, perhaps scorched on the under side.
The hot fat should form a crust instantly which prevents the fat from
touching the interior of the croquette.
_Always_ make out croquettes at least a couple of hours before they are
to be cooked; roll in egg, then in fine crumbs, or in cracker-dust;
arrange upon a floured dish, not touching one another, and leave upon
ice, or in a very cold place to stiffen.
Oyster croquettes
Cook twenty-five oysters in their liquor until they just begin to
ruffle, remove from the fire, drain (reserving half a cupful of the
liquor), and chop fine. Stir together over the fire two tablespoonfuls
of flour and two of butter and pour on them a half-cupful of cream
with a pinch of soda in it, and the half-cupful of oyster liquor. When
beaten to a smooth sauce add slowly the beaten yolk of two eggs, then
the chopped oysters, salt and pepper and a pinch of grated nutmeg.
Remove at once from the fire and set aside to cool. When very cold form
into croquettes.
Lobster croquettes
(Contributed)
Two cupfuls of minced lobster seasoned well with paprika, salt and
a little mace. One-fourth the quantity of bread-crumbs, i. e. about
half a cupful. Four tablespoonfuls of cream, heated (with a pinch of
soda), and thickened with a teaspoonful of butter rolled in flour. Make
a thick paste of the mixture; let it get stiff and cold; make into
croquettes, roll in egg and cracker-crumbs; set on the ice for an hour;
roll again in cracker-dust and fry in deep, hot cottolene or other fat,
which has been heated slowly. Drain, garnish with lemon and parsley and
serve.
Chicken croquettes
Cook together in a saucepan a tablespoonful of flour and one of butter
until they are blended. Pour upon this white roux a cupful of rich
milk, and when you have a smooth white sauce stir in a cupful and a
half of minced boiled or roast chicken. Season to taste with celery
salt, white pepper and a dash of nutmeg. Cook until well heated, then
add the yolks of two eggs and cook for just two minutes before removing
from the fire. Set aside until cold and stiff; mold into croquettes,
roll in cracker-dust, in beaten egg and yet again in cracker-dust, and
set on the ice for two hours before frying.
Turkey croquettes
Make in the same way, but mince more finely, as the meat is firmer and
harder.
Veal croquettes
Make a forcemeat of two cupfuls of minced veal, two tablespoonfuls of
bread-crumbs, one scant teaspoonful of salt, one-quarter teaspoonful
of paprika, one-eighth teaspoonful of mace, one teaspoonful of onion
juice, a tablespoonful of butter and the yolks of two raw eggs. Stir in
a saucepan over the fire until the mixture is heated through, and set
aside to cool. When cool, make up into croquettes, dip in beaten egg,
roll in egg and fine crumbs and fry. Serve with tomato sauce.
Veal and spaghetti croquettes
Mix together a cupful, each, of cold cooked veal and of cold boiled
spaghetti, both minced fine. Season with salt, paprika and onion juice.
Stir into a cupful of drawn butter, well thickened; cook together in
a saucepan until smoking hot, when add the yolk of a raw egg and a
tablespoonful of Parmesan cheese (powdered). Form into croquettes, dip
into beaten egg, roll in breadcrumbs and fry in smoking hot cottolene
or other fat, or dripping until brown. Serve with tomato sauce.
Chicken and macaroni croquettes
Make as directed in the foregoing recipe, omitting the cheese. A nice
sauce for either of these dishes is stewed and strained tomatoes,
thickened with a tablespoonful of butter rolled in flour and cooked
one minute before a large tablespoonful of grated Parmesan cheese is
stirred in.
Rice croquettes
Beat an egg light and stir it into a cupful of boiled rice; add
a teaspoonful, each, of sugar and melted butter, salt to taste,
add enough cream to form the mixture into croquettes of the right
consistency. Dip each croquette into beaten egg, then in cracker-dust
and set all for two hours in a cold place before frying in boiling
cottolene, or other fat, to a golden brown.
Croquettes of brains
Calf’s, or lamb’s or pig’s brains may be used for this dish.
Wash the brains in cold water, put them over the fire in boiling water,
cook for two minutes, drain and lay in ice-cold water until cold and
stiff.
Beat them into a paste. Have ready some thick drawn butter and beat
into the brains until the paste is smooth and stiff enough to handle;
add, then, flour to stiffen it yet more; season with pepper, salt and
a little very finely minced parsley; flour your hands, make the paste
into croquettes; roll in egg and cracker-crumbs; set on the ice for two
hours—or more—and fry in deep boiling cottolene or other fat. Drain and
serve.
Veal and ham croquettes
Mince enough cold veal to make a cupful when chopped; mix with it half
as much cold boiled ham and one-fourth as much fine crumbs. Rub the
yolk of a hard-boiled egg through a colander or vegetable press, and
add to the mixture. Season with pepper and onion juice and moisten with
thickened gravy or with drawn butter. Lastly, whip in a raw egg to bind
the mixture and make into croquettes. Roll in egg and in crumbs, set
aside to form and stiffen, and fry.
Potato croquettes
Work to a paste two cupfuls of mashed potatoes and a tablespoonful
of melted butter. Season with salt and pepper and beat light with
a raw egg. Form into balls or croquettes; roll in egg and then in
cracker-dust; let them stand on ice until stiff and fry in deep,
boiling cottolene or other fat. Drain off every drop of fat and serve
hot.
Hominy croquettes
Make precisely as you would potato croquettes, beating hard until the
mixture is entirely free from lumps, hominy being more adhesive and
_co_hesive than potato.
Fish and potato croquettes
One cupful of cold cooked fish picked to pieces with a fork, and
one-third the quantity of mashed potato worked to a stiff cream with
a little drawn butter and seasoned with pepper, salt and a dash of
Worcestershire sauce. Make into croquettes; roll in egg, then in
cracker-crumbs; let them get cold and firm and fry in deep, hot
cottolene or other fat.
Beef croquettes
Two cups of minced cold roast beef or steak—(never corned beef).
One-quarter as much mashed potato. Season well with pepper, salt and
onion juice, with a little very finely minced parsley. Enough gravy to
moisten the mixture and a raw egg to bind it.
Work together well, mold into cones, cover with egg and cracker-dust;
let them get chilled for two hours and fry in deep, boiling cottolene
or other fat, or dripping.
Potato and nut croquettes
Blanch the kernels of two dozen English walnuts, or twice that number
of pecans, by pouring scalding water over them and leaving them in it
until the skins crack and curl. Strip them bare, spread on a dish,
sprinkle lightly with celery salt and paprika, and let them get
perfectly cold. When crisp, pound in a mortar, or chop and crush fine.
Mix with them two cupfuls of mashed potatoes, into which you have
worked a little cream, butter and salt while hot. Beat into the mixture
the raw yolk of an egg. Mold into croquettes; set aside until stiff;
roll in egg and then in cracker-crumbs, and fry. Dry in a hot colander
and serve at once.
Celery croquettes
Cook together a tablespoonful of flour and one of butter, and when they
bubble pour upon them a cupful of milk. When this is thick and free
from lumps pour it gradually upon the beaten yolks of two eggs. Now add
a cupful of celery cut (not chopped) into tiny bits, season with celery
salt and white pepper and turn out to cool. When cold form with floured
hands into small croquettes, roll these in cracker-dust, then in beaten
egg, again in cracker-dust and set aside for an hour before frying in
deep, boiling cottolene or other fat, always brought gradually to the
boil.
Oyster-plant croquettes
(Contributed)
Boil, mash and season the oyster-plant, mold into shapes, sprinkle with
bread-crumbs, dip in egg and again in crumbs and fry in hot fat.
Sweetbread croquettes
(Contributed)
Take four sweetbreads, removing pipes and membranes soak for an hour
in cold salted water. Plunge into boiling salted water to which has
been added a tablespoonful of vinegar; cook twenty minutes. Drop again
into cold water to harden. Chop them very fine and season with salt and
pepper and a teaspoonful of grated onion. Add the beaten yolks of three
eggs, a tablespoonful of butter, one-half cupful of cream and enough
fine bread-crumbs to make soft enough to roll into balls. Dip in egg
and then in bread-crumbs and fry in hot fat to a nice brown. Take up
and drain on brown paper. Serve hot with sliced lemon.
Mushroom croquettes
Mince fresh mushrooms fine with a keen blade; season with pepper and
salt; add a tablespoonful of fine crumbs to each cupful of the chopped
mushrooms; work in a little melted butter and the beaten yolk of an
egg. When the mixture is cold form into croquettes and set on the ice
until you are ready to cook them. Roll in egg and cracker crumbs and
fry in deep fat.
WITH THE CASSEROLE
The French name “casserole” has a certain amount of terror for the
American housewife. The foreign word startles her and awakens visions
of cooking as done by a Parisian _chef_, or by one who has made the
culinary art his profession. She, a plain, every-day housekeeper, would
not dare aspire to the use of a casserole.
And yet the casserole itself is no more appalling than a saucepan. It
is simply a covered dish, made of fireproof pottery, which will stand
the heat of the oven or the top of the range. And the dainty cooked in
this dish is “casserole” of chicken, rice, etc., as the case may be.
Like many another object of dread this, when once known, is converted
into a friend.
Casserole of chicken
Clean and joint a tender spring chicken. Put into a frying-pan three
tablespoonfuls of butter and fry in this a small onion and a carrot,
both cut into tiny dice. When these vegetables are lightly browned,
turn into the casserole, add to them two cupfuls of clear soup stock,
in which three bay leaves and a little thyme have been boiled and
then removed. In this consommé lay the jointed chicken, put the
closely-fitting cover on the casserole and set it in a steady oven. It
should cook for an hour. At the end of this time stir into the chicken
a dessertspoonful of tomato catsup. Recover and cook for half an hour
longer. Then add two dozen small French mushrooms which have been
previously stewed for ten minutes, lastly, a glass of sherry. Season
the whole to taste with pepper and salt and leave uncovered in the oven
long enough for the chicken to brown. Fresh mushrooms are, of course,
better than canned when you can get them.
Casserole of rice and liver
Boil a cupful of rice in a quart of water until reduced to a soft
paste. Mash this rice paste smooth with two tablespoonfuls of butter
and salt and pepper to taste. Line a well-greased casserole with the
mixture, pressing the paste firmly against bottom and sides, and
leaving a large hollow in the center. Set in a cold place until stiff
and firm. Meanwhile boil a pound of lamb’s liver, drain and chop fine.
Heat in a saucepan two cupfuls of soup stock, season with a teaspoonful
of kitchen bouquet, thicken with browned flour and stir into this sauce
the minced liver. Fill the hollow in the center of the rice with the
liver mixture, sprinkle with breadcrumbs and set in the oven to brown.
Casserole of potato and cheese
Boil a sufficient number of potatoes to make three cupfuls when mashed.
Return the mashed potatoes to a saucepan and stir over the fire, as
you add slowly the beaten yolks of three eggs. When the smoking mass
is hot and stiff, turn it into a greased casserole and press firmly
against the sides, leaving a hollow in the middle about the size of a
kitchen teacup. Brush the top and sides of the potato with the white of
an egg and set in the oven until glazed and firm. Meanwhile, heat in a
frying-pan or chafing-dish six tablespoonfuls of grated Parmesan cheese
in a gill of milk and when hot add to it the yolk of an egg, a pinch of
salt and a dash of paprika. When this cheese-sauce is thick and hot,
remove the casserole from the oven, fill the hollow in the middle of
the potato with the cheese mixture, sprinkle cracker-crumbs over the
top of the potato and cheese and return to the oven to brown. Serve in
the casserole and at once.
Casserole of lamb or mutton chops
Trim the chops neatly, removing every bit of fat and skin. In the
bottom of the casserole put a layer of pared and shredded tomatoes;
sprinkle with salt, pepper, a little sugar and a teaspoonful of onion
juice. Lay three or four chops upon the tomatoes; season them with salt
and pepper; arrange about them small pellets of parboiled potato, cut
with a gouge, after the manner of Parisian potatoes,—also a dozen or so
champignons (canned mushrooms). Now, more tomato, seasoned as before,
then more chops, potatoes and mushrooms, until all are used up in this
order. The upper layer should be tomatoes. Pour in a generous cupful of
stock—bouillon, consommé, mutton broth, or whatever you have; cover and
cook steadily for two hours if the casserole be large.
When the meat is tender to the trial-fork, pour off the gravy carefully
into a saucepan, thicken with browned flour; add the juice of half a
lemon, a teaspoonful of kitchen bouquet and a glass of brown sherry.
Pour back over the contents of the casserole, set in the oven for three
minutes, covered, and serve in the dish.
An elegant dish can be made of unpromising chops by following these
directions.
Mock casseroles of chicken
Select large, smooth, tart apples of good flavor and of uniform
size. Remove core with corer. Mince cold chicken fine, season with
salt, a dash of cayenne, pinch of powdered thyme, one-half cupful of
bread-crumbs, moistened with three or four teaspoonfuls of sweet cream.
Fill each apple and bake in oven. Serve hot or cold with mayonnaise as
a salad.
Creamed chicken