TREATING OF COOKING.
ETHEL was not satisfied with undertaking the marketing. She had always
disliked going into the kitchen, so that she had never even acquired
the art of clear-starching, preserving, and cake-baking, which most
American young ladies, at least out of the great cities, learn to
practise in great perfection. But she "did not like" to work about
the stove, and put her hands into all sorts of things; and this had
heretofore been a sufficient reason for her never learning to cook.
Now, however, she was in a little danger of going to the opposite
extreme, and doing things simply because they "were" disagreeable and
distasteful. She had set herself to take up the cross daily, and she
was in some danger of making crosses for herself, instead of being
content with those which her Lord sent her; and those which he sends
are always just the ones we need.
It was not altogether a motive of self-denial, however, which took
Ethel into the kitchen on this particular day. She had been reading
over that paper in her desk, to which she now frequently referred, and
thinking whether she were doing all in her power to fit herself for the
work she had undertaken.
"I cannot begin upon Syriac till vacation, because my present lessons
take all my spare time. I don't know that I can do any more for my
class than I am doing, unless we get the sewing-school started. Let
me see. I can sew pretty well: Miss Carrington took care of that, so
I have one thing to thank her for, at any rate. I think I can cut and
make all my own underclothes, and I know how to use the machine. I
rather think I could make a dress, if it had not too much trimming. I
will try it on the next cheap dress I buy; or I might make over that
pink cambric.
"But there is housework, especially cooking. I don't know the least
thing about cooking. If I were set to boil potatoes, I should not know
how long a time they would need; and I am sure I should not know how
to bake a loaf of decent bread, if people were suffering. I wonder if
Mrs. Jones would teach me. She is an excellent cook, and she is very
good-natured. I mean to ask her. Emily will be away to-morrow, and it
will be a good time to begin."
Great was Mrs. Jones's amazement when Ethel entered the kitchen next
morning, and preferred an humble request to be allowed to take lessons
in cooking. Mrs. Jones was the wife of Dr. Ray's man-servant, and an
excellent woman in every way. She was an accomplished cook, and, like
other great artists, she did not at all like being interfered with; but
she had known Ethel from her babyhood, and was very fond of her.
"Bless your heart, my dear, what has put that into your head?" she
asked.
"Why, you know, Mrs. Jones, everybody ought to know something of
housework," said Ethel. "I have often heard you say that, yourself. You
know I don't understand the least thing about cooking, and I might be
so placed that the knowledge would be very desirable."
"That is true, dear. '"Can do" is easy to carry about,' my grandmother
used to say. Ladies would often be a deal better off if they understood
housework better, and so would the people that work for them. Well,
now, I am going to make some pies, and you may as well begin upon
them as upon anything else. It is surprising what pie-crust folks do
make and eat—just like leather or pasteboard. No wonder it is called
unhealthy. I don't suppose you ever 'touched' a bit of crust in all
your born days."
"Never, except to eat it."
"Ah, well, there must be a first time to everything. But, my dear
child, you want to put on an apron, and take off your rings and cuffs,
the first thing. Never go into the kitchen to work without an apron."
"True; I forgot that. Well, now, what shall I do first? Remember, I
don't know even the A B C of pie-crust, so I shall have to begin at the
beginning."
Mrs. Jones proved a good teacher. She did not take it for granted that
her pupil knew things which she had never heard of; or confuse her
with too many directions at once. Ethel was content to be told, (which
is not always the case with pupils,) and the pies were successfully
accomplished and baked.
"Now, then, as the oven is just right, and we have the things about,
suppose you make some batter-cakes for luncheon," suggested Mrs. Jones.
"Mr. Henry likes them; and it will save me baking bread to-day."
The cakes were as successful as the pies, and Ethel was secretly
delighted to see her brother help himself to a third and fourth,
remarking, apologetically, that they were so light they hardly amounted
to anything. She kept her own counsel, however, and magnanimously
allowed Mrs. Jones to have all the praise of both cakes and pies.
Every day for the three weeks that Emily stayed away, did Ethel take a
lesson in some branch of cooking. She was very successful in general.
"Well, you haven't spoiled anything yet," said Mrs. Jones, on the day
that Emily was expected home.
Ethel, grown bold with her success, was proposing to Mrs. Jones that
they should have something unusually good to welcome the travellers,
and suggested, among other things, that marvellous compound—alas!
almost unknown to the present generation—a transparent pudding; adding,
rather doubtfully, "If you think I could make it."
"Well, you haven't spoiled anything yet," said Mrs. Jones; "and I
don't see why you should spoil that, as long as you have me to show
you. I will say for you, you are about the easiest person I ever tried
to teach. That's one reason you have such good luck: you don't take
anything for granted, and you ain't afraid of being told, as some
young ladies are. When people have to find out everything by their own
experience, why, of course, they make lots of mistakes."
"That is the advantage of not knowing anything at all, to begin with,"
said Ethel. "My French master always says that he would rather take a
perfectly ignorant pupil than one who has been half taught."
"There is something in that," said Mrs. Jones. "Well, my dear, we will
make the pudding, and some chocolate-cake, too, if you like. The doctor
is very fond of chocolate-cake, and always eats it, though he says it
is very unwholesome. Dear me, we all have our inconsistencies," added
Mrs. Jones, in a tone of beneficent toleration for the infirmities
of humanity; "and all doctors are full of notions about eating and
drinking. Dr. Ray is no worse than the rest of them."
"I don't think he is as bad as some," remarked Ethel. "Dr. Millar will
not let the children have anything but porridge for breakfast and
supper. Emma can't bear it, and the poor little thing comes to school
ready to faint away, sometimes."
"Humph," said Mrs. Jones, in a tone of immense contempt. "He likes good
thing enough himself, I dare say."
"I should think he did," replied Ethel. "I never saw any man eat as he
did the night the Club was held here. But, perhaps, he thinks plain
living is better for the children."
"Plain living is one thing, and starvation is another," said Mrs.
Jones. "I don't see why good things—in moderation, of course—should
hurt children any more than grown folks. What is sauce for the goose is
sauce for the gander."
"But, perhaps, not always for the gosling," said Ethel, smiling.
"Well, maybe not always. Anyhow, it is real cruelty to force children
to eat what they dislike. But my dear, what has set you so earnestly on
learning to cook? You ain't thinking of getting married, are you?"
"Oh, dear, no," returned Ethel. "But, you know, brother Henry may need
a housekeeper some time; and at any rate, I don't see that it can do
any harm for me to understand housework."
Mrs. Jones set down the dish she was buttering, and looked at Ethel
with an odd expression between reproof and affectionate pride.
"It's just come over me what you are after," said she. "I can see it
all like a book. You are thinking of going with Mr. Henry, when he goes
back to them heathen countries. Now don't say no, for I know better."
"Well, suppose I am," said Ethel, smiling, though she felt a little
confused and annoyed, "is there anything wrong in that? Why should not
I be a missionary as well as Miss Beecher?"
"There's nothing wrong in it, of course; only I can't bear the thought
of it," replied Mrs. Jones. "You, that I nursed when you was a baby,
going out to them outlandish places."
"But why not? Why should it be any worse for me than for Miss Beecher?"
"There is a sight of difference between you and Miss Beecher," said
Mrs. Jones, rather indignantly. "Miss Beecher is a great deal older,
for one thing."
"Yes, she is now, but she was not when she went out there. She was only
twenty years and I shall be nineteen before it is time for Henry to
return."
"And then, Miss Beecher was very differently situated," continued Mrs.
Jones. "She would have had to work for a living anyhow, and she might
just as well teach school there as here; but you will have enough to
support you handsomely without doing anything at all."
"T don't see how that is any argument," said Ethel. "If Miss Beecher's
only object had been to earn a living, she could have done it much more
easily here than in Persia. She had the offer of an excellent situation
at the very time she decided to go abroad. The more property I have,
the better I can support myself; and do just so much more good."
"Folks can find good enough to do at home, if they have a mind to,"
said Mrs. Jones, rather stoutly.
"I know that very well. There is good to be done everywhere. I dare say
the first apostles might have found good enough to do in Judea, without
going into strange countries. But there are people enough, who cannot
possibly go abroad, to do the work at home. There are fifty ladies, for
example, who can and will teach Sunday-school classes here in Ironton,
for one who will or can go to teach in India or Africa."
"That's true," said Mrs. Jones. "But when the Lord has given anybody as
much as he has to you, it does seem as though he meant you should stay
at home and enjoy it."
"I think, when the Lord gives anyone as much as he has me, he means
that person should use what he gives for his service, and for the good
of those who are not as well off," said Ethel, with animation. "He does
not give us everything to use just for our own benefit and pleasure.
I am sure you agree with me in that, dear Jonesy; because, unless you
do, you would not deny yourself everything except necessary clothes,
in order to help your poor niece and her children," added she, slyly.
"Why don't you enjoy what you have, and leave them to take care of
themselves?"
Mrs. Jones laughed. "Well, you've got me there, my dear, that's a fact.
But then, doing for one's own flesh and blood seems different from
doing for people in a far-away country, don't it?"
"It certainly does; and yet you know the Bible says, 'He hath made of
one blood all nations that dwell on the earth.'"
"But, excuse me, my dear, do you think you are just the one to go on a
mission?" asked Mrs. Jones, after a little silence. "Don't you think
you are 'most too—too—?"
"Too silly and ignorant and cowardly, and all that," said Ethel,
finishing the sentence for her. "Yes, indeed, I do; but you know, even
if I go, I shall have three years to prepare myself; and I hope to
overcome some of my faults by that time. I know how silly I have always
been, and how selfish, too—afraid of everything, and unwilling to touch
or do anything in the least disagreeable. I have lived a selfish and
useless life so far," said Ethel, blushing; "but that is no reason I
should keep on doing so. I am going to try and do differently."
"Now you are rather too hard on yourself," said Mrs. Jones; "though I
won't deny but there was room for improvement. But have you really made
up your mind to be a missionary?"
"I have made up my mind to fit myself for it, at any rate," said Ethel;
"as for the going, that must be as Providence pleases. I see no reason
why I should not learn everything that a missionary ought to know; and
then I shall be ready to go or stay at home, as may seem best. Since we
have said so much about it, I will tell you that I do very much wish
to go back to Persia with Henry. I have been thinking about it a long
time, but more than ever for the last three or four weeks. I have not
said as much to any one else, and I don't want you to tell anybody at
present. I tell you, because you can help me a great deal in learning
the things that I want to know about housekeeping and work of all
sorts; and you have always been so good to me, ever since I was born,
that I am sure you will not fail me now. You will help me, won't you,
dear Jonesy?"
Mrs. Jones wiped her eyes. "Indeed, my dear, you talk very sensible;
and I am sure I will help you all I can. You knew I have always loved
you dearly, ever since I took out of your dear good mother's arms, when
you were only three days old. I should feel badly to have you go away
among all them Turks and heathen, that's a fact. But then you seem to
have a real call; and if you have, and it comes from the Lord, why, I
am not the one to say a word against it; and I will help you every way
I can."
Ethel put her arms round the kind old woman's neck, and kissed her.
"I was sure you would," said she; "and now tell me what to do to this
next. See how thick it is!"
"Dear me, yes; I forgot all about it!" exclaimed Mrs. Jones, recalled
at once to present and earthly things. "It would have been spoiled in
another minute. Take it off the fire directly."
"Why, how warm you look, dear!" said Emily, kissing her sister on her
arrival. "Your cheeks are as red as roses!"
"I have been busy," replied Ethel, smiling. "I am so glad you have
come. Dinner will be all ready by the time you have changed your dress."
"How have you fared since I have been gone?" asked Emily, after they
were seated at the table. "Has Mrs. Jones taken good care of you?"
"Admirable!" replied Mr. Dalton. "Don't fancy that we have missed you
in the least. We have lived on the fat of the land, I assure you."
"What beautiful bread!" said Dr. Ray. "I have not seen any like it
since I went away. If I found a professorship in the new college, it
shall be of cooking, and I will put Mrs. Jones in the chair."
Ethel blushed, and her face dimpled all over with smiles, in spite of
her efforts to look perfectly unconscious; for it was she who had made
the bread. The dinner was a decided success, and Ethel felt paid for
her fatigue and the heat of the kitchen when she saw how the travellers
enjoyed it.
"I declare it is worth while to go away for a fortnight, if one is
to be so feasted on his return," said the doctor, helping himself to
another piece of cake; and then, as Mrs. Jones entered the room, "Mrs.
Jones, what injury have I ever done you, that you should lay such
snares for my digestion as this cake and pudding?"
"As to that, you wasn't obliged to eat it, you know," replied Mrs.
Jones, who always "spoke her mind" to everybody. "Besides, I didn't
make either the cake or the pudding—it was Miss Ethel."
"Ethel!" exclaimed everybody at once.
"Yes, indeed," said Mrs. Jones, enjoying the surprise. "She made the
cake and the pudding and the bread, and the caper-sauce for the lamb;
and she stuffed and baked the fish all herself. Didn't you, dear?"
"Why, not quite by myself," said Ethel: "you showed me how, you know."
"Anyhow, you did it all with your own hands," returned Mrs. Jones; "and
it ain't everybody that knows enough to be told how."
"That is a very just remark of yours, Mrs. Jones," said Dr. Ray. "It is
'not' everybody, by a great deal, who knows enough to be told. But to
think of the dear distinguishing herself in the cooking line! What put
it into your little pate, my dear?"
"I wanted to learn how," replied Ethel, blushing and smiling, as usual;
"and I thought it would be a good time to begin when there was nobody
here but Henry."
"'Fiat experimentum in corpore vili;' which means, my dear, that you
should always try experiments on persons of no consequence," said the
doctor. "You don't look as though you had been poisoned, Henry."
"Indeed I have not," replied Mr. Dalton. "I have wondered what Ethel
was so busy about all the morning, and what made her cheeks so red at
dinner-time; but I never guessed the secret."
"But I hope you have not tired yourself," said Emily. "How is the pain
in your side?"
"Better," said Ethel. "It has troubled me but once since you went away."
"But what put it into your head?" asked Emily.
"Why, I wanted to learn while I had a chance," replied Ethel. "It is a
good thing to understand all sorts of work; and perhaps I may some time
want to teach people to cook myself."
"That would be disinterested—to teach people to cook yourself!" said
the doctor, gravely. "Do you, then, mean to go among the cannibals,
some of these fine days?"
"Perhaps," replied Ethel, laughing. "There is no telling where one may
go; and after all, one would always like to be properly armed, you
know."
"Good," said the doctor. "You are learning to hold your own, I see. I
shall have to take care how I tease you. Seriously, dear, I think this
an excellent move of yours, and better for your health than all the
medicine I could give you."
"I am glad to hear you say so, brother, because I want to keep on with
my work," said Ethel. "I want to learn to do everything about house
before—while I have a good opportunity."
Emily and Henry again exchanged glances, but neither spoke, and the
conversation turned on other topics.