A TALK as woman to woman, in which each shall say, “I” and “you,” and
“my dear,” and “you know,” as freely as she pleases. It would not be
a womanly chat if we omitted these forms of expression. An informal
preface to what I mean shall be an informal book—bristling with “I’s”
all the way through. If said bristles offend the critic’s touch, let
him remember that this work is not prepared for the library, but for
readers who trouble themselves little about editorial “we’s” and the
circumlocutions of literary modesty.
I wish it were in my power to bring you, the prospective owner of
this volume, in person, as I do in spirit, to my side on this winter
evening, when the bairnies are “folded like the flocks;” the orders
for breakfast committed to the keeping of Bridget, or Gretchen, or
Chloe, or the plans for the morrow definitely laid in the brain of that
ever-busy, but most independent of women, the housekeeper who “does her
own work.” I should perhaps summon to our cozy conference a very weary
companion—weary of foot, of hand—and I should not deserve to be your
confidant, did I not know how often heart-weary with discouragement;
with much producing of ways and means; with a certain despondent
looking forward to the monotonous grinding of the household machine;
to the certainty, proved by past experience, that toilsome as has been
this day, the morrow will prove yet more abundant in labors, in trials
of strength and nerves and temper. You would tell me what a dreary
problem this of “woman’s work that is never done” is to your fainting
soul. How, try as you may and as you do to be systematic and diligent,
something is always “turning up” in the treadmill to keep you on the
strain. How you often say to yourself, in bitterness of spirit, that
it is a mistake of Christian civilization to educate girls into a love
of science and literature, and then condemn them to the routine of a
domestic drudge. You do not see, you say, that years of scholastic
training will make you a better cook, a better wife or mother. You have
seen the time—nay, many times since assuming your present position—when
you would have exchanged your knowledge of ancient and modern
languages, belles-lettres, music, and natural science, for the skill of
a competent kitchen-maid. The “learning how” is such hard work! Labor,
too, uncheered by encouraging words from mature housewives, unsoftened
by sympathy even from your husband, or your father or brother, or
whoever may be the “one” to whom you “make home lovely.” It may be
that, in utter discouragement, you have made up your mind that you have
“no talent for these things.”
I have before me now the picture of a wife, the mother of four
children, who, many years ago, sickened me for all time with that
phrase. In a slatternly morning-gown at four in the afternoon, leaning
back in the laziest and most ragged of rocking-chairs, dust on the
carpet, on the open piano, the mantel, the mirrors, even on her own
hair, she rubbed the soft palm of one hand with the grimy fingers of
the other, and with a sickly-sweet smile whined out—
“Now, I am one of the kind who have no talent for such things! The
kitchen and housework and sewing are absolutely hateful to me—utterly
uncongenial to my turn of mind. The height of my earthly ambition is to
have nothing to do but to paint on velvet all day!”
I felt then, in the height of my indignant disgust, that there was
propriety as well as wit in the “Spectator’s” suggestion that every
young woman should, before fixing the wedding-day, be compelled by law
to exhibit to inspectors a prescribed number of useful articles as her
outfit—napery, bed-linen, clothing, etc., made by her own hands, and
that it would be wise legislation which should add to these proofs of
her fitness for her new sphere a practical knowledge of housework and
cookery.
If you have not what our Yankee grandmothers termed a “faculty” for
housewifery—yet are obliged, as is the case with an immense majority
of American women, to conduct the affairs of a household, bills of
fare included—there is the more reason for earnest application to your
profession. If the natural taste be dull, lay to it more strength
of will—resolution born of a just sense of the importance of the
knowledge and dexterity you would acquire. Do not scoff at the word
“profession.” Call not that common and unclean which Providence has
designated as your life-work. I speak not now of the labors of the
culinary department alone; but, without naming the other duties which
you and you only can perform, I do insist that upon method, skill,
economy in the kitchen, depends so much of the well-being of the rest
of the household, that it may safely be styled the root—the foundation
of housewifery. I own it would be pleasanter in most cases, especially
to those who have cultivated a taste for intellectual pursuits, to
live above the heat and odor of this department. It must be very fine
to have an efficient aide-de-camp in the person of a French cook, or
a competent sub-manager, or an accomplished head-waiter who receives
your orders for the day in your boudoir or library, and executes the
same with zeal and discretion that leave you no room for anxiety or
regret. Such mistresses do not need cookery-books. The few—and it must
be borne in mind that in this country these are _very_ few—born in an
estate like this would not comprehend what I am now writing; would not
enter into the depths of that compassionate yearning which moves me
as I think of what I have known for myself in the earlier years of my
wedded life, what I have heard and seen in other households of honest
intentions brought to contempt; of ill-directed toil; of mortification,
and the heavy, wearing sense of inferiority that puts the novice at
such a woful disadvantage in a community of notable managers.
There is no use in enlarging upon this point. You and I might compare
experiences by the hour without exhausting our store.
“And then”—you sigh, with a sense of resentment upon you, however
amiable your disposition, for the provocation is dire—“cookery-books
and young housekeepers’ assistants, and all that sort of thing, are
such humbugs!—Dark lanterns at best—too often Will-o’-the-wisps.”
My dear, would you mind handing me the book which lies nearest you on
the table there? “Dickens?” Of course. You will usually find something
of his in every room in this house—almost as surely as you will a
Bible. It rests and refreshes one to pick him up at odd times, and
dip in anywhere. Hear the bride, Mrs. John Rokesmith, upon our common
grievance.
“She was under the constant necessity of referring for advice and
support to a sage volume, entitled ‘The Complete British Family
Housewife,’ which she would sit consulting, with her elbows upon the
table, and her temples in her hands, like some perplexed enchantress
poring over the Black Art. This, principally because the Complete
British Housewife, however sound a Briton at heart, was by no means
an expert Briton at expressing herself with clearness in the British
tongue, and sometimes might have issued her directions to equal purpose
in the Kamtchatkan language.”
Don’t interrupt me, my long-suffering sister! There is more of the same
sort to come.
“There was likewise a coolness on the part of ‘The Complete British
Housewife’ which Mrs. John Rokesmith found highly exasperating. She
would say, ‘Take a salamander,’ as if a general should command a
private to catch a Tartar. Or, she would casually issue the order,
‘Throw in a handful’ of something entirely unattainable. In these, the
housewife’s most glaring moments of unreason, Bella would shut her up
and knock her on the table, apostrophizing her with the compliment—‘O
you ARE a stupid old donkey! Where am I to get it, do you think?’”
When I took possession of my first real home, the prettily furnished
cottage to which I came as a bride, more full of hope and courage
than if I had been wiser, five good friends presented me with as many
cookery-books, each complete, and all by different compilers. One day’s
investigation of my _ménage_ convinced me that my lately-hired servants
knew no more about cookery than I did, or affected stupidity to develop
my capabilities or ignorance. Too proud to let them suspect the truth,
or to have it bruited abroad as a topic for pitying or contemptuous
gossip, I shut myself up with _my_ “Complete Housewives,” and inclined
seriously to the study of the same, comparing one with the other, and
seeking to shape a theory which should grow into practice in accordance
with the best authority. I don’t like to remember that time! The
question of disagreeing doctors, and the predicament of falling between
two stools, are trivial perplexities when compared with my strife and
failure.
Said the would-be studious countryman to whom a mischievous
acquaintance lent “Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary” as an entertaining
volume,—“I wrastled, and I wrastled, _and_ I wrastled with it, but I
couldn’t get up much of an int’rest.”
My wrestling begat naught save pitiable confusion, hopeless distress,
and a three-days’ sick headache, during which season I am not sure
that I did not darkly contemplate suicide as the only sure escape from
the meshes that girt me. At the height—or depth—of my despondency a
friend, one with a great heart and steady brain, came to my rescue. Her
cheerful laugh over my dilemma rings down to me now, through all these
years, refreshingly as it then saluted my ears.
“Bless your innocent little heart!” she cried, in her fresh, gay voice,
“Ninety-nine out of a hundred cookbooks are written by people who never
kept house, and the hundredth by a good cook who yet doesn’t know how
to express herself to the enlightenment of others. Compile a receipt
book for yourself. Make haste slowly. Learn one thing at a time, and
when you have mastered it, ‘make a note on it,’ as Captain Cuttle
says—never losing sight of the principle that you _must do it in order
to learn how_.”
Then she opened to me her own neatly-written “Manual”—the work of
years, recommending, as I seized it that I should commence my novitiate
with simple dishes.
This was the beginning of the hoard of practical receipts I now offer
for your inspection. For twenty years, I have steadily pursued this
work, gleaning here and sifting there, and levying such remorseless
contributions upon my friends, that I fear the sight of my paper and
pencil has long since become a bugbear. For the kindness and courtesy
which have been my invariable portion in this quest, I hereby return
hearty thanks. For the encouraging words and good wishes that have
ever answered the hint of my intention to collect what had proved so
valuable to me into a printed volume, I declare myself to be yet more
a debtor. I do not claim for my compend the proud pre-eminence of the
“Complete American Housewife.” It is no boastful system of “Cookery
Taught in Twelve Lessons.” And I should write myself down a knave or
a fool, were I to assert that a raw cook or ignorant mistress can,
by half-a-day’s study of my collection, equal Soyer or Blot, or even
approximate the art of a half-taught scullion.
We may as well start from the right point, if we hope to continue
friends. You must learn the rudiments of the art for yourself.
Practice, and practice alone, will teach you certain essentials. The
management of the ovens, the requisite thickness of boiling custards,
the right shade of brown upon bread and roasted meats—these and dozens
of other details are hints which cannot be imparted by written or
oral instructions. But, once learned, they are never forgotten, and
henceforward your fate is in your own hands. You are mistress of
yourself, though servants leave. Have faith in your own abilities.
You will be a better cook for the mental training you have received
at school and from books. Brains tell everywhere, to say nothing of
intelligent observation, just judgment, a faithful memory, and orderly
habits. Consider that you have a profession, as I said just now, and
resolve to understand it in all its branches. My book is designed to
help you. I believe it will, if for no other reason, because it has
been a faithful guide to myself—a reference beyond value in seasons
of doubt and need. I have brought every receipt to the test of common
sense and experience. Those which I have not tried myself were obtained
from trustworthy housewives—the best I know. I have enjoyed the task
heartily, and from first to last the persuasion has never left me that
I was engaged in a good cause. Throughout I have had you, my dear
sister, present before me, with the little plait between your brows,
the wistful look about eye and mouth that reveal to me, as words could
not, your desire to “do your best.”
“In a humble home, and in a humble way,” I hear you add, perhaps. You
“are not ambitious;” you “only want to help John, and to make him and
the children comfortable and happy.”
Heaven reward your honest, loyal endeavors! Would you mind if I were
to whisper a word in your ear I don’t care to have progressive people
hear?—although progress is a grand thing when it takes the right
direction. My dear, John and the children, and the humble home, make
your sphere for the present, you say. Be sure you fill it—_full_!
before you seek one wider and higher. There is no better receipt
between these covers than that. Leave the rest to God. Everybody knows
those four lines of George Herbert’s, which ought to be framed and hung
up in the work-room of every house:—
“A servant, with this clause,
Makes drudgery divine;
Who sweeps a room as for Thy laws
Makes that and th’ action fine.”
I wonder if the sainted poet knows—in that land where drudgery is one
of the rough places forever overpast, and work is unmingled blessing—to
how many sad and striving hearts those words have brought peace?
And by way of helping John, not only by saving money and preparing
palatable and wholesome dishes for his table, but by sparing the wife
he loves many needless steps and much hurtful care, will you heed a
homely hint or two relative to the practice of your art? Study method,
and economy of time and strength, no less than of materials. I take
it for granted that you are too intelligent to share in the vulgar
prejudice against labor-saving machines. A raisin-seeder costs a trifle
in comparison with the time and patience required to stone the fruit in
the old way. A _good_ egg-beater—the Dover, for instance—is a treasure.
So with farina-kettles, syllabub churns, apple-corers, potato-peelers
and slicers, clothes wringers and sprinklers, and the like. Most of
these are made of tin—are therefore cheap and easily kept clean. Let
each article have its own place in the closet and kitchen, to which
restore it so soon as you have done using it. Before undertaking the
preparation of any dish, read over the receipt carefully, unless you
are thoroughly familiar with the manufacture of it. Many excellent
housewives have a fashion of saying loftily, when asked how such things
are made—“I carry all my receipts in my head. I never wrote out one in
my life.”
And you, if timid and self-distrustful, are smitten with shame, keep
your receipt-book out of sight, and cram your memory with ingredients
and measures, times and weights, for fear Mrs. Notable should suspect
you of rawness and inefficiency. Whereas the truth is, that if you have
a mind worthy of the name, its powers are too valuable to be laden
with such details. Master the general principles, as I said just now,
and for particulars look to your marching-orders. Having refreshed
your memory by this reference, pick out from your household stores,
and set in convenient order, within reach of your hand, everything you
will need in making ready the particular compound under consideration.
Then, take your stand in the midst—or sit, if you can. It is common
sense—oftentimes a pious duty, to take judicious care of your physical
health. I lay it down as a safe and imperative rule for kitchen
use—_Never stand when you can do your work as well while sitting_. If I
could have John’s ear for a minute, I would tell him that which would
lead him to watch you and exercise wholesome authority in this regard.
Next, prepare each ingredient for mixing, that the bread, cake,
pudding, soup, or ragoût may not be delayed when half finished because
the flour is not sifted, or the “shortening” warmed, the sugar and
butter are not creamed, the meat not cut up, or the herbs not minced.
Don’t begin until you are ready; then go steadily forward, “without
haste, without rest,” and think of what you are doing.
“Dickens again?”
Why not, since there is no more genial and pertinent philosopher of
common life and every-day subjects? To quote, then—
“It was a maxim of Captain Swosser’s,” said Mrs. Badger, “speaking in
his figurative, naval manner, that when you make pitch hot, you cannot
make it too hot, and that if you have only to swab a plank, you should
swab it as if Davy Jones were after you. It appears to me that this
maxim is applicable to the medical as well as the nautical profession.”
“To all professions!” observed Mr. Badger. “It was admirably said by
Captain Swosser; beautifully said!”
But it will sometimes happen that when you have heated your pitch, or
swabbed your deck, or made your pudding according to the lights set
before you, the result is a failure. This is especially apt to occur
in a maiden effort. You have wasted materials and time, and suffered,
moreover, acute demoralization—are enwrapped in a wet blanket of
discouragement, instead of the seemly robe of complacency. Yet no
part of the culinary education is more useful, if turned to proper
account, than this very discipline of failure. It is a stepping-stone
to excellence—sharp, it is true, but often sure. You have learned how
_not_ to do it right, which is the next thing to success. It is pretty
certain that you will avoid, in your second essay, the rock upon which
you have split this time. And, after all, there are few failures which
are utter and irremediable. Scorched soups and custards, sour bread,
biscuit yellow with soda, and cake heavy as lead, come under the head
of “hopeless.” They are absolutely unfit to be set before civilized
beings and educated stomachs. Should such mishaps occur, lock the
memory of the attempt in your own bosom, and do not vex or amuse John
and your guests with the narration, still less with visible proof of
the calamity. Many a partial failure would pass unobserved but for the
clouded brow and earnest apologies of the hostess. Do not apologize
except at the last gasp! If there is but one chance in ten that a
single person present may not discover the deficiency which has changed
all food on the table to dust and gravel-stones to you, trust to the
one chance, and carry off the matter bravely. You will be astonished to
find, if you keep your wits about you how often even your husband will
remain in blissful ignorance that aught has gone wrong, if you do not
tell him. You know so well what should have been the product of your
labor that you exaggerate the justice of others’ perceptions. Console
yourself, furthermore, with the reflection that yours is not the first
failure upon record, nor the million-and-first, and that there will be
as many to-morrows as there have been yesterdays.
Don’t add to a trifling _contretemps_ the real discomfort of a
discontented or fretful wife. Say blithely, if John note your
misfortune—“I hope to do better another time,” and do not be satisfied
until you have redeemed your pledge. Experience and your quick wit will
soon teach you how to avert impending evils of this nature, how to
snatch your preparations from imminent destruction, and, by ingenious
correctives or concealments, to make them presentable. These you will
soon learn for yourself if you keep before you the truism I have
already written, to wit, that few failures are beyond repair.
Never try experiments for the benefit of invited guests nor, when
John is at home, risk the success of your meal upon a new dish.
Have something which you know he can eat, and introduce experiments
as by-play. But do not be too shy of innovations in the shape of
untried dishes. Variety is not only pleasant, but healthful. The
least pampered palate will weary of stereotyped bills of fare. It is
an idea which should have been exploded long ago, that plain roast,
boiled, and fried, on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday,
cod-fish on Friday, with pork-and-beans every Saturday, are means of
grace, because economical. And with this should have vanished the
prejudice against warmed-over meals—or _réchauffés_, as our French
friends term them. I have tried, in the following pages, to set forth
the attractions of these, and their claims to your attention as being
savory, economical, nourishing, and often elegant. In preparing these
acceptably, everything depends upon your own taste and skill. Season
with judgment, cook just enough and not a minute too long, and dish
nicely. The recommendation of the eye to the palate is a point no
cook can afford to disregard. If you can offer an unexpected visitor
nothing better than bread-and-butter and cold ham, he will enjoy the
luncheon twice as much if the bread be sliced thinly and evenly, spread
smoothly, each slice folded in the middle upon the buttered surface,
and piled symmetrically; if the ham be also cut thin, scarcely thicker
than a wafer, and garnished with parsley, cresses, or curled lettuce.
Set on mustard and pickles; let the table-cloth and napkin be white
and glossy; the glass clear, and plate shining clean; and add to these
accessories to comfort a bright welcome, and, my word for it, you need
fear no dissatisfaction on his part, however epicurean may be his
tastes. Should your cupboard be bare of aught more substantial than
crackers and cheese, do not yield to dismay; split the crackers (if
splittable), toast the inside lightly, and butter while hot. Grate your
cheese into a powdery mound, garnishing the edges of the plate. If you
have no beverage except water to set before him, let this be cool, and
pour it out for him yourself, into an irreproachable glass. A dirty
table-cloth, a smeared goblet, or a sticky plate, will spoil the most
luxurious feast. A table well set is half-spread.
I have not said one-tenth of that which is pressing upon my heart and
mind, yet I fear you may think me trite and tedious. One suggestion
more, and we will proceed to the details of business.
I believe that, so far as care can avail in securing such a result, my
receipts are accurate. But in the matter of seasoning and other minor
details, consult your judgment and John’s taste. Take this liberty with
whatever receipt you think you can improve. If I chance to find in
your work-basket, or upon the kitchen dresser, a well-thumbed copy of
my beloved “Common Sense,” with copious annotations in the margin, I
shall, so far from feeling wounded, be flattered in having so diligent
a student, and, with your permission, shall engraft the most happy
suggestions upon the next edition.
For the speedy issue of which, the petitioner doth humbly pray.