6 soda crackers—rolled fine.
2 cups cold water.
1 cup molasses.
1 cup brown sugar.
1 cup _sour_ cider.
1½ cup melted butter.
1 cup raisins—seeded and chopped.
1 cup currants.
2 eggs—beaten light.
1 tablespoonful cinnamon and allspice mixed.
1 teaspoonful nutmeg.
1 teaspoonful cloves.
1 teaspoonful salt.
1 teaspoonful black pepper.
1 wineglass of brandy.
“Mince-pie in summer is a pleasant rarity,” was the remark of a party
of hungry travellers, in semi-apology for the fact that every plate
made a return journey to the comely landlady, who was dispensing
generous triangles of pie. She smiled gratifiedly, but said nothing
in reply, until, when the gentlemen had strolled off to the woods
with their cigars, she came upon me, seated alone on the piazza, and
grew confidential under the influence of that sort of free-masonic
understanding housekeepers have with one another, almost at sight.
“I had to laugh,” said the good soul, “when they praised my mince-pies.
They’re healthfuller in summer time than the real thing.”
I took down the receipt on the spot from her lips. If any one doubts
the merits of the counterfeit, let her do as I did—try it.