_August 20th._
What a comfort is the consciousness of usefulness! One may dig on his
farm or delve in his library for weeks, with nothing to show for it,
and with no murmuring applause. But let him once spread the table, put
the pot to boiling, and set forth a meal; and the praise of
housekeepers begins to ascend, sweet as frankincense or new-made
apple-pies. But we are praise-proof in culinary matters. There are
others around here that are liable to the puffing-up of vanity, if
their domestic performances are loudly applauded. But we, of the
stronger sex, can hear our beefsteak commended without a wrinkle upon
our tranquil humility. We can have our coffee criticised without a
flush of indignation. Even our method of cooking vegetables may be
undervalued, without exciting us to controversy; so tranquil is our
soul, when once under the inspiration of the _cuisine_. But some there
are who mingle praise with suggestion—a cup of criticism with sugar in
it. Thus:—
“We heartily thank him for his descriptions in ’summer
Dinners,’ and would mildly suggest, if he would add a pint
of nice, thick cream to a quart of peas, taken from milk
that has stood just six hours in a cool, airy, and clean
cellar—said milk must be milk, to start with; none of your
blue, watery stuff, such as some cows are said to give, but
rich, golden milk, caught in bright tin pails, so polished
that they reflect the happy faces of all who wish to take a
peep at them:—with such a dish, I think we could tempt—well,
Henry Ward, to dine with us; couldn’t we? especially if we
add an apple-pie made after a receipt you gave in the
_Ledger_ several years ago.
“Yours, very respectfully,
“Twenty-year-old DOT.”
If one wishes a new and composite dish, let the peas be smothered in
cream. But, if one wishes _peas_, pure and simple, in their own
flavor,—a flavor chosen out of the whole vegetable realm, and not
repeated in any other growing thing,—let him not, let her not,
audaciously introduce any rival flavor. Peas are good; cream is good;
peas and cream are good,—each in its own severalty. But let each one
stand in its own name. Do not call peas and cream, peas. One’s
tenderest culinary susceptibility is touched, to be asked if he will
take some green peas, and then to find himself eating peas and cream!
The English receipts recommend a sprig or two of mint to be thrown in
while green peas are cooking. We do not challenge their right to do
it. They may put in anise and cummin too, if they choose. But we do
protest, in the name of kitchen literature, against calling such
experimental compounds by the ever-dear name of “green peas.”
All smooth peas are tasteless compared with the wrinkled peas. It is
proper that wrinkles should bring sweetness. The smooth-faced
varieties are fairer to look upon. But they are not inwardly rich.
That these should be flavored, enriched, and spiced with herbs, is not
altogether against nature or analogy.
Still, if on some bright summer day, soon after the twelve musical
strokes on the village bell, we shall find ourselves the guest of the
sprightly “Dot,” we shall lay aside all pre-conceived notions and all
prejudices; and if it prove to be that peas absorb cream into their
bosoms without losing their peahood—nay, if this wedding shall prove,
as all true weddings should, that individuality is developed and
established—we shall gladly repent, confess, and recant our foregoing
protest.
Another fair heart has suffered itself to fall into shocking doubts.
“DEAR SIR: It is with great pleasure that I read your weekly
articles in the _Ledger_, and I have especially relished
your ’summer Dinner,’ which was got up in such good style.
But—and this is what is very important—did you have to ask
your wife the different names of the vegetables, and how to
cook them? Or do you believe in _Men’s Rights_, and so know
how to do your own cooking, seasoning, and eating?”
The family should be sacred! This attempt to pry into its secrets must
not succeed. This question answered, the next one would be, whether we
wrote our own articles for the _Ledger_, or whether some one dictated
them to us? And then would come questions as to who wrote the sermons?
Then, when once the stream had broken over the bounds of proper
privacy, it would rush through kitchen and pantry, closet and
cupboard, cellar and attic, until the slime of curiosity would lie
thick on all the sacred places of the household.
“Ask our wife,” forsooth! We asked her once for all, some years ago,
and the answer lasts, full and strong, until this day.