case as much as possible of the blood of the hare should be preserved,
and used in the soup. However, it will be often found expedient to use
up the remains of the jugged hare by converting it into hare soup for
the following day. I will proceed to explain the best method of doing
this:—First you must have ready some really good stock; next pick out
all the best-looking pieces of meat—little slices from the back are
best—and put them by on a plate, to be added to the soup at the last
moment; next take all the remains of the hare, add it to the stock with,
if possible, a head of celery; let it all boil for an hour or more, till
the celery is quite tender, strain off the meat, take out carefully all
the bones, which will be found after this boiling to be quite white and
dry, and then, with a good-sized wooden spoon, rub all the meat and
celery through a wire sieve into the stock. This will take time; but
recollect, the one secret of good hare soup is the fact of the meat of
the hare being rubbed through the sieve helping to make the soup not
only thicker, but materially affecting the taste. Indeed, I may go
farther, and say the excellence of the soup is in proportion to the
amount of hare-flesh rubbed through the sieve. Should, therefore, the
soup look a little thin, allow it to boil away and decrease in quantity.
Of course, the taste will much depend upon the amount of jugged hare
left; but a little port wine may be added at the finish, as the flavour
of wine in soups is very apt to go off after they have been boiled for
any length of time. A little more lemon-juice may be added near the
finish, but avoid putting in too much currant jelly. Some persons think
hare soup should be absolutely sweet. For my part, I think this a
mistake; besides, red-currant jelly can always be added if wished, but
cannot be taken out of the soup. The soup should be made slightly
thicker by means of brown thickening, which I have before described to
be simply butter and flour fried of a rich brown colour. Do not,
however, use too much of this thickening, as it will be found to
somewhat destroy the delicate flavour of the hare; besides which, good
hare soup should by no means be very thick. It will, however, have one
very marked effect, and that is, it will enable you to add some more
port wine, or port-wine dregs, which has such an enormous influence over
the flavour of hare soup. When the soup is about to be served, throw in
the little slices of hare that had been put by on the plate, but do not
let the soup boil, as the hare is probably already more than cooked by
being jugged. Allow, therefore, these pieces of meat to remain in the
soup just long enough to get hot, and no longer. One objection brought
against jugged hare and hare soup is the quantity of port wine evidently
required in order that the result should be worthy of the trouble
bestowed. Recollect, however, what I have said with regard to port-wine
dregs. Now there are many homes where port wine is had in the shape of a
quarter-cask; where this is the case there should be no difficulty, if
the precaution is taken to bottle the thick dregs of the wine and
reserve them. Port is, however, a wine, I am sorry to say, going out of
fashion; still, good, decent, sound burgundy will do nearly as well for
cooking, and in the Burgundy district in France nothing else is ever
used; indeed, so far claret may be used, and considering how nice a
sauce bordelaise is, I should imagine would do very well, especially as
all French cookery-books, in giving directions as to cooking hare,
simply say, add red wine. When claret or burgundy is used instead of
port, I would recommend the addition of a little, a very little, nutmeg,
and also a little extra red-currant jelly, for, bear in mind, port is
sweeter than claret.
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XV.—FOOD FOR COLD WEATHER.
There can be no doubt that we live in an exceedingly variable climate,
and for by far the greater part of the year we suffer neither the
extreme of heat nor cold. Still we have at times our hot July or August
days, when the English summer, which is often described as consisting of
three hot days and a thunderstorm, vies with almost any heat that can be
met with in the whole continent of Europe.
Fortunately for the present season of the year, we are, as a nation, far
better prepared to resist the attacks of cold than heat.
Abundant—though now, alas! not cheap—coal is to be obtained, and
feather-beds, thick blankets, carpeted rooms, are the universal custom
in this country—making a winter in London as far superior to one in
Paris as a summer in the latter city is superior to one in London.
The question, however, before us is, Do we as a nation sufficiently vary
our food to make it consistent with the weather? Here, again, I must
confess that we are more apt to give winter’s food in summer-time than
summer’s food in winter. Still there are certain dishes especially
adapted for cold weather, and at the present season of the year we may
call attention to some of them. First, however, it may not be amiss to
consider on what general principles one kind of food is adapted for hot
countries and another for cold. The first principle is to remember that
in cold weather we require _fat_. Fat and grease contain a large
quantity of carbon, and this carbon taken and absorbed into the system
keeps up the animal heat.
There is an old story told that many years ago, when the streets of
London were lighted with oil-lamps, before the introduction of gas,
Russian sailors in England were in the habit of climbing the lamps and
drinking the lamp-oil. It is also asserted that in some of the Arctic
expeditions the sailors have boiled down and eaten the tallow candles.
Whether these stories are true or not may be left an open question, but
there is no doubt that the food craved for was that best suited to
sustain heat. We all know how invaluable a remedy cod-liver oil has
proved to many invalids, especially among young children, and how
medical men often recommend cod-liver oil to delicate persons, to be
taken during the winter, and left off on the return of warm spring
weather.
Now, of all winter dishes, perhaps none is so suitable for cold weather
as that rather vulgar dish, pea-soup. Persons who affect to despise
pea-soup should remember that it is one of the most variable soups ever
made. Poor pea-soup, which really owes almost its whole goodness to the
split-peas from which it is made, is indeed poor stuff for epicures,
though a very cheap and wholesome form of nourishment for the hungry
poor. Good pea-soup is an exceedingly delicious compound, and I will
describe how to make it.
First of all, one great advantage of pea-soup is that a greasy stock,
scarcely adapted to make any other kind of soup, is really best suited
for the purpose. For instance, the water in which a large piece of
pickled pork has been boiled, or even the greasy water in which ham or
bacon has been boiled, is admirably adapted for making pea-soup. As a
rule, the water used for boiling salt beef is too salt to be used for
making soup; however, very often by soaking a piece of salt beef in
fresh water for twenty-four hours before boiling it, the liquor left
will be found to be not too salt for making pea-soup—the cook of course
remembering that no further salt is added.
We will suppose, therefore, that some stock, or rather some greasy
liquor, has been left, say in quantity about two quarts; and I would
here suggest that the water in which, say, a piece of fresh silverside
of beef has been boiled, should be used again to boil, say, a good-sized
piece of bacon, that may be eaten hot with some roast fowls one day, and
afterwards left as a cold breakfast-dish. First of all, take a quart of
split peas and put them into a large basin, and let them soak in fresh
water for nearly a day, a little piece of soda rather bigger than a pea
being put into the water, to render it softer. Should any of the peas
float on the water, take them off and throw them away. Next, strain off
these peas, and put them in the greasy stock mentioned to boil, and add
to the two quarts of liquor one good-sized head of celery, four
good-sized onions, two carrots, two turnips, and a little parsley. Let
all this boil till the whole is thoroughly soft, occasionally skimming
the soup, taking off that nasty thick film of fat which will
occasionally rise to the surface. When the peas are thoroughly soft,
strain the whole through a wire sieve into a large basin; pick out the
stalk of the parsley, and with a good-sized wooden spoon rub the whole
through the wire sieve.
This is the great secret of good soup. Too often the cook will not take
the trouble to send the whole through the sieve. It is undoubtedly a
troublesome affair, and very apt to make the wrist ache. However, the
result well repays the trouble, and the cook generally can call some one
to her assistance to take a turn with the spoon. It will also be found
advisable every now and then to moisten the ingredients in the sieve
with some of the liquor that has run through; this rather helps the
process. Now soup made in this way, in which the head of celery, the
onions, the carrots, the turnips, are all sent through the sieve, as
well as the peas, is a very different affair from soup which has been
simply flavoured by having them boiled in it. Indeed pea-soup should
really be called purée of peas, and when pains are taken in its
composition a very nice purée it is.
Pea-soup should, of course, be sent to table hot, and as it possesses,
like all purées, the power of retaining its heat for some time, it is
the better adapted for cold weather.
Some dried mint and some small pieces of toasted bread should always be
sent to table with pea-soup; or small pieces of bread cut square, the
shape of very small dice, may be fried a bright-golden colour in some
hot lard. These pieces of bread, owing to their being crisper than
toast, are better adapted for all sorts of purées, such as purée of
Jerusalem artichokes or Palestine soup; the pieces of bread being dried
after frying, on some blotting-paper.
With regard to the mint, take care to have it well sifted. If the mint
is properly dried it will crumble easily on being pinched with the
fingers, but the only way to avoid the stalks is to sift it. Mint can be
bought ready dried in bottles in Covent-Garden Market, and at all good
greengrocers’; and as a small sixpenny bottle will last a twelvemonth
probably, and keep good almost for ever if well corked, it is advisable
always to have a bottle in the house.
Another very excellent dish for cold weather is Irish stew. Irish stew
has the following strong points in its favour as a dish for cold
weather:—First it retains the heat for a long time; secondly, it
contains a considerable amount of fat; and thirdly, which makes it a
desirable dish for all weathers, is, it is probably the most economical
dish ever sent to table. The best joint for making Irish stew is neck of
mutton. First cut off nearly all the fat, the reason being that when
mutton is boiled the fat swells enormously. The fat that is cut off will
make an admirable suet pudding—another dish adapted for cold
weather—that can be flavoured with grated lemon-peel. First pare about
four pounds of potatoes, and cut them into slices, and allow them to
boil for about a quarter of an hour; by this means the water contained
in the potatoes will be extracted, and all water held in roots is far
from wholesome. Next slice up five large onions, cutting them crossways,
so that circular rings fall in slicing. Next take a good-sized
stew-pan—an enamelled one is best—and cover the bottom with slices of
potato and onions; add a little pepper and salt, and then cover this
with a layer of meat, the quantity required being about three pounds.
The trimmed neck or loin of mutton should be cut into rather thin chops,
and the short bones at the end of the neck should, of course, be all cut
into separate pieces. Again pepper and salt the meat, and cover it over
with a thin layer of sliced potato and onion. The whole should be packed
rather close—_i.e._ very little space should be left between the pieces,
so that a very little water added will be sufficient to fill up the
stew-pan, so that the top layer is moistened. Add this quantity of
water, so as to avoid leaving any of the potato or onion uncovered. Next
cover over the stew-pan, seeing that the lid fits close; place something
heavy, such as a four-pound weight, on the lid to keep it down, and
allow the whole to simmer gently for about three hours. Be careful,
however, not to let it _boil_, as that is apt to render the meat hard.
Also on no account take off the lid during the stewing process, as by so
doing you let out the flavour.
It will be readily seen how exceedingly economical this dish is, as
absolutely nothing is lost, as the liquor is eaten as well as the potato
and onion. In roasting a joint some of the flavour necessarily goes up
the chimney, and in boiling a joint some goes into the water in which
the joint is boiled. Irish stew is, however, one of the few dishes in
which there is absolutely no waste whatever.
One very seasonable, and at the same time delicious, sauce for winter is
celery sauce; and in country houses where celery is grown in the garden,
and can be had in abundance, a little should always be served with
boiled turkey or boiled fowls.
First of all, cut up about six heads of celery and put them into boiling
water, and allow them to boil for about ten minutes; strain them off,
and throw them into cold water, and then drain and dry the pieces; next
place them in a stew-pan, with about two ounces of butter and a little
grated nutmeg, and allow them to dissolve slowly in the butter, but take
care that the celery does not brown; when quite soft and tender, fill up
the stew-pan with some good white stock that has been flavoured with
some savoury herbs, such as marjoram, basil, and lemon-thyme; let the
whole boil up, and then send it all through a wire sieve with a wooden
spoon. Should the sauce not be thick enough, a little arrowroot may be
added to it to thicken it; add also a little boiling milk, and a small
lump of white sugar. Of course, when cream can be obtained it is far
preferable to the milk. Another great advantage of having cream is that
the sauce will look much whiter than when milk is used. The sauce may
also be thickened with white roux—that is, butter and flour mixed
together and baked, but not allowed to turn colour.
Celery sauce will be found to be by far the best accompaniment to a
boiled turkey, which at the present season of the year seems to have
that monopoly of one end of the table that the sirloin of beef seems to
have of the other.
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XVI.—CHRISTMAS DINNERS.
Once more the season has come round in which our Saviour’s birth is
celebrated, and though more than eighteen centuries have passed away,
still the clarion voice rings as fresh as ever in our ears—“Goodwill
toward men.” From the highest to the lowest the sacred charm still works
its magic spell. What child was ever sent to bed before its time, no
matter what the crime, on Christmas Day? Oh, if we could only embed in
our hearts throughout the year one half the charity that for very shame
seems forced on us on this great festival, how far happier should we be!
It is not, however, now my province to dwell upon the sacred character
of the day, yet the whole subject is so deep, so unfathomable, that,
like a still phosphorescent sea, the slightest touch is instantly
surrounded by a halo of glory, faintly and dimly revealing to finite
minds the infinite brightness that is hidden in its breast, and I cannot
bear to enter into the practical details of the day’s festivities
without some slight allusion in honour of the Author and Founder of the
feast.
Now—the higher duties of the season being of course left out of the
question—Christmas Day without its dinner would be like the play of
“Hamlet” with the part of Hamlet omitted. A genuine Christmas dinner,
too, reveals our real national taste, and proves to ourselves and all
the world that we have not yet acquired a French one. I wonder if it is
possible for a statistician to calculate how many huge sirloins of beef
and immense turkeys are consumed on Christmas Day. Such substantial
fare—so unkickshawlike. Nor must we forget the goose of humbler life.
Were it possible to calculate the exact amount of gratification given by
mere eating, it would probably be found that the aristocratic sirloin
and turkey fail to compare with the goose and sage and onion. We may
add, especially the sage and onion.
We will suppose the happy morning to have arrived, and the children
gathered round the table, with cheeks so flushed with pleasure and
anticipation that they rival in colour the bright-red berries that
glisten in the holly on the walls. Bright eyes to match the bright
cheeks, eyes that have sparkled brighter as the well-known and
looked-for chink has occurred, as the annual Christmas-box has been
slipped into the hand by the grey-haired father or uncle, as the case
may be—whose own eye is tinged with water as his mind goes back to the
time, too, when he himself was a boy, without a care or thought of the
morrow, and who, conscious of the joy he’s giving, walks away with a
lighter pocket but far lighter heart.
Happy, happy times! Is there one who at such a moment has an anxious
care? Yes—suppose the beef should be raw, the mince-pie burnt, and the
pudding all tumble to pieces the moment it is turned out. Were it known,
I daresay tears have been shed upon such trifles; but then trifles make
up life.
Perhaps the deepest anxiety is about the pudding. I will give the
following recipe, which I have always found an excellent one. The
ingredients required are—one pound and a half of muscatel raisins, half
a pound of currants, quarter of a pound of sultana raisins, half a pound
of mixed candied peel, three-quarters of a pound of bread-crumbs,
three-quarters of a pound of suet chopped fine, nine eggs, quarter of an
ounce of pounded bitter almonds, a table-spoonful of flour, a
table-spoonful of moist sugar, and a quarter of a pint of brandy.
The first thing to do is to stone the raisins. Cut the raisins into two
pieces, and in taking out the pips or stones be careful not to take out
the pulp. For this reason it is undesirable to leave the stoning of the
raisins to young persons. It is more than human nature can bear, and the
strongest-minded child is apt to suck his or her fingers during the
process, which, in addition to being far from nice, is apt to detract
from the rich muscatel flavour of the pudding. The currants should be
bought some days before they are wanted, in order that they may be first
washed and then dried. Spread them out on a large sheet of coarse paper
before the kitchen fire, and occasionally stir them about. They will
also require picking, and this wants both care and patience; those
little tiny stalks of the currants are very disagreeable to get into the
mouth, and still more into a hollow tooth, for which they seem to have a
natural affinity. The candied peel should be sliced into little, very
thin slices, and not chopped up. The bread-crumbs should be made as fine
as possible, and the suet chopped up very fine. Care should be taken to
get the very best beef suet, that will chop properly, as some suet has a
tendency to get into a creamy mass; when this is the case it is
impossible to make a proper pudding of it. The dry ingredients should
now be placed in a large basin, and thoroughly mixed together, care
being taken to put in the pounded bitter almonds little by little. The
eggs should be broken one by one into a cup, in order to see that each
one is perfectly fresh. One stale egg will quite spoil a pudding. Beat
up the eggs all together till they froth, and mix them in with the rest,
and add the brandy. If the bread-crumbs were properly dried, it would
not be found to be too moist.
Next take a new pudding-cloth, that has been well boiled in plain water,
and butter it thoroughly, and then flour it. Turn the pudding into it
and tie it, leaving room for the pudding to swell. The cloth must be
fastened very securely, and it is as well to tie it in two places, in
case of accidents. This pudding must now be boiled for at least six
hours. It will always be found best to make the pudding some days before
it is required; hang it up in the cloth, putting something underneath it
to catch the drops; and a pudding made as we have directed will keep
good for months and months. It only requires warming up for a couple of
hours in a large saucepan of boiling water, and then turning out.
Now that awfully critical moment—turning out. Care should be taken to
peel off the cloth, and not pull it; the reason of this is self-evident.
On Christmas Day a piece of bright holly, with some red berries on it,
should be stuck on the top of the pudding, and some lighted brandy
poured over and round it. If you take my advice, you will light the
brandy in the room.
To carry a large flat dish with ignited brandy is extremely dangerous,
and I have not forgotten that dreadful story which appeared in the
papers one or two years ago, about the poor girl who was burnt to death
by the lighted brandy from the Christmas pudding falling on her white
muslin dress.
In order to light the brandy, get a large iron spoon and fill it with
brandy, get a lighted cedar taper or thin wood-shaving, or even a piece
of paper rolled up, and act exactly as if you were going to boil the
brandy in the spoon; in a few minutes the brandy will light of its own
accord, when it can be poured on the pudding, and more added if
required. If it is evening, and young children are present, it is as
well to turn down the gas very low, or remove the candle for a few
minutes. Judging by my own recollections, the lighted plum pudding was a
great event in my early days—slightly awful, but intensely delightful.
With regard to the beef, I need say but a few words. It is a question
between you and the butcher, and I will say butchers, as a rule, behave
very well at Christmas-time, and while I think of it, I would recommend
you to give your carving-knife to the butcher-boy, and tell him to get
it well sharpened for the occasion, a hint that will not be
forgotten—the day after Christmas will have its due effect. But sirloin
of beef has a trying piece of gristle at the top, and without a sharp
knife a very handsome piece will be made to look ragged. Have a good
roaring fire. A piece about twelve pounds will take three hours. It will
not require much basting, but remind the cook that it is the sides, and
not the fat part, that should be basted. Some stupid women forget this.
Let the dish for the beef be thoroughly hot; and this takes time. Have
also some curly white horseradish to pile on the top of the joint, and
be sure the dish-cover is hot, without being smoking.
We will next discuss the mincemeat, and would recommend a trial of the
following recipe:—Take three apples, three lemons, one pound of raisins,
three-quarters of a pound of currants, one pound of suet, quarter of a
pound of raw beef, two pounds of moist sugar, four ounces of mixed
candied peel, quarter of a rind of a fresh orange, one tea-spoonful of
powdered mixed spice composed of equal proportions of cloves, cinnamon,
and nutmeg; half a pint of brandy, and one glass of port wine.
Peel the apples and cut out the cores very carefully, and then bake the
pieces till they are quite soft. Squeeze the lemons, and cut away the
white pappy part, and boil the lemon-peel till it is fairly soft. The
raisins must of course be carefully stoned, and the currants well washed
and dried, and picked, as in the case of the pudding. Chop the suet very
finely, as well as the raw meat and lemon-peel. Mix all the ingredients
well together, and add the brandy last of all, and press the whole down
into a stone jar, and place a piece of paper soaked in brandy on the
top. Remove the paper and stir up the mixture thoroughly every three
days, replacing the paper; if this is done, the mincemeat will keep good
a long time.
To make the pies, roll out some thin puff-paste, butter a small round
tin, and line it with a piece of paste, then place in a generous
quantity of the mincemeat, and cover it over with a similar piece of
puff-paste, and bake it in a moderate oven. Mince pies are none the
worse for being warmed up, but pray take care that they are sent to
table hot.