a sauce-tureen of fine rich gravy, and another of hot apple sauce, with
a nice large floury potato, is not to be despised, and to my mind is
worth half a dozen turkeys. I am afraid the sage and onion, the
necessary accompaniment, causes it to be considered rather a vulgar
dish. Never mind, let us be vulgar; it’s only once a year. The principal
thing is the stuffing. Onions vary so in size that it is a little
difficult to describe, but for a large goose you must take five large
onions and ten fresh sage-leaves. If you are obliged to put up with
dried leaves, you will want nearly twice the number. Take rather more
than a quarter of a pound of bread-crumbs, about a couple of ounces of
butter, and add some black pepper and salt.
Chop the onions very fine with the sage-leaves, and mix all up together;
and the yolks of a couple of eggs may be added if you wish to have the
seasoning very rich, but they are by no means necessary.
This will make the stuffing that nine persons out of ten really prefer,
but do not like to say so. If, therefore, you really wish to have the
stuffing mild, the only difference must be, you must cut out the cores
of the onions and partially boil them, and let them drain on a napkin;
this takes away considerably the strong onion-flavour of which some
persons are not very fond. Fill the goose with the stuffing, and roast
it before a quick fire. Care must be taken that the goose is well tied
up, to prevent the stuffing coming out at one end, or its getting filled
with grease during basting at the other. A good-sized goose only
requires one hour and a half to roast, and the general fault is that
people will over-roast them, and dry them up. The largest goose I have
ever seen would not take more than two hours, but try in the case of a
very large one to have the stuffing off the chill before you put it in.
Serve some rich brown gravy and apple sauce in a separate tureen, as you
will be sure to splash the gravy in carving the goose if any is put on
the dish.
With regard to roast turkey I can only say that no possible time can be
given for roasting, as they vary so—especially in the present day of
plump prize birds—that even the weight would be no criterion. A small
turkey will require one hour and a half; while a very large one may want
five hours. One word of caution about the stuffing. Every one knows how
unpleasant a tendency what is called veal stuffing has to “rise.” This
is, I believe, owing to too much lemon-peel being almost invariably
used. When you use a quarter of a pound of beef suet, a quarter of a
lemon is amply sufficient. To this quantity may be added a couple of
tea-spoonfuls of dried mixed stuffing-herbs (which can be bought in
bottles at Covent Garden Market), two ounces of lean ham, rather more
than a quarter of a pound of bread-crumbs, two eggs, a little chopped
parsley (about a tea-spoonful or rather more), and a little grated
nutmeg, salt, and cayenne pepper. Mince all the ingredients very finely
together, and pound them afterwards in a mortar.
A very nice stuffing for turkeys can be made from chestnuts, but space
will not allow me to enter into further details.
In conclusion, let me add, let Christmas come as a blessing, and not as
a curse.
The demon Alcohol is abroad at this holy season, and many know that they
require an archangel’s strength to trample him underfoot. Let the law of
each feast be regulated like that of the wise Eastern monarch: “None did
compel.” Let every one on Christmas Eve endeavour to find some case of
distress which it is real and not false charity to alleviate. He will
doubly enjoy his own dinner who can think that some one but for him
would have gone without. It is such deeds that entitle us to say—
—— —— —— ——“That his bones,
When he has run his course, and sleeps in blessings,
May have a tomb of orphans’ tears wept on ’em.”
CHRISTMAS CHEER.
There is something sacred in the very name of _home_ to every true-born
Englishman, and, as we should naturally expect from the hallowing
influence of this holy season of the year, home seems doubly sacred on
Christmas Day. How many thousand families throughout the land are united
but once a year! what efforts, too, do some make, so that on their great
annual holiday they may once again find shelter under the old and loving
parental wings!
But let us this year anticipate the day’s festivities, and Christmas Eve
finds us once again reunited round the fire, on which the log is heaped,
and crackles brightly: for no one, unless by abject poverty compelled,
would have a poor fire on Christmas Eve. The fresh-cut holly glistens on
the wall, the curtains are drawn, and the grey-haired, bright-eyed old
man, as he glances round the circle, his voice too full almost to speak,
yet feels an inner comfort difficult to describe—a feeling partly of
thankfulness, partly of resignation, as he looks forward to the
fast-approaching time when the places that know him now shall know him
no more for ever. For it has been well said that children, though they
increase the cares of life, yet mitigate the remembrance of death. But
such a good old-fashioned circle round the fire on such a night would
not be complete without a steaming bowl of something hot, to drink a
toast in memory of yet another happy gathering in the old house at home.
So, while the party assembled listen to the distant sound of the waits,
or perhaps to the still preferable music of the bird of dawn—which
recalls one of the brightest gems that have dropped from the pen of our
greatest poet—we will, after repeating the lines, step down-stairs, and
brew a bowl of bishop:—
“Some say that ever, that season comes
Wherein our Saviour’s birth is celebrated,
This bird of dawning singeth all night long:
And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad:
The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,
So hallowed and so gracious is the time.”
Bishop, a good old-fashioned drink, whose nose has, so to speak, been
somewhat put out of joint by mulled claret since that beverage has
become so cheap, is best made as follows:—First take a small lemon, and
at this season of the year they will be easily obtained white and new.
First wash the lemon in a little warm water, and then stick into it a
dozen or more cloves, and make the lemon hot by placing it in a plate in
the oven, or better still, by suspending it from a string in front of
the fire, taking care that the lemon does not hang too close, so as to
get so hot as to split. Next take a little water, about a tumblerful,
and pour it into an enamelled saucepan, and add to it a stick of
cinnamon about six inches long—of course, breaking up the cinnamon; also
put in the juice of a small lemon, one blade of mace, a quarter of a
nutmeg grated, and four lumps of sugar that have been rubbed over the
skin of a fresh pale-looking lemon. Put a lid on the saucepan, and let
these spices boil on the fire gently for half an hour, or a little more.
Next take a bottle of port wine, and decant it gently, in case of
sediment, in the ordinary way; heat this in a saucepan, _but do not let
it boil_; as soon as it is hot, pour the wine into a bowl previously
made thoroughly hot with hot water, add the liquor of the spices and
lemon-juice through a strainer, place the hot lemon in the bishop, and
grate a little fresh nutmeg over the top, and add sufficient sugar to
the whole, according to the tastes of the party. Of course, this is a
somewhat strong mixture, and is certainly not altogether suited for
children in any quantity. However, by adding more boiling water and more
sugar it can soon be made weaker. Of course, the proper vessel into
which the bishop should be poured is a punch-bowl. Unfortunately,
punch-bowls are somewhat rare. If the party is tolerably large, a
wash-hand basin makes a very fair substitute. Of course, you would pick
a small one, and as ornamental as possible. Now, a thick basin requires
a good deal of warming, so should you adopt my suggestion, recollect to
fill the basin with boiling water some time before it is wanted. In lieu
of a punch-ladle, the soup-ladle will be found a worthy substitute. I
would also remind you of warming the glasses, not only for the sake of
keeping the bishop hot, but to avoid breakages. In cold weather,
especially when it is frosty, pouring any hot liquid into a cold glass
is very apt to end in cracking it. The bowl too, should be placed in
front of the fire on a hassock in the centre of the family circle.
Mulled claret is made in a very similar manner to bishop, only no
roasted lemon is required. Take a small quantity of water, and boil in
it for some time the same quantity of cinnamon and mace as recommended
for the bishop, but do not put in any lemon juice. After this has boiled
for some time, add some white sugar—a dozen lumps or more, for claret
requires a far greater amount of sugar than port. After adding the
sugar, do not boil up the water and spices, as the addition of the sugar
makes it extremely likely to boil over. Next warm a bottle of claret on
the fire, taking care, as before, not to let it boil. When it is
thoroughly hot, strain off the sweetened and spiced water, and add a
little grated nutmeg, and a table-spoonful of pale brandy. If you have a
large jug with a strainer in the spout, there is no occasion to strain
off the spices. Mulled claret is generally put into a jug, and not into
a bowl.
There is a good old-fashioned sound about the “wassail-bowl.” I have
never tried the following recipe, but will give it, as it sounds fairly
correct:—Heat in a saucepan a pint of Burton ale, with half a pound of
sugar, a grated nutmeg, and half an ounce of grated ginger; after it has
just boiled up, add a quart more ale, four glasses of golden sherry, and
a couple of ounces of lump sugar that has been rubbed over the outside
of a lemon. Add also a few thin slices of lemon. Make the whole mixture
hot without boiling it, and add half a dozen roasted apples that have
had the cores stamped out and cut, but that have not been peeled.
Of course, this must be placed in a bowl, which must be treated, as we
said, with hot water. The sort of ale that must be used for the
wassail-bowl is evidently strong old ale, like Burton or Edinburgh, and
I should think the more sweet and oily the ale the better the wassail.
Mild ale or bitter ale would not answer, especially the latter.
I have on previous occasions gone into the mysteries of mince pies and
plum pudding, as well as into turkey-stuffing and goose-stuffing. How to
roast a sirloin of beef, though important, is too well known to warrant
many words. There is, however, no season in the year in which cold roast
beef is so plentiful as the day after Christmas Day. Now, though cold
roast beef really does not want any sauce at all, yet there is one that
so admirably suits it that I think it is well worth mentioning at the
present season. I refer to horseradish sauce. Horseradish sauce used to
be made by mixing together grated horseradish with sugar, mustard,
vinegar, and cream. There has, however, been an admirable modern
invention called Swiss milk, preserved in tins. When, therefore, you
have any compound requiring cream and sugar, by using Swiss milk with
ordinary milk you get an exactly similar result, at a far less cost. To
make horseradish sauce proceed as follows:—Take a stick or two of
horseradish, and send it through a coarse grater till you have
sufficient pulp to fill, say, a couple of tablespoons. This grating
process, like chopping onions, is far from pleasant, as it makes one
cry. Next dissolve about a tea-spoonful of Swiss milk in a little
ordinary milk—say two table-spoonfuls of the latter—and mix in about a
tea-spoonful of made mustard and a tea-spoonful of vinegar, then mix in
the two table-spoonfuls of horseradish pulp, and stir it all together.
The consistency should be that of good thick cream; of course, by adding
more pulp the mixture will be rendered thicker. Should it be too sweet,
of course it is owing to there being too much Swiss milk, and as Swiss
milk is apt to vary somewhat in sweetness, it is as well to act
cautiously in using it, as it is always easy to add, but impossible to
take away. Some persons, when serving horseradish with hot beef or hot
rump steak, warm the sauce; this is a great mistake, as by warming the
sauce you utterly spoil it, and to my mind render it absolutely
disagreeable.
In speaking of Christmas dinners last year, I mentioned that an
exceedingly nice stuffing for turkeys can be made from chestnuts. As
anything in connection with turkeys is very _apropos_ of the present
season, I will describe how to make chestnut stuffing and chestnut
sauce. For a large turkey, take about sixty chestnuts and slit the
skins, and fry them for a short time in a little butter in a frying-pan
till their husks come off easily. Then boil the chestnuts in some good
strong stock till quite tender; take one-half and pound it in a mortar,
with a little pepper and salt and scraped fat bacon; stuff a turkey with
this and an equal quantity of ordinary veal stuffing or sausage-meat.
With regard to the sauce, take the remainder of the chestnuts and mix
them with some good strong gravy, rubbing the whole through a wire sieve
with a wooden spoon; a couple of lumps of sugar and a glass of sherry
are an improvement. Of course, the best stuffing of all for turkeys is
made from truffles, but then they are so expensive, as a rule, that the
recipe would not be practical.
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XVII.—TURTLE SOUP.
There can be no doubt but that the season of Christmas is especially
associated with eating and drinking. The most approved English method of
exhibiting “goodwill towards men,” is by asking them to dinner. How many
families there are with poor relations, in one respect resembling
Christmas itself: they only come but once a year! The hallowing
influence of this holy season may be seen in all classes. The haughty
relax somewhat of their pride, and have what is called quite a family
party—often the event of the year to the children of the above-mentioned
poor relations. How much more of true enjoyment to the giver is there,
however, in this dinner than in some of a different nature during the
height of the season! So gracious and so hallowed is this time, that the
miser relaxes, though reluctantly, his purse-strings; the
workhouse-master approaches nearer to a man and a brother. The weary and
heavy-laden prisoner is, in his fare, reminded once again of the outer
world from which he is debarred. And even the hobnailed-booted ruffian
refrains from kicking his wife on Christmas Day.
But the part of Christmas with which we are more especially concerned is
the dinner-party. And our endeavour will be to help and advise that
large class, the very backbone of English society, whose status may
perhaps be best described by saying that they are blessed with neither
poverty nor riches. To the really poor, the Christmas dinner is very
dependent on the poor man’s friend, the baker’s oven. Early on the day
the goose is carried there, prepared often in the somewhat primitive
fashion of a heap of sage and onion on one side of the dish, and a pile
of potatoes on the other. It is to be trusted that the baker’s man is an
honest one. A small piece cut off each joint of meat before baking, on
Sunday, too often maintains the man for the week. The poor know to their
cost how much meat will shrink in the baking. On Christmas Day the
number of geese sent to each baker’s is something extraordinary.
An ingenious baker once solved the following problem:—How to make a very
small goose into a very large one. He purchased the smallest and
cheapest that could be found, and substituted it for the smallest one
sent to him to bake. By the simple method of making each person have the
next smallest goose to the one he sent, the baker retained for himself
the finest of the lot.
But we will now soar into the more aristocratic region of mock-turtle
soup and boiled cod-fish, roast sirloin of beef, boiled turkey and
oyster sauce, plum pudding and mince pies. At least, we think we have
heard of such dishes at this season of the year as being occasionally
used.
However, one word of warning. The following awful catastrophe actually
occurred: _Scene_—A dinner-party. _Time_—Soon after Christmas. _Host_—A
nephew, with a wife and very large family. _Important Guest_—An uncle,
rich—very rich; a bachelor; elderly, but irritable. At the moment the
covers are taken off, he rises from the table, wrath written on his
brow: “I will stand it no longer; give me my hat. This is the twelfth
day running I have had roast beef and boiled turkey. I’ll stand it no
longer!” _Exit in a rage._
Now, as I said in my last article, there is such a demand for
mock-turtle soup about Christmas-time that calves’ heads have been known
to fetch a guinea apiece; but every housekeeper knows how exceedingly
expensive they are at this season.
The change, however, of real turtle soup for mock is in the opinion of
most people a change for the better, and we will fulfil the promise we
made in another article, and describe as clearly as we can how to make
real turtle soup from the dried turtle flesh, at a less cost than
mock-turtle soup can be made from calves’ head when the latter is very
dear.
The first thing to be done is, of course, to purchase some of the dried
flesh, which is generally about ten shillings a pound, and can be
obtained from any of the large London provision-merchants—and is
occasionally kept by the better-class grocers.
Now the general fault that we have found people express in regard to
cookery-books, is that they invariably describe how to make such large
quantities that the recipes are only adapted to hotels. It is evident,
too, that if a cook can make three pints of soup, she could make three
gallons. We will therefore describe how to make a small quantity of
turtle soup—viz., three pints, which, by-the-by, is amply sufficient for
ten people, or even more. Let those who doubt this—and they will be
many—go at once, and see how many ladlefuls there are in a pint—the
average is five. Now, at the commencement of a good dinner one ladleful
is ample for each person. Three pints of soup would therefore give
fifteen people one help each, but of course it would not do to have only
just enough. Beau Brummel once said that he would never speak to a man
again who came twice for soup; but he would be a brave man who would
risk no one asking for more, when the party is a family one at
Christmas-time, and the soup real turtle.
First, the turtle-flesh must be obtained at least three days before the
soup is required. Suppose, then, a quarter of a pound to be in hand. It
has somewhat the appearance of glue. Place it in a basin of cold water
about the temperature of a hot summer’s day, and let the basin, which
had better be covered with a plate, be kept in a warm place, such as a
top shelf in the kitchen. The very last thing before the cook leaves the
kitchen for the night, or when the kitchen fire has got low, and will
have no more coals put on it, is for the basin to be placed in the oven.
This is especially necessary in winter. In the morning the basin must be
taken out before the fire is lit, and the water changed—_i.e._, the
flesh, which will be found to be a little swollen, put into fresh cold
water, and if it smells rather offensively—somewhat like high fish—there
is no harm in rubbing it all over gently with a lump of salt. This
soaking process had best be continued for three days and nights, at the
end of which period the flesh will be, comparatively speaking, soft,
especially the thinner pieces. The last twelve hours the water may be
quite warm, but not hotter than that the cook’s hand can be borne in it
without inconvenience.
The turtle-flesh must be then cut up into small pieces about two inches
square, and boiled for about twelve hours in some stock prepared as
follows—and it is in the preparation of this stock that the real secret
of making good turtle soup lies.
Now, turtle soup requires far stronger stock than is required for
ordinary soup, and it should be borne in mind that it is always
considered a great luxury, and when purchased ready-made the usual price
is a guinea a quart. I have mentioned this, as I consider in the present
day an apology is due for recommending the buying of gravy-beef for
making soups for small families where economy is of the slightest
moment. It is, as a rule, quite unnecessary.
But to proceed—we consider real turtle rather an exception to general
rules:—
Take a pound and a half of gravy-beef, an equal quantity of knuckle of
veal, and one slice of lean raw ham, and place them in a large saucepan,
which we will suppose to be perfectly clean, lid as well. Place in also
the following:—One head of celery, two onions—one of which has half a
dozen cloves stuck in it—a small turnip and carrot, about as much
parsley as would fill a tea-cup, two tea-spoonfuls of dried marjoram,
two tea-spoonfuls of dried basil, half a tea-spoonful of lemon-thyme,
and rather less than half a tea-spoonful of a herb called pennyroyal.
All these herbs can be obtained at Covent-Garden Market in sixpenny and
shilling bottles, the latter herb being sold by the bunch. Add a small
tea-spoonful of salt and a _little_ cayenne pepper, bearing in mind that
these last commodities vary considerably in strength, and that it is
always easy to add more, but impossible to take back. Fill the saucepan,
which ought to be a gallon one, nearly full with cold water. Put it on
the fire to simmer gently for at least twelve hours, occasionally
skimming off any scum that may have risen. Unless the above has been
placed on the fire early in the morning, it will be necessary to
continue the operation of extracting the flavour and goodness from the
meat, herbs, &c., the following day, in which case recollect that the
whole must be turned out into a large basin at night, and covered over
with a cloth. Inexperienced cooks would do well to bear in mind the
following maxim:—_If soup be left in the saucepan all night, it will be
utterly spoilt._
When the above has simmered long enough, and has been reduced by this
means to about two quarts, it must be carefully strained into a basin,
and all the fat removed in the usual way. We would then recommend as
follows, premising that it is not absolutely necessary, though a great
improvement, mentioning this as in some parts of the country the
ingredient could not be obtained.
Get, if possible, a couple of pounds of conger-eel, and boil it in the
stock for an hour or more; this had better be done where conger-eel is
readily obtained, and cheap. Where, however, it is not, get for the
previous day’s lunch, or dinner, a pound or a pound and a half of the
ordinary fresh eels; cut them into small pieces about two inches long,
and let them boil gently in the stock till they are quite tender. Take
them out with a strainer, throw them into a saucepan of boiling water
for a minute, and then place them in a dish with enough boiling water to
cover them, throwing in a couple of sprigs of fresh parsley. It is an
exceedingly nice dish, often served at fish dinners, and called eel
souchet. Brown bread and butter should be handed with it. By this means
the soup gets a fish stock added to it, and there is no waste, as the
fish is eaten. Of course the ordinary method of cooking the fish is to
boil it in water. When this is done it will be found that the water in
which the fish is boiled, when it is cold, becomes quite a jelly. Now
all this glutinous substance helps the soup. The soup must be again
carefully strained, and, if it is necessary, cleared with a couple of
whites of eggs, and then run through a jelly-bag a few times in front of
the fire. The soup must then be placed in an enamelled saucepan, and the
turtle-flesh added to it and boiled till it is as tender as
thoroughly-cooked calf’s head; during this process of boiling, the soup
will probably reduce itself to the desired quantity—viz., about three
pints; to this must be then added a claret-glassful of madeira, which
can now be obtained really good at forty shillings a dozen from any
respectable wine-merchant. If, however, it is not thought necessary to
have madeira bought on purpose—and it is a somewhat rare wine in the
present day—a similar quantity of _good_ golden sherry will do. The soup
is now done, and only requires a few drops of lemon-juice added to it
after it is put in the tureen.