disregard of cost. Such items as a ham boiled in wine were not unusual,
and the quantities of costly materials demanded were on a Gargantuan
scale. Even in the average French culinary manuals economy can hardly
be said to be conspicuous, except by its absence, although Gallic cooks
have a world-wide reputation for the wonderful results they can produce
by a small expenditure. Even in this day, when economy is honored and
studied, in the recipes that appear in print as written by women living
in some parts of the South, there is a call for what to Northern ideas
seems a reckless profusion of eggs, butter, and cream. The lavishness
of these demands is often quite out of keeping with the common opinion
of the straitened circumstances supposed to have prevailed of late
years in that section of the country. The general impression these
recipes give was voiced by a New England woman, who, after reading a
collection of recipes from the pen of a well-known Southern writer,
exclaimed, "Well, _I_ can't afford to cook like that; but I presume she
has always had plenty to do with."
In spite, however, of some instances of this kind which indicate
extravagance, the general trend in culinary guide-books of the day is
towards economy. Tracts, pamphlets, octavos, and quartos are published,
giving directions for preparing a dinner for five persons at a cost of
twenty-five cents, of fifty cents, of seventy-five cents, of a dollar.
The Sunday and weekly newspapers have columns devoted to the same
theme, and the countless household magazines with which the reading
public is almost snowed under all spare a corner for the discussion
of the same momentous topic. It may be noted, _en passant_, that this
sudden interest in dietetics is responsible for many of the literary
aspirations now current. Women who had never thought of meddling with
pen and ink except in their private correspondence rush into print for
the purpose of describing a dinner which will cost only twenty-seven
and two-thirds cents, and, encouraged by success in one or two efforts
of this kind, fondly imagine themselves possessed of talents which
ought to bring them in a competency.
Far be it from the woman who has herself known housekeeping cares and
struggles, who has mourned over small leaks and sought diligently the
best methods of "making sixpence do the work of sevenpence half-penny,"
as an English writer puts it, to deride any endeavors to teach
housekeepers how to best use slender means with happy results. But a
word of warning may not be amiss concerning certain features of most
of the directions thus given. Here it is: If an appetizing dish is to
be made at small cost, care in preparation _must_ supplement cheap
materials.
There has been a great deal said and written about the folly of always
purchasing the best cuts of meat. Hundreds of pages have been printed
demonstrating satisfactorily—to their authors—that a piece of beef
from the round can be so cooked as to make it equal to _filet de bœuf_;
that lamb's or pig's liver is of as good a flavor as calf's liver,
which costs twice as much; that old fowls properly treated cannot be
distinguished by the taste from young broilers; and that a variety of
other delightful things can be accomplished by the woman who chooses
to attempt them. All this is, no doubt, true in part. The point that
is seldom sufficiently emphasized is that it requires to achieve
these wonders either a certain knack, which is as much a talent in
its way as is a gift for music or drawing, or else a special training
in this particular kind of cookery. It is easy enough for any one to
be a good cook who knows how to follow a recipe, possesses a little
deftness of hand, and is provided with the best materials for her work.
Nowadays the cook-books seldom deal in the glittering generalities
that once made their pages full of pitfalls for the unwary. Usually
the directions are explicit, the quantities and proportions almost
scientific in their accuracy, and the successive steps in compounding
and cooking so clearly defined that the wayfaring woman, although a
fool, can hardly go very far wrong; that is, _if_—and it is a very big
if, too—she does not have to use imperfect ingredients to compass a
perfect achievement. Bricks may doubtless be made with stubble instead
of straw, but the children of Israel found it a rather difficult
process.
If, then, to change the figure, the iron be dull, one must put to it
the more strength. The housekeeper who is compelled by circumstances
to practise rigid economy must resolutely set herself to the study of
cheap cookery. She may know already how to roast a "rib cut" of beef,
how to broil a porterhouse steak, how to broil and fry tender chickens,
but all this knowledge is of comparatively little value to her just
now. She must learn instead how to braise, how to treat a "pot roast";
she must study stews, perfect herself in the manufacture of minces,
hashes, fricassees, croquettes, fritters; she must know what vegetables
and meats may be put together in utilizing "left-overs"; she must
acquire a thorough knowledge of soups of all sorts, and of soups
_maigre_ in particular; and she must work in this line until she is
able to set as appetizing if not as elegant a table on her small means
as her richer neighbor across the way can on a housekeeping allowance
of a double amount.
Of course this involves a great deal of hard work and of competent
vigilance. Even if a servant is kept, only in rare instances can she
be trusted to undertake this kind of cookery. Simple cookery, like
roasting and boiling, is seldom successful unless one has the best
materials to work with. But usually the woman who must economize is
wealthier in time than in anything else, and she must make it take the
place of money. Above all, she must struggle against the temptation
to yield to weariness or discouragement, and to satisfy herself with
the custom into which so many of her sisters drift, of cooking tough,
inferior pieces of meat in the easiest way, as though they were "prime
cuts," and thus endangering the teeth, tempers, and digestions of her
family.
A potent aid in making cheap cookery savory is the judicious use of
seasoning. In some homes knowledge of these seems to be confined to an
acquaintance with pepper, mustard, onion, and parsley. Little is known
of the variety of even simple herbs, like thyme, sweet-marjoram, and
summer-savory; and still less of Worcestershire, Harvey's, anchovy, and
chilli sauces, of chutney, of curry powder, of tarragon vinegar, of bay
leaves, of _maître d'hôtel_ butter, of olives, of tomato and walnut
catsups, or of the careful employment of spices in small quantities.
The magical improvement wrought by the addition of a little lemon
juice and a wine-glassful of California sherry (at fifty cents a quart
bottle) is totally unknown.
Of course the first outlay for some of these commodities may savor of
extravagance. But many of the articles are very cheap, and even the
more costly ones are used in such small quantities that a supply of any
one of them will last a long time. Moreover, if a woman's aim is to
prepare dishes which her family will eat and enjoy, she will find that
the purchase of condiments pays, and the variety their occasional use
gives will make a change back to simple diet more agreeable.
THE CHILDREN'S TABLE
In comparatively few American homes does the custom prevail of
giving the children their meals apart from their parents. Domestic
arrangements would be sadly complicated were it common in the ordinary
household, as it is in England, to have a separate breakfast served for
the little ones in their nursery while the seniors discuss their more
elaborate morning repast in their own _salle à manger_.
Usually, and wisely, American children eat at least two of their meals
with their parents, and thus have what benefit may be derived from
association with older people. It is only when the father and mother
fail to guard against letting the little ones gradually assume the
reins of government that affairs reach a point which makes one long to
banish the babies to the nursery, or even further, if by such means
peace might be secured at meal-times.
Nowhere does the spoiled child appear to worse advantage, or make more
of a nuisance of himself, than at the table. His incessant chatter,
the constant interruption his appeals for attention make in the
conversation of the older people present, his clamorous demands for any
article of food which happens to strike his fancy, his loud protests
when his wishes are denied him, his slovenly (often disgusting) habits
of eating, make the family meal-times a pandemonium and penance to the
hapless guest upon whom the youngster has no claims of affection to
render his vagaries amusing or interesting.
So long as custom and necessity render it advisable to have a child
at the same table with his parents, these should fix upon a plan of
action, and adhere to it. Desiring to have their children looked
upon as comforts and not as spoil-sports, they should enforce
strict obedience, exact quiet at table, and inculcate stringently
the once-honored maxim—of late years fallen sadly into disuse and
disrepute—that little boys and girls should be seen and not heard.
Remembering how much easier it is to check a habit at the outset
than to break it off after it is fully formed, the father and mother
should watch their children's table manners, and repress at once the
carelessness and unpleasant tricks that seem, possibly through original
sin, to come naturally to most little folk. The correct handling of
spoon, fork, and knife should be taught as soon as they are permitted
to use these implements, and slovenliness should be rebuked and held up
as a disgrace. Not least in importance is it that the father and mother
should, after due consideration, establish an outline of diet for the
youngsters, and allow no divergence therefrom.
By "an outline of diet" is not meant an unvarying rotation of viands as
wearying and de-appetizing to the child as it would be to his elders,
but a scheme of nourishment by which hurtful articles of food will be
eliminated from the bill of fare, and only wholesome ones admitted. A
great deal of careful thought is often necessary in the formulation
of such _menus_, for children have as many gastric idiosyncrasies as
grown people, and frequently these are only disclosed little by little.
In illustration of this may be cited the case of a handsome, healthy
boy baby who, although a victim to colic during the first months of
his life, gave no other evidences of eccentricity of digestion until
he was nearly three years old. At that time the mother began to notice
that his breath was often sour, and that he complained occasionally
of pain in the stomach and bowels. His dietary had always been so
simple that she was at first puzzled to understand what could be the
disturbing cause. After sundry experiments and careful observation,
she finally ascertained that the discomfort and bad breath followed
any unusual eating of sweets, although it might be only such simple
desserts as bread and syrup, bread and jelly, plain cookies, or
home-made sponge-cake, or even an infrequent lump of sugar. She put an
embargo upon sweets, and found an almost immediate improvement. Further
investigation demonstrated that an occasional indulgence—say once a
day—produced no evil consequences, but that more frequent treats of
this sort had painful _sequelæ_. Her course thereafter was plain and
easily followed.
A child's breakfast should always begin with some cereal, but this need
not invariably be oatmeal. Other preparations often agree better with
the children, and a variety is preferable to the monotonous use of
the one kind of porridge. Gruels or porridges of farina, corn-starch,
rice-flour, corn-meal, hominy, arrowroot, wheat-germ meal, or cerealine
are nearly all relished by the babies, and should be accompanied
by milk in any amount, but _no sugar_. If the child has never been
accustomed to the latter, he will eat quite as heartily without it.
If the porridge is properly prepared, the little ones will usually
make their chief breakfast from it, with milk or milk-and-water as a
beverage. Tea, coffee, or chocolate should be tabooed. The children are
better off without any of the three, although some mild preparation of
cocoa is probably the least harmful drink they can have other than
milk or cold—not iced—water.
As the little people grow older they may have a second course of baked
or stewed potato, buttered, dry, or milk toast, a soft-boiled or
poached egg, bread and butter, bread and jam, or a little fruit, either
fresh or stewed. When they have once become accustomed to seeing older
people eating food which is refused them, they will take the denial of
certain articles as a matter of course, and rarely think of entering
a protest. They will learn that hot bread and griddle-cakes are not
meant for little boys and girls, and will take abstinence from meat at
breakfast or in the evening, and fried foods or rich desserts at all
times, as a matter of course.
At noon, which should be their dinner-time, a more varied diet is
permissible. Then there may be soup and some kind of meat for the older
children—chicken, rare roast beef, boiled or roast mutton, a piece of
steak or a chop—stews entirely freed from grease, potatoes, sweet or
white, or some other vegetable, and a plain dessert. It is very little
additional trouble to so regulate the bill of fare that what makes the
lunch of the "grown-up" may embrace certain articles that will suit
the childish stomachs; or there may be a little soup reserved from the
dinner of the evening before, a dish of some carefully warmed-over
vegetable, possibly a little of last night's meat prepared in a mince
or stew, which will obviate the necessity of cooking fresh food for
the easily pleased little ones. Often bread and apple-sauce, stewed
fruit, or a small portion of fruit jelly or marmalade is as acceptable
a dessert as can be provided.
Having eaten these two meals with the family, it is as well to let
the younglings have their simple tea by themselves before the family
dinner. A dish of soft toast, or a bowl of bread and milk, or of
crackers and milk, or of rice and milk, and bread and butter, are
usually all they ought to have so soon before their bedtime. They may
have a side table set in the dining-room, or a tray may be carried to
them in the nursery, and the repast superintended by the mother or
nurse. Sometimes papa will come home in time to look in upon his little
folks at their final meal, and to help them to settle it afterwards by
a romp. Knowing no other mode of life, the children will rarely think
of questioning the judgment that sends them to bed early after their
light supper, instead of permitting them to sit up to a late, heavy,
and indigestible course dinner.
THE FAMILY TEA
A pleasant feature of domestic life which is done away with by the late
dinner is the family tea. This meal, always an informal one, used to
give play to the housekeeper's fancy in the concoction of dainty dishes
with which to render the repast more appetizing to the tired and hungry
master of the home. Now, to be sure, she has lunches upon which to
expend her culinary ingenuity; but then the person for whom she best
loves to cater, her husband, is rarely at home.
In some families it is the custom to have tea one night in the week. It
may be on Saturday, when there is no school and the children can all
be at home to an early dinner, or on Sunday, when many people dine in
the middle of the day. Still other households prefer a noon dinner and
a simple tea in summer, pleading the advantage of getting the heavy
cookery out of the way in the morning, instead of being obliged to
stand over a cook-stove through the long blazing afternoon.
In one way or another, then, there are few families where the tea-table
is not spread at least once a week, while in many homes it is a daily
institution. It only ceases to be delightful when it is, through
carelessness, allowed to slip into a groove, and when the suggestion of
making it attractive is put aside with the excuse, "Oh, anything will
do for tea!"
Some years ago a party of city people spent a charming summer in a
farm-house high up among the Berkshire hills. The accommodations of
the roomy old-fashioned dwelling were good, the breakfasts and dinners
excellent, well cooked, and liberal in provision. But the teas!
Night after night the guests gathered about a tea-table adorned with
plates of cold bread, of butter, and of cake, pitchers of milk, and
occasionally a dish of berries or of stewed fruit. Tea there was, as a
matter of course, but never a bit of meat or fish, or an egg in any
form, boiled, poached, or in an omelet; not even a pat of pot-cheese or
a few slices of dairy cheese. Warm biscuit, muffins, and waffles were
likewise conspicuous by their absence.
It was all very well for those who ate bread and milk and were fond
of cake, but for a party of ravenous young people, who had spent a
long afternoon playing tennis, fishing or driving, or tramping over
the hills in the hunger-provoking air, the sight of the table was not
inspiriting; nor did it become more popular as the season advanced and
the early frosty evenings improved appetites that had never been poor.
Yet, in spite of loudly expressed hints, it never seemed to occur to
the farmer's good wife that her tea-table was not supplied with every
viand the most exacting eater could desire.
Naturally, when a hearty meal has been served in the middle of the
day, there should be no thought of having to prepare a second dinner
for the evening. But there should be, at least, some relish to vary
the monotony of plain bread and butter, something to give the meal an
aspect other than that of a perfunctory "feed," where every one eats on
the principle upon which Nicholas Nickleby "distended his stomach with
a bowl of porridge" the morning after his arrival at Dotheboys Hall—not
that he wanted it then, but lest he should be inconveniently hungry
when there was nothing to eat.
There are many delicious supper dishes which are made with little
difficulty. In winter, oysters, clams, scallops, broiled ham, fried,
broiled, or stewed chicken, chicken scallop or mince, sausages, bacon
and eggs, with any of the large varieties of griddle-cakes or warm
breads, will make a meal to satisfy any one; while in summer, salads
of eggs, fish, lobsters, chicken, cold lamb or veal, shrimp, cheese,
beet leaves, lettuce, cabbage, potato, string-beans, and of many other
kinds, may be relied upon. Omelets and other preparations of eggs are
inexpensive, easily cooked, and generally popular, while cold meat goes
well on a summer evening, especially when accompanied by bannocks,
scones, butter-cakes, toasted crackers, wafers, or some light bread
that is easily made and not hard to digest. Then there are galantines,
potted meats, jellied fish, pickled salmon, cottage-cheese, and
numerous other little delicacies that are not costly and yet are good.
The table for tea should be set much as it is for breakfast, with the
exception of the oatmeal sets. All the dishes may be placed upon the
table at once, as they would be at lunch, and the family may do much
of the passing of plates. The tea is served with the first course,
and the cups and tray may be removed to make room for the dish of
fruit or simple sweets that generally concludes the meal. The saucers
in which these are served should stand on plates, on which each
guest may lay the cake which is usually passed at the same time. Hot
puddings are out of place at tea, but instead there may be, in winter,
apple-sauce, stewed prunes, preserved ginger, brandied and preserved
peaches, pears or plums, jams or marmalades, custards, blanc-manges,
jellies, or anything of that sort; while in summer it is rarely
impossible to procure berries of some kind, or other fruit. A dish of
"bonny-clabber"—better known, perhaps, as "loppered milk"—of junket, or
of syllabub is always delicious, and is usually easily obtained where
milk and cream are plentiful.
No domestic sight is pleasanter in its way than a tea-table on a cold
winter night, spread with a bright cloth and set out with dainty china
and shining silver, and with all the cheer-inspiring appurtenances of
the tea-tray; with the plate of hot bread, the savory dish of hot meat,
and the little relishes that housekeepers know well how to supply.
And in summer its counterpart is seen in the table laid in the room
brightened by the level sun's rays, where a crisp salad, piles of white
and brown bread, and a plate of rusk or tea-biscuit, pitchers of milk,
and a dish of berries with cream in abundance revive the fainting
appetites and spirits of those who have borne the heat and burden of
the day.
In summer a tea on the lawn is an agreeable variety to introduce
occasionally. A medium-sized table may be carried out under the
trees, and spread with a white cloth. On this are placed the principal
dishes—the bread-and-butter, which may sometimes have its place taken
by sandwiches; the salad or cold meat, or both; the cake and fruit.
The tea-tray and kettle may be here too, or the tea may be made in the
house. Iced tea and coffee make a pleasant change once in a while.
A rug or two may be laid on the grass if any of the party have a
nervous dread of colds, and a few little tables will provide a space
upon which to rest a cup of tea or a glass of milk when the lap is
occupied by the plate containing the more solid viands. Low chairs
should stand here and there, and the whole scene will present a
charmingly festal appearance at a trifling outlay of time and trouble.
A certain family who possess a delightful country place make their
Sunday evening _al fresco_ tea one of the pleasantest spots in the
week. No one is present but the family and any guests who may be
staying in the house. The pretty, simple meal is served out on the
grassy lawn, which slopes down to the water. When the eating is over,
the maid comes out, gathers the dishes into a tray, and carries them
back to the house, happy in the thought that there is no supper-table
to be cleared and no dining-room to be brushed up.
Long after the vestiges of the feast have been removed the family sit
there, chatting pleasantly, watching the sunset and the stars coming
out or the moon rising. By and by some voice begins a hymn, the others
take it up, and the singing goes on until the early bedtime comes, and
the party turns towards the house with a restful happiness that is none
the less deep and true because it is hard to describe or to analyze.
AFTERNOON TEA
Among the many English customs which have been introduced into American
society there is none that sooner attained a widespread popularity than
afternoon tea—a simple and easy form of entertainment, that entailed
little expense and less trouble upon the hostess, and supplied a
long-felt want. Soon all over the land teas were the rage, and in large
cities and small villages alike cards were flying about, bearing upon
them the name of the hostess, and in one corner, "Tea at five o'clock"
or "Tea from four to six," as the case might be.
With the usual tendency of the citizens of this great and glorious
country to impress upon the fashions borrowed from other nations
the stamp of their own individuality, it was not long before the
stereotyped tea, bread-and-butter, and cake, which had at first made
up the _menu_ of these entertainments, began to undergo modifications.
First, chocolate was added, on the plea that many people do not care
for tea. Bouillon came next, and the use of this served as the basis
of that absurd report, instantly accepted by foreigners, that the
American young women were so fragile in constitution as to be obliged
to brace themselves up with strong beef tea at their receptions, in
order to enable them to perform their social duties. With bouillon came
sandwiches; next appeared salad, and after that oysters, croquettes,
creams, ices, and charlottes followed one another in rapid succession,
until the metamorphosis of the modest tea into the reception, with its
heavy party supper, was complete.
Part of this change may be attributed to the display and love of
competition which are numbered among our national characteristics. But
at least a portion of the blame must fall upon the participants in
these entertainments, who, not understanding that a tea to be a tea
must be simple, did not hesitate to grumble at the trifling nature of
the refreshments there offered for their delectation.
"I am sick of your afternoon teas!" grumbled one lord of creation,
when informed that the family had just received cards to one of these
affairs. "_I_ like to go to a place where you get something to eat
besides a cup of beef tea and a cracker, or tea and bread-and-butter.
It isn't the kind of supper a hungry man wants when he comes from his
business. He needs something hearty."