Common Sense in the Household 3

Common Sense in the Household 3

And you, if timid and self-distrustful, are smitten with shame, keep

your receipt-book out of sight, and cram your memory with ingredients

and measures, times and weights, for fear Mrs. Notable should suspect

you of rawness and inefficiency. Whereas the truth is, that if you have

a mind worthy of the name, its powers are too valuable to be laden

with such details. Master the general principles, as I said just now,

and for particulars look to your marching-orders. Having refreshed

your memory by this reference, pick out from your household stores,

and set in convenient order, within reach of your hand, everything you

will need in making ready the particular compound under consideration.

Then, take your stand in the midst—or sit, if you can. It is common

sense—oftentimes a pious duty, to take judicious care of your physical

health. I lay it down as a safe and imperative rule for kitchen

use—_Never stand when you can do your work as well while sitting_. If I

could have John’s ear for a minute, I would tell him that which would

lead him to watch you and exercise wholesome authority in this regard.

 

Next, prepare each ingredient for mixing, that the bread, cake,

pudding, soup, or ragoût may not be delayed when half finished because

the flour is not sifted, or the “shortening” warmed, the sugar and

butter are not creamed, the meat not cut up, or the herbs not minced.

Don’t begin until you are ready; then go steadily forward, “without

haste, without rest,” and think of what you are doing.

 

“Dickens again?”

 

Why not, since there is no more genial and pertinent philosopher of

common life and every-day subjects? To quote, then—

 

“It was a maxim of Captain Swosser’s,” said Mrs. Badger, “speaking in

his figurative, naval manner, that when you make pitch hot, you cannot

make it too hot, and that if you have only to swab a plank, you should

swab it as if Davy Jones were after you. It appears to me that this

maxim is applicable to the medical as well as the nautical profession.”

 

“To all professions!” observed Mr. Badger. “It was admirably said by

Captain Swosser; beautifully said!”

 

But it will sometimes happen that when you have heated your pitch, or

swabbed your deck, or made your pudding according to the lights set

before you, the result is a failure. This is especially apt to occur

in a maiden effort. You have wasted materials and time, and suffered,

moreover, acute demoralization—are enwrapped in a wet blanket of

discouragement, instead of the seemly robe of complacency. Yet no

part of the culinary education is more useful, if turned to proper

account, than this very discipline of failure. It is a stepping-stone

to excellence—sharp, it is true, but often sure. You have learned how

_not_ to do it right, which is the next thing to success. It is pretty

certain that you will avoid, in your second essay, the rock upon which

you have split this time. And, after all, there are few failures which

are utter and irremediable. Scorched soups and custards, sour bread,

biscuit yellow with soda, and cake heavy as lead, come under the head

of “hopeless.” They are absolutely unfit to be set before civilized

beings and educated stomachs. Should such mishaps occur, lock the

memory of the attempt in your own bosom, and do not vex or amuse John

and your guests with the narration, still less with visible proof of

the calamity. Many a partial failure would pass unobserved but for the

clouded brow and earnest apologies of the hostess. Do not apologize

except at the last gasp! If there is but one chance in ten that a

single person present may not discover the deficiency which has changed

all food on the table to dust and gravel-stones to you, trust to the

one chance, and carry off the matter bravely. You will be astonished to

find, if you keep your wits about you how often even your husband will

remain in blissful ignorance that aught has gone wrong, if you do not

tell him. You know so well what should have been the product of your

labor that you exaggerate the justice of others’ perceptions. Console

yourself, furthermore, with the reflection that yours is not the first

failure upon record, nor the million-and-first, and that there will be

as many to-morrows as there have been yesterdays.

 

Don’t add to a trifling _contretemps_ the real discomfort of a

discontented or fretful wife. Say blithely, if John note your

misfortune—“I hope to do better another time,” and do not be satisfied

until you have redeemed your pledge. Experience and your quick wit will

soon teach you how to avert impending evils of this nature, how to

snatch your preparations from imminent destruction, and, by ingenious

correctives or concealments, to make them presentable. These you will

soon learn for yourself if you keep before you the truism I have

already written, to wit, that few failures are beyond repair.

 

Never try experiments for the benefit of invited guests nor, when

John is at home, risk the success of your meal upon a new dish.

Have something which you know he can eat, and introduce experiments

as by-play. But do not be too shy of innovations in the shape of

untried dishes. Variety is not only pleasant, but healthful. The

least pampered palate will weary of stereotyped bills of fare. It is

an idea which should have been exploded long ago, that plain roast,

boiled, and fried, on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday,

cod-fish on Friday, with pork-and-beans every Saturday, are means of

grace, because economical. And with this should have vanished the

prejudice against warmed-over meals—or _réchauffés_, as our French

friends term them. I have tried, in the following pages, to set forth

the attractions of these, and their claims to your attention as being

savory, economical, nourishing, and often elegant. In preparing these

acceptably, everything depends upon your own taste and skill. Season

with judgment, cook just enough and not a minute too long, and dish

nicely. The recommendation of the eye to the palate is a point no

cook can afford to disregard. If you can offer an unexpected visitor

nothing better than bread-and-butter and cold ham, he will enjoy the

luncheon twice as much if the bread be sliced thinly and evenly, spread

smoothly, each slice folded in the middle upon the buttered surface,

and piled symmetrically; if the ham be also cut thin, scarcely thicker

than a wafer, and garnished with parsley, cresses, or curled lettuce.

Set on mustard and pickles; let the table-cloth and napkin be white

and glossy; the glass clear, and plate shining clean; and add to these

accessories to comfort a bright welcome, and, my word for it, you need

fear no dissatisfaction on his part, however epicurean may be his

tastes. Should your cupboard be bare of aught more substantial than

crackers and cheese, do not yield to dismay; split the crackers (if

splittable), toast the inside lightly, and butter while hot. Grate your

cheese into a powdery mound, garnishing the edges of the plate. If you

have no beverage except water to set before him, let this be cool, and

pour it out for him yourself, into an irreproachable glass. A dirty

table-cloth, a smeared goblet, or a sticky plate, will spoil the most

luxurious feast. A table well set is half-spread.

 

I have not said one-tenth of that which is pressing upon my heart and

mind, yet I fear you may think me trite and tedious. One suggestion

more, and we will proceed to the details of business.

 

I believe that, so far as care can avail in securing such a result, my

receipts are accurate. But in the matter of seasoning and other minor

details, consult your judgment and John’s taste. Take this liberty with

whatever receipt you think you can improve. If I chance to find in

your work-basket, or upon the kitchen dresser, a well-thumbed copy of

my beloved “Common Sense,” with copious annotations in the margin, I

shall, so far from feeling wounded, be flattered in having so diligent

a student, and, with your permission, shall engraft the most happy

suggestions upon the next edition.

 

For the speedy issue of which, the petitioner doth humbly pray.

 

MARION HARLAND.

 

 

NOTE.

 

In looking over this book the reader will notice certain

receipts marked thus—✠. I do not claim for these greater

merit than should of right be accorded to many others. I

merely wish to call the attention of the novice to them as

certainly safe, and for the most part simple. Every one

thus marked has been tried by myself; most of them are in

frequent, some in daily use, in my own family.

 

My reason for thus singling out comparatively a small number

of receipts from the rest, is the recollection of my own

perplexities—the loss of time and patience to which I have

been subjected in the examination of a new cookery-book,

with an eye to immediate use of the directions laid down

for various dishes. I have often and vainly wished for a

finger-board to guide me in my search for those which were

easy and sure, and which would result satisfactorily. This

sort of directory I have endeavored to supply, taking care,

however, to inform the reader in advance that, so far as I

know, there is not an unsafe receipt in the whole work.

 

Of course it was not necessary or expedient to append the

above sign to plain “roast and boiled,” which are in common

use everywhere.

 

 

 

 

SOUPS.

 

 

THE base of your soup should always be uncooked meat. To this may be

added, if you like, cracked bones of cooked game, or of underdone beef

or mutton; but for flavor and nourishment, depend upon the juices of

the meat which was put in raw. Cut this into small pieces, and beat the

bone until it is fractured at every inch of its length. Put them on in

cold water, without salt, and heat very slowly. _Do not boil fast at

any stage of the operation._ Keep the pot covered, and do not add the

salt until the meat is thoroughly done, as it has a tendency to harden

the fibres, and restrain the flow of the juices. Strain—always through

a cullender, after which clear soups should be filtered through a

hair-sieve or coarse bobbinet lace. The bag should not be squeezed.

 

It is slovenly to leave rags of meat, husks of vegetables and bits of

bone in the tureen. Do not uncover until you are ready to ladle out

the soup. Do this neatly and quickly, having your soup-plates heated

beforehand.

 

Most soups are better the second day than the first, unless they are

warmed over too quickly or left too long upon the fire after they are

hot. In the one case they are apt to scorch; in the other they become

insipid.

 

 

 

VEGETABLE SOUPS.

 

 

GREEN PEA. (No. 1.) ✠

 

4 lbs. beef—cut into small pieces.

½ peck of green peas.

1 gallon water.

½ cup of rice-flour, salt, pepper and chopped parsley.

 

Boil the empty pods of the peas in the water one hour before putting

in the beef. Strain them out, add the beef, and boil slowly for an

hour and a half longer. Half an hour before serving, add the shelled

peas; and twenty minutes later, the rice-flour, with salt, pepper and

parsley. After adding the rice-flour, stir frequently, to prevent

scorching. Strain into a hot tureen.