Common Sense in the Household 41

Common Sense in the Household 41

SUMMER SQUASH OR CYMBLING.

 

There are many varieties of this vegetable, but the general rules

for cooking them are the same. Unless they are extremely tender, it

is best to pare them, cutting away as little as possible besides the

hard outer rind. Take out the seeds, when you have quartered them,

and lay the pieces in cold water. Boil until tender throughout. Drain

well, pressing out all the water; mash soft and smooth, seasoning with

butter, pepper, and salt. Do this quickly, that you may serve up hot.

 

 

WINTER SQUASH.

 

Pare, take out the seeds, cut into small pieces, and stew until soft

and tender. Drain, press well, to rid it of all the water, and mash

with butter, pepper, and salt. It will take much longer to cook than

the summer squash, and before you put it into hot water, should lie in

cold at least two hours.

 

 

STEWED PUMPKIN.

 

Cut in two, extract the seeds, slice, and pare. Cover with cold

water for an hour; put over the fire in a pot of boiling water and

stew gently, stirring often, until it breaks to pieces. Drain and

squeeze, rub through a cullender, then return to the saucepan with a

tablespoonful of butter, pepper, and salt to taste. Stir rapidly from

the bottom until very hot, when dish, rounding into a mound, with

“dabs” of pepper on the top.

 

 

BAKED PUMPKIN.

 

Choose the richest pumpkin you can find; take out the seeds, cut in

quarters or eighths, pare, and slice lengthwise half an inch thick.

Arrange in layers—not more than two or three slices deep—in a shallow

but broad baking-dish. Put a _very_ little water in the bottom, and

bake very slowly until not only done, but dry. It requires a long

time, for the heat should be gentle. Butter each strip on both sides

when you dish, and eat hot with bread and butter for tea.

 

I have been assured, by people who have tried it, that this is a

palatable dish to those who are fond of the flavor of pumpkin. I insert

it here upon their recommendation—not my own.

 

 

POKE STALKS.

 

When the young stalks are not larger than a man’s little finger, and

show only a tuft of leaves at top a few inches above ground, is the

time to gather them. They are unfit for table-use when larger and

older. Scrape the stalks, but do not cut off the leaves. Lay in cold

water, with a little salt, for two hours. Tie in bundles, as you

do asparagus, put into a saucepan of boiling water, and cook fast

three-quarters of an hour. Lay buttered toast in the bottom of a

dish, untie the bundles, and pile the poke evenly upon it, buttering

very well, and sprinkling with pepper and salt. This is a tolerable

substitute for asparagus.

 

 

MUSHROOMS.

 

_Imprimis._—Have nothing to do with them until you are an excellent

judge between the true and false. That sounds somewhat like the advice

of the careful mother to her son, touching the wisdom of never going

near the water until he learned how to swim—but the caution can hardly

be stated too strongly. Not being ambitious of martyrdom, even in the

cause of gastronomical enterprise, especially if the instrument is to

be a contemptible, rank-smelling fungus, I never eat or cook native

mushrooms; but I learned, years ago, in hill-side rambles, how to

distinguish the real from the spurious article. Shun low, damp, shady

spots in your quest. The good mushrooms are most plenty in August

and September, and spring up in the open, sunny fields or commons,

after low-lying fogs or soaking dews. The top is a dirty white,—_par

complaisance_, pearl-color,—the under side pink or salmon, changing to

russet or brown soon after they are gathered. The poisonous sport all

colors, and are usually far prettier than their virtuous kindred. Those

which are dead-white above and below, as well as the stalk, are also to

be let alone.

 

Cook a peeled white onion in the pot with your mushrooms. If it turn

black, throw all away, and be properly thankful for your escape. It is

also deemed safe to reject the mess of wild pottage, if in stirring

them, your silver spoon should blacken. But I certainly once knew a

lady who did not discover until hers were eaten and partially digested,

that the silver had come to grief in the discharge of duty. It was

very dark, and required a deal of rubbing to restore cleanliness and

polish; but the poison—if death were, indeed, in the pot—was slow in

its effects, since she lived many years after the experiment. It is as

well perhaps, though, not to repeat it too often.

 

To re-capitulate.—The eatable ones are round when they first show their

heads in a critical world. As they grow, the lower part unfolds a

lining of salmon fringe, while the stalk and top are dirty white. When

the mushroom is more than twenty-four hours old, or within a few hours

after it is gathered, the salmon changes to brown. The skin can also be

more easily peeled from the edges than in the spurious kinds.

 

 

STEWED MUSHROOMS.

 

Choose button mushrooms of uniform size. Wipe clean and white with

a wet flannel cloth, and cut off the stalks. Put into a porcelain

saucepan, cover with cold water, and stew very gently fifteen minutes.

Salt to taste; add a tablespoonful of butter, divided into bits and

rolled in flour. Boil three or four minutes; stir in three or four

tablespoonfuls of cream whipped up with an egg, stir two minutes

without letting it boil, and serve.

 

 

_Or,_

 

Rub them white, stew in water ten minutes; strain partially, and cover

with as much warm milk as you have poured off water; stew five minutes

in this; salt and pepper, and add some veal or chicken gravy, or drawn

butter. Thicken with a little flour wet in cold milk, and a beaten egg.

 

 

BAKED MUSHROOMS.

 

Take fresh ones,—the size is not very important,—cut off nearly all the

stalks, and wipe off the skin with wet flannel. Arrange neatly in a

pie-dish, pepper and salt, sprinkle a little mace among them, and lay a

bit of butter upon each. Bake about half an hour, basting now and then

with butter and water, that they may not be too dry. Serve in the dish

in which they were baked, with _maître d’hôtel_ sauce poured over them.

 

 

BROILED MUSHROOMS.

 

Peel the finest and freshest you can get, score the under side, and

cut the stems close. Put into a deep dish and anoint well, once and

again, with melted butter. Salt and pepper, and let them lie in the

butter an hour and a half. Then broil over a clear, hot fire, using an

oyster-gridiron, and turning it over as one side browns. Serve hot,

well buttered, pepper and salt, and squeeze a few drops of lemon-juice

upon each.

 

 

CELERY.

 

Wash and scrape the stalks when you have cut off the roots. Cut off

the green leaves and reject the greenest, toughest stalks. Retain the

blanched leaves that grow nearest the heart. Keep in cold water until

you send to table. Serve in a celery glass, and let each guest dip in

salt for himself. (_See Celery Salad._)

 

 

STEWED CELERY. ✠

 

1 bunch of celery—scraped, trimmed, and cut into inch lengths.

1 cup milk.

1 great spoonful of butter, rolled in flour.

Pepper and salt.

 

Stew the celery in clear water until tender. Turn off the water, add

the milk, and as soon as this boils, seasoning and butter. Boil up once

and serve very hot.

 

 

RADISHES.

 

A friend of mine, after many and woful trials with “the greatest plague

of life,” engaged a supercilious young lady who “only hired out in the

best of families as a professed cook.” She arrived in the afternoon,

and was told that tea would be a simple affair—bread-and-butter, cold

meat, cake, and a dish of radishes, which were brought in from the

garden as the order was given. The lady was summoned to the parlor

at that moment, and remarked in leaving—“You can prepare those now,

Bridget.” Awhile later she peeped into the kitchen, attracted by the

odor of hot fat. The frying-pan hissed on the fire, the contents were a

half-pound of butter, and the “professional” stood at the table with a

radish topped and tailed in one hand, a knife in the other. “I’m glad

to see ye,” thus she greeted the intruder. “Is it paled or _on_paled

ye’ll have them radishes? Some of the quality likes ’em fried wid the

skins on—some widout. I thought I’d wait and ask yerself.”

 

My readers can exercise their own choice in the matter of peeling,

putting the frying out of the question. Wash and lay them in ice-water

so soon as they are gathered. Cut off the tops when your breakfast or

supper is ready, leaving about an inch of the stalks on; scrape off

the skin if you choose, but the red ones are prettier if you do not;

arrange in a tall glass or a round glass saucer, the stalks outside,

the points meeting in the centre; lay cracked ice among them and send

to table. Scrape and quarter the large white ones.

 

Good radishes are crisp to the teeth, look cool, and taste hot.

 

 

OKRA.

 

Boil the young pods, in enough salted hot water to cover them, until

tender. Drain thoroughly, and when dished pour over them a sauce of

three or four spoonfuls melted (not drawn) butter, a tablespoonful of

vinegar, pepper, and salt to taste. Heat to boiling before covering the okras with it.