CHAPTER XXV.
MARTA’S NOODLES—BRAISED BEEF—HOW TO ADAPT
ONE’S MATERIALS—POLKA PUDDING AND SAUCE.
I have said before that Molly had repeated, as often as she could, the dishes she had first taught Marta, so that she might not get confused, and might know thoroughly a few things. She hoped by this means to be able to depend upon her for certain dishes. At the beginning of this new month Marta seemed to have learned thoroughly how to make clear soup, white sauce, bread, and to fry; and to Molly this did not seem a bad result. In knowing how to make clear soup, she knew the principle of soup-making, and could make any other meat soup,—also in learning this she had learned what slow boiling really meant, and could therefore boil meat well. To make white sauce perfectly meant to do many other things of which that, or its modifications, are the foundation. Whether Marta’s intelligence was quick enough to show her the value of the key she held, that good white sauce meant good béchamel sauce, good celery sauce, lobster sauce, poulette and all the long list of sauces with high-sounding French names, that seem so hopelessly unattainable to ordinary cooks, as well as all kinds of white soups, and many sweet dishes,—that she would see and apply all this was a great deal too much to hope; but if she would only keep her execution of what she could do up to the mark, Molly would feel that her efforts were far from wasted.
“If she will only not be content with having accomplished these things a few times, and will not become careless as she gets familiar, I must be very thankful;” but this was just what Molly did fear. The bread, although light and good, was never twice alike, unless Molly superintended the making; which assured her that Marta had taken to “guessing” or, what was as bad, to measuring carelessly. Carefully she explained to her that a pint of flour did not mean all that could be taken up on a pint measure, or that a pint of water did not mean the larger half of a quart measure; but the bread still came to table, sometimes coarse-grained, sometimes very close, showing it was sometimes made very wet, at others stiff, but always light and sweet so far; but she feared this lack of exactness might run into other things. If so, it could not be helped. Molly knew that many very good cooks, who turned out excellent dishes, never measured, could never tell how they did it, or give an intelligible recipe. Such cases had been often quoted to her as a reason why the precision of scientific cooking, as taught in cooking-schools, was nonsense; but she knew that those who cooked thus, although they might produce excellent results four times out of five, the fifth time might make a failure; they are always subject to good and bad “luck” with their cooking; and she knew, too, there are a certain few who are gifted with such a correct eye for quantity that they could calculate the weight of a thing to a quarter of an ounce,—she herself had this gift to a certain extent, but she never trusted to it,—yet she understood that a cook with that exceptional gift might do as well without weighing as with it; the only misfortune was that the generality were not so gifted, but believed themselves to be so, and the result is the frequent uncertainty with which one so often awaits the appearance of Dinah’s or Delia’s efforts, that result depending on their “good” or “bad luck.”
However, Molly was convinced that she had done her part with Marta, and that if she failed in the things she knew, it would not be because she did not thoroughly understand; and she could now try to teach her several new dishes.
The bill of fare for the day was noodle soup, braised beef, cabbage with white sauce, fried potatoes, and polka pudding.
About a pint of clear soup was on hand, and Molly had many times intended to let Marta show her how to make the German noodles that had so pleased her when she first saw them; but on days when clear soup was made or used, something had always called her attention; and even to-day was ironing-day, but she helped Marta through with her work, so that there might be half an hour to spare without putting the ironing back, and then while Marta was finishing she prepared the dessert.
She had a recipe for polka pudding which she had often heard praised, and now, as she had the materials, would try. I say she had the materials; but Molly was very clever in “cutting her coat according to the cloth.” The recipe called for bitter almonds as well as sweet; she knew by flavoring a portion of the sweet almonds with the extract of bitter she would have the same effect. Rose-water also was called for; she poured a few drops of the extract of rose into a table-spoonful of water, and she had it, or at least the effect.
The recipe was as follows:—
Polka Pudding.—One pint of milk, boiling hot, two table-spoonfuls of corn starch mixed smooth in a little cold milk; then pour the boiling milk on it and stir all the time; thicken over the fire and mix, when cooked, with a table-spoonful of rose water, a table-spoonful and a half of thick cream; or stir in one and a half of butter, one ounce of bitter almonds and one of sweet ones blanched, and beaten with a little white of egg to prevent oiling; beat the yolk and the rest of the white with another whole egg very light. Mix all together, let it come to the boiling-point, put it into an oiled mould, and set in ice.
There were one or two peculiarities about this pudding; it was unsweetened, except by the sauce, which might make it a pleasant change from sweeter dessert, and it was to be served ice cold on hot plates with hot sauce.
The first thing was to blanch the almonds, which she did by putting them in a bowl and pouring water over them, which she was careful to have quite boiling; when they had stood two minutes, she took them out of the water with a fork, laid them on a coarse cloth, and pressed them between her thumb and finger, when they slipped easily out of their skins. She dropped them as they were done into cold water to keep them white. When all were finished, she dried and weighed them (two ounces of almonds blanched being very different from the same weight in their skins), and then, as she had no mortar, she took the chopping-bowl, assured herself it bore no odor or trace of herbs, and first chopped them fine; then with the potato-masher, which she never used for its legitimate purpose, pounded them.[2] One-half of these she flavored strongly with bitter almond and the rest of the recipe she followed exactly, using cream instead of butter, as she had it, having saved it from dessert the day before for this purpose.
She measured the table-spoonfuls of corn starch very carefully, for nothing is more disagreeable than too much, and she boiled it in a saucepan set in another of water, so that the starch might be long cooked without burning. She removed it from the range to the table, and allowed it to go slightly off the boil before stirring in the eggs; then returned it to the range and stirred till it came to the boiling-point again.
When all was mixed, she poured it into an oiled mould and set it in the ice; and then prepared to watch Marta, who was delighted with her accomplishment, and to see it so much appreciated. Her face fairly beamed as she found herself giving instead of taking instruction. She said very little, but Molly stood by and noted what she did.
She beat one egg till it frothed, put to it a pinch of salt, and then worked in as much flour as it would take, about three table-spoonfuls; she kneaded it till it was a smooth and firm, yet elastic, paste. This she rolled out on the pastry-board (very slightly flouring it) till it was as thin as writing-paper. So far, this was exactly the recipe for home-made vermicelli noodles, which was familiar to Molly. When the paste was as thin as she could get it on the board, Marta lifted the sheet of yellow paste, laid a cloth folded on the board, and then the paste on that; this enabled her to roll it still thinner; then she removed the cloth and folded one-half the paste, and asked Molly for her thimble. Molly washed it and gave it to her, and Marta stamped a couple of dozen little disks out of the double paste. They were so closely stuck together that they looked like little circles of yellow card. Marta now took a little pint iron saucepan, put into it two large table-spoonfuls of lard, and set it to get smoking hot. While this was reaching the point of heat required, she took the little sheet of paste she had not used, and which was still single and had got very slightly dry, while the disks were being made, which she explained it was necessary for it to do. She then rolled up the thin sheet closely, and cut it at intervals of the third of an inch; the paste now looked like so much yellow tape; and these, she informed Molly, were either to be dried near the fire on a sieve and kept for soups, or to be boiled in water and dressed with butter. As she spoke, she tossed the shreds up lightly with a fork for some little time. The fat was now hot; as hot, Molly remarked, as for croquettes, proved by the fact that the little disks when dropped into it (they became balls the minute they were in the fat) took a pale, golden hue; one-half minute colored them all alike; they were then lifted out with a skimmer, and Marta laid them on a clean cloth. Molly said nothing, because she did not want at this time to interfere with what was Marta’s specialty, but in doing them herself would use paper to drain them instead of greasing a cloth.
“I am ever so much obliged, Marta; these are a real novelty. Now we will have the others boiled for luncheon and some day you can make them for dinner. Mr. Bishop is so fond of anything of the sort. I want to see you cook them.”
It was time for them to be cooked now, Marta declared, and she put on water to boil with a tea-spoonful of salt in it; then she grated about a table-spoonful of cheese, and when the water was fast boiling dropped the “noodles” into it. She knew no other name than this for both the balls and the ribbons. They were to boil a quarter of an hour, she said, and every now and then she carefully stirred them up with a fork not so as to break them, but to keep them separate. She put a large table-spoonful of butter in a little saucepan and set it to get hot. When the noodles were strained off, the grated cheese was sprinkled over them with a little pepper and salt, then the butter was put to get boiling hot, and immediately poured over them. They were again stirred up with the fork, and, when the butter was well through them, Marta pronounced them ready; it was of course quite a small dish, but Molly told Marta if it proved half as good as it was pretty, she would be called on to make it very often.
It did not belie its appearance. “Marta, this is quite a discovery! I wonder if you can make any more German dainties?”
Marta smilingly said she knew only one or two really nice things.
“Then you shall make them; but don’t you see, you silly girl, that when you knew how to fry those little balls you knew how to fry many other things?”
“I see it now, but I did not before. I thought everything else had to be done in a different way in a flat pan.”
“Well, when you make these ribbon noodles again, you will have to take the whole of the paste made from the egg, and double the butter dressing; for I’m sure Mr. Bishop will be delighted with them.”
In the afternoon, as the irons were on the stove, Molly put the beef in the oven and made what Soyer calls a “roast-braise.” She took a small earthen crock or pan and put into it a large onion, a small carrot and turnip, two sprigs of parsley and a bay leaf; on these she laid some fat pork shaved, and on that the meat beef neatly skewered and tied. Over this meat she put a thin layer of fat pork, and over all a cup of water and a flour and water paste, so that the steam could not escape. This was to be left in the oven, which was not allowed to get very hot for the first two and a half hours,—just hot enough to keep the roast simmering.
FOOTNOTE:
[2] An equal weight of almond paste may be used.