Ten Dollars Enough: Keeping House Well on Ten Dollars a Week / How It Has Been Done; How It May Be Done Again

CHAPTER III.
MOLLY’S FIRST BILL OF FARE.

“Ha, ha! what magic is this? Our new housekeeper finds time on ‘moving day’ to lie down and improve her mind,” cried Harry, as he came into the room and sat down by her side.

“I could have found plenty to do, although coming into a ready-furnished house, left in such perfect order as this was, really leaves one little, the first day, but to shake down into place and plan what one can do to-morrow. I have unpacked, put our own knick-knacks about up-stairs, and then I felt tired enough to lie down, and thought it wise to do so before I was over-tired.”

“Of course it was. I have been looking about me out-of-doors, ordered a paper to be sent, and priced a brood of chickens.”

“Oh, no, no, not yet, Harry! we’ll see about chickens when we are settled, unless, indeed, you want them badly.”

“I? No, indeed! I thought of you.”

“Then I would rather wait. I see some cabbages down at the end of the garden. I have longed to taste nice cabbage for months.”

“You vulgar little person!”

“You won’t say so when you eat it.”

“No, but I shan’t eat it, my dear. I’ve too much respect for my digestion.”

“What a pity!”

Notwithstanding Harry’s determination, Molly went for a cabbage, and told Marta to put it in water. Then Molly took the fore-quarter of lamb, and with a sharp knife she made a deep incision, just where the neck ends and the shoulder begins, carrying the knife round nearly in a circle, always cutting as deeply as possible until the shoulder was free from the quarter. She had now before her the breast and rack, or ribs, the scrag, and the shoulder,—a nice, neat joint. All she had allowed the butcher to do to the quarter was to joint the chops and crack the breast across in the usual way, but not to touch the shoulder.

Molly had seen this process of removing the shoulder so often in Europe (where it is a very choice joint), that she had felt sure she could manage it. She knew that the great thing was to have the shoulder as thick as possible, therefore the knife must cut to the rib bones, and yet that the circle traced by the knife should go only within three inches of the edge on the rib side or back, and follow the line of the breast on the front, so that there remained five or six rib chops with the fat upon them, and several from under the shoulder up to the scrag, which would be excellent “French chops,” ready trimmed,—she would only have to scrape the bone.

To-day, however, she only separated the breast and cut off three rib chops, and trimmed them ready for breakfast, then put them away with the meat, leaving the shoulder out for dinner. It weighed about three and a half pounds, and would take, being lamb, which must be so well done, an hour and a quarter to cook. She set Marta to peel half a dozen potatoes of medium size, while she set the shoulder on a wire stand in a dripping-pan, then shook a little flour over it and rubbed a little salt on the skin. Molly had profited too well by her cooking-school lessons to think of putting salt on the flesh of meat before cooking, when it would draw out the gravy. When the potatoes were peeled and washed, she put them in the dripping-pan under the meat, and for fear enough fat should not drop from the joint to prevent the potatoes from becoming hard and dry before they browned, she laid the scraps of fat she had cut from the breakfast chops upon them. It was both young and fat lamb,—had it not been, Molly would not have risked the strong taste of lamb that is nearly mutton, on potatoes, nor the hard, whitish dryness of those cooked under lean meat.

The potatoes were well sprinkled with salt and the pan set in the oven. Molly had only intended having the lamb, and cut-up peaches and cream for dessert, yet, seeing she had time, for it was just a quarter to five now, and only the cloth for Marta to lay, and the cabbage to cook, she thought she would give Harry some of his beloved macaroni as a course. She therefore broke a few pipes of macaroni into pieces about six inches long, taking a dozen of them, and set them on to boil in water and a little salt till tender. While this was in process, she had sent Marta for some tomatoes from the vine, and when they came, showed her how to scald them, and herself squeezed the pulp from two large ones through a strainer, and set it in a small thick saucepan with a table-spoonful of butter, a salt-spoonful of salt, and a little pepper, and put it on the stove where it would slowly cook.

Marta had scalded half a dozen tomatoes and dropped them, as she skinned them, on some cracked ice. Molly took them when they were cold and firm, and with a sharp knife cut them into slices and set them in the ice-box.

“Now, Marta, come with me to set the dinner-table. I will show you, to-night, and expect you to remember afterwards. You first remove the cover and fold it, but leave on this white baize.”

Molly watched to see if the girl had remembered her instructions at lunch, but found she had not retained one idea.

“No, Marta, the middle fold, lengthwise, and exactly in the centre; now the flowers, now a plate to each person, the napkin to the left with a piece of bread in it, a large and a small knife, two forks and a spoon to each person; above these the glasses and a butter-plate.[1] Now put this carving-napkin in front of Mr. Bishop, lay the large table-mat there, and when you bring in the meat set the dish upon it. Now count the dishes and set a mat for each, one salt-cellar and pepper-caster at each right-hand corner, two table-spoons at the same place. Now that is all, and you can come and peel peaches.”

Molly heard the meat in the oven sputtering and hissing, and found it browning nicely. She basted it, turning the potatoes over, and closed the oven. It was twenty minutes past five.

“Marta, I want you to pay attention to everything I do, because the next time we have this dinner I shall expect you to cook it alone, and when you have learnt to roast one piece of meat properly, you will be able to roast any other. Remember the rules,—your oven must be quite hot when the meat goes in; if, after a while, you find danger of its burning, cool it, but meat can’t get brown too quickly to retain the juices. You must put no water in the pan, for that steams it. If your meat is so very lean that it will be dry, it is of such poor quality that you should not try to roast it (and that sort of meat you will not have to cook for me), or it is a part unsuitable for roasting, and should be cooked some other way. Baste often, and when meat is half done,—that is, brown and crisp on top,—turn it over, as I shall do that lamb in a few minutes. Above all things, meat must be brown if roasted.”

Marta had peeled the eight peaches Molly had given her, and the latter now told her to three parts fill a gallon saucepan with water from the kettle, which she had taken care to see full when she set the oven to heat, and which was now boiling.

“Put it in the hottest spot, Marta; we want it to boil quickly. Now that cabbage: it is only a small head, so you can cut it in four, and remove the outer leaves,—also cut away the core; wash it thoroughly in two waters; now hold the colander in your left hand, and as you wash the cabbage through the second water lay it in it; then pour the water out of the pan and set the colander in it, so that all water may run off the cabbage; the thing we want is to check the boiling water as little as possible, which the cabbage, filled with cold water, would do. Now I am going to turn the meat over, so that the under side will brown, while you pour the water off that macaroni; it is just tender but not breaking.”

The lamb was brown and crisp on the top when Molly turned the under side up, so that it might become equally so. Marta brought the macaroni back to the stove, and Molly poured over it the tomato juice she had put to reduce. There was enough to moisten the macaroni and yet leave a little in the saucepan. She put it at the back of the stove, where it would keep about boiling-point, but not burn.

“Now the cabbage, Marta. You see this water is boiling very fast; put it in gently, so that if there is too much in the saucepan you may dip some out before it overflows,—no, it all goes in, and the water covers it well; now put in one table-spoonful of salt and one scant salt-spoonful of baking soda. Remember, Marta, cabbage must never be allowed to remain long in hot water before it boils up; it must boil very fast; for that reason it must always be in the hottest part of the stove, and there must be abundance of water and the saucepan always large. As soon as it comes back to the boiling-point, take off the cover, and leave it off all the while, and push the cabbage down under the water from time to time. The whole secret of boiling cabbage without filling the house with a bad odor and sending to table a vulgar, yellow, wilted vegetable, full of dyspepsia, is to remember—rapid boiling, plenty of water, plenty of room, and the cover off.”

She took off the stove-lid as she spoke, and brightened the top of the fire, and in another minute the cabbage was “galloping.”

“Twenty-five minutes from now it will be done. Now, Marta, I want you to run to that white house across the lot, and ask for half a pint of cream.”

The peaches were cut up, and Molly put them in a bowl and set it on the ice. When she came back she grated a small piece of cheese, about as big as her thumb, and shook it into the macaroni, shaking the saucepan about, so that it would mix without breaking the pipes, and set it back to keep hot.

There was nothing to be done now till the cabbage was cooked.

Suddenly Molly remembered something she had forgotten, and stopped short, very much vexed.

“I have no cake to eat with the peaches, and Harry is so fond of cake! I’ve just time to make a ‘fifteen minutes’ cake,’ and I will. No, I wont! it will make getting dinner on time a scramble; I shall go in flushed and heated, and Harry will think I am killing myself, and Marta will think she may scramble ever after. We will do without cake.”

Marta returned with the cream, which was put in the ice-box, and she was then set at chopping the leaves of some mint for mint sauce. Molly had found, on walking around Greenfield the first day they visited the house, a quantity of mint growing near, and had pulled a few roots and replanted them in the garden. When it was chopped quite fine, she took one table-spoonful, an equal quantity of sugar, and as the vinegar was very strong, she used one table-spoonful of it and one of water, poured them over the mint and stirred it till the sugar was dissolved.

Marta, meantime, had put the plates and dishes to warm, and Molly sent the mint sauce to the table.

“Marta, you will need, to dress the cabbage, a little milk, a table-spoonful of butter, and a large tea-spoonful of flour. Make the flour and butter to a paste with the end of a knife. When I take up the meat, you pour the cabbage, which I see will be done in a few minutes, into the colander; the leaves are like marrow now, but the stalk is a little hard; when it is in the colander, press it with a plate to get every drop of water out, and put it back into the pot, with butter and flour, a scant salt-spoonful of salt, a little white pepper, and half a tea-cupful of milk. You must remember, too, that when I am not here to help you dish the dinner, you must put your meat in the oven five minutes sooner; it can be taken up before the vegetables, but on no account must you take up vegetables first, and let them wait. Never put them on too soon. Now put the warm dishes on the table in the order in which they will be needed; the meat-platter first, the vegetable-dishes next. The macaroni you will bring in after I ring for you to take out the meat,—I mean, you will take away the meat and vegetables, then bring in the macaroni and fresh plates, and after that, the tomatoes, as a salad; and, last of all, the fruit and tea. Now go and put the cracked ice on the table, the pitcher of water, and the butter with a piece of ice on it, and come quickly back.”

Molly looked again at the macaroni, found a little liquid still at the bottom of the saucepan, and set it nearer the fire to cook away, and now left the cover off.

“Marta, the cabbage is done; pour off the water.”

At the same time Molly took the meat out of the oven, and set it in the pan on the stove; she removed the crisp brown shoulder to the platter, put the potatoes round it, and then poured the fat from the corner of the dripping-pan into a jar very gently and carefully, to prevent the small quantity of brown sediment there was from leaving it too, for that was the gravy; when she could get no more fat from one corner, without letting the gravy go too, she changed to another, till it was free from it; she set the pan on the stove and poured in a cup of water and a pinch of salt; with a spoon she rubbed the pan in every direction, to get off the clinging glaze or dried gravy, and then she let the water boil fast while she looked after Marta and the cabbage which she was stirring.

“Take a knife, Marta, and cut the cabbage across several times, and then, when the milk forms a creamy dressing and it all bubbles together, turn it out into the dish.”

The gravy had in two minutes boiled down enough,—there was very little from such a small joint; it was poured through a strainer and, with the meat, put to keep warm while Molly made tea.

“Turn the cabbage out now, Marta; put the cover on the dish and take it to the dining-room; then take the meat and bring in the macaroni when I ask you for it, but you can put it in the dish ready, and keep it hot. When all is ready, put on a white apron, which I hung for you behind the door, and tell Mr. Bishop, whom I see in the garden, that dinner is ready.”

Molly had dressed herself in the afternoon and only needed to run up-stairs to remove traces of her work. As the clock struck six she heard Marta carrying in dinner, and got down herself in time to tell Harry it was served.

“What joint may this be, my dear?” Harry asked when seated.

“Ah! that is the English delicacy, a ‘shoulder of lamb.’ Don’t you remember Sam Weller’s ‘shoulder of mutton and trimmings’ at the ‘Swarry?’ There is a particular way to carve it, which my mother used to be very particular about. I can only describe it by saying, you cut it like a leg, and there is the same reason for beginning at the right side,—on one side you can cut only a shallow gash and a meagre slice, on the other a deep one,—therefore, till you are familiar with the joint, prod for the bone with your fork and make one deep cut to the centre on the side where the meat is thickest.”

Harry did “prod,” and then, planting his fork, stood the joint on its side and made one cut, and the joint yawned as if a wedge had been cut out.

“There is a mythical anecdote about a lady starving herself to death on shoulder of mutton.”

“How so?”

“Why, she chose that joint every day and merely made that cut, so that when it left the table it looked as if a meal had been eaten from it, and no one commented on her abstinence from food. Thank you, I will take the dish gravy.”

“I approve of shoulder of lamb decidedly,” said Harry, during dinner.

“I am glad, for, though our English cousins look on it as far more choice than the leg, and pay more for it, it is sold here at a much lower price.”

“But what vegetable may this be?” he asked, looking curiously at the pale green, appetizing cabbage. “Cauliflower, I suppose, that has met with disasters?”

“No, it is cabbage, and I want you to eat and see if it is not good.”

“You don’t mean to tell me cabbage has been cooked in this house to-day?”

“You see it.”

“And we are not choked! Molly, I surrender; you are a magician!”

In short, Molly’s dinner was a success, and Harry no longer looked on cabbage as unfit for a “cultured palate.”

While Harry smoked his pipe on the piazza, after dinner, Molly went over her accounts. Her grocer’s bill, for what she supposed would be a month’s stores, was as follows:—

There were several things, such as soap, starch, flour, and sugar, Molly would have liked to buy in large quantities, but she wanted first to see her expenditure; she reckoned that what she had ordered of each article would last a month, and a few things, such as vinegar, bluing, sauce, wine, etc., much longer. “But I must wait till the end of the week before I can really know. The first week or month is always more expensive in housekeeping. I must add, too, to my expenditure, to-day, ten cents for cream, which will make it $3, but I have meat in the house, and if I allow one-fourth of the grocery bill for this week I have left $4.50.”

Molly was not without her anxieties that she might be wrong on her estimates, often as she had gone over them on paper. Suddenly she looked up. “I forgot the yeast, and I want to make bread!”