Molly knew the virtues of rye bread; and in perfection, as had she eaten it once in her life, she had enjoyed it much,—it had been so sweet, so light, and seemed to have the quality of never getting stale. She knew that to some people rye bread represented a loaf that cut like liver, that was sweet in flavor, but in wheaten bread would have been called heavy; and to others it was a sour, dark bread, much approved by Germans. But that rye bread need be neither of these she knew well, but she had no recipe. Then she remembered Mrs. Merit and her experience; perhaps she could help her with rye bread, as she was a famous economist.
She therefore paid a visit to her neighbor, and after a respectable amount of small talk broached her subject.
“Rye bread! laws yes—when my family was large we had it, because it don’t cost more than half as much as wheat flour does, and it’s as easy to make as mush. You just make a thick batter of one third white flour, two thirds rye; stir into each quart two tea-spoonfuls of baking-powder—and bake.”
This was a new recipe to Molly, and she meant to try it some day; but for the Gibbs family, she was satisfied that a properly yeast-leavened bread would be more wholesome, and she therefore resolved to see what she could do. She had quite a library of cook-books, but rye bread for general use did not seem to be in them. On thinking it over she couldn’t see why rye bread should not be made in the same way as white. Finally she went to work to make it exactly as white bread, making a sponge with a pint of white flour and half a cake of yeast, dissolved in a pint of warm water, a table-spoonful of sugar and two tea-spoonfuls of salt. When this was as full of holes as honeycomb, she put to it two pints of rye flour and used as much warm water as would make all into a soft dough. She kneaded it, but began to understand why it was usually stirred, for it stuck to her hands like bird-lime, and to use flour enough to free them would, she knew, spoil her bread. She worked on, regardless of stickiness, and when it was mixed divided the dough in three, put it in tins to rise, and when each was double the first size, they were baked in a very moderate oven one hour.
When they were done Molly saw she had attained the secret of her friend’s bread, for it was sweet, spongy, and with a tender crust. She kept one loaf for her own use and sent the rest to Mrs. Gibbs, with the remains of the liver made into savory collops, as follows: It was chopped fine, and an equal quantity of bread crumbs added, a quarter tea-spoonful of powdered marjoram, half one of thyme and pepper and salt; to these were put a few scraps of cold fried bacon and a little cold ham left from Wednesday morning’s breakfast, both chopped fine. The mince was just moistened with broth (from boiling down lamb bones with an onion), and a table-spoonful of flour stirred with it. Molly then made it into three good-sized balls, put them into a small, deep pan, poured in the rest of the broth, and put them to bake in the hot oven for half an hour.
It may be thought Molly was taking great trouble for Mrs. Gibbs. She knew that, and had she had it in her power to give money enough to be of substantial service to a destitute family, would not have done it. In this case, as with her husband’s income, she looked on her time as money, since by it she could make a little money go far. A dollar given to Mrs. Gibbs would have done little—bought bread for a week, perhaps, and a meal or two besides; the liver sent round to her cold would have been eaten so, and been miserable and insufficient for a dinner; the neck of lamb the same; but by the time, not an hour after all, she had double the value of what she could give, and the bread she would make from the flour would last three times as long as baker’s bread. In addition to this she went to the house where she bought her cream and asked what they did with their skimmed milk, and was told they made it into pot-cheese when they had much, but half the time they gave it away; she then obtained a promise that they would give Mrs. Gibbs two quarts a day if she sent for it. Being sure of milk, Molly felt that the best thing she could do now was to buy ten pounds of corn meal and send it to them for mush. This exhausted the dollar, and beyond making the bread and sending an occasional meal, to be concocted out of something that would not much enlarge her own expenses, she knew that she could do nothing, but did not despair of interesting others.
Molly did not want to let her little lecture on croquettes grow cold in Marta’s mind, and therefore meant to have them again very soon. To that end she made a tour of the butcher-shops in Greenfield, of which there were several, in order to find, if she could, a knuckle of veal. This would kill two or three birds with one stone. Veal is not plentiful in September, yet is sometimes in market, and for the knuckle she knew she would have to pay very little, for in this country it is looked upon as only good for stock, while in Europe it is very choice. She was fortunate enough to get one; it was quite large, that is, the meat was not cut too far down, and because of this extra size she paid twenty cents for it instead of the usual fifteen cents. She also bought a piece of salt pork (very sweet, which she could tell by the pinkish fat) for twenty cents, and four lamb’s kidneys for breakfast for five cents. So surprised was the Greenfield butcher at her wanting them that at first he had seemed to think they were hardly worth a price; evidently he did not know that they were quite a dainty in the fashionable markets of New York, and as Harry would not eat beef kidney, but was very fond of others, she made up her mind to have them often.
The knuckle of veal was to be boiled the next day very gently, in just water enough to cover it, for two hours, with a small turnip, a bay leaf, and a carrot, an onion, and a bouquet of sweet herbs. The pork was to be cooked in the same water, and served to eat with the veal, which would have a rich parsley sauce poured over it, fried potatoes and fried smelts.
Molly thought it a good plan to have fried fish, instead of soups, or boiled fish, every day when the rest of the dinner was boiled.
From the veal there would be the stock for soup, and, as there would be more meat than would be eaten, what was left would make croquettes. She did not mean to have them for dinner so soon again, but for breakfast. The practice for Marta was what she wanted.
Molly had some “rough puff paste” which she intended to use for the oyster patties. She rolled it out half an inch thick, then with a biscuit-cutter cut several rounds; these she put one on another three deep, and on each pressed a smaller biscuit-cutter half way through. She had cut twelve rounds of paste, which made four patties (three rounds or layers to the patty), and each had a circle (cut with a small cutter) on the top layer. These were put on a baking-tin and brushed over with a feather dipped in white of egg, and put in the oven, which was very hot, yet not likely to scorch. To try the heat Molly put in her hand and began to count seconds; when she had counted twenty she was forced to take out her hand, and knew the oven was right.
While she waited for them to bake, she proceeded to finish the oysters for filling, first telling Marta to beat up the remaining white of egg with a little water, and put it away for use.
The yolk was just what was needed for the oysters. She strained them from the sauce, which she put on to boil; then when quite boiling and smooth she dropped the oysters in (it will be remembered they had been not more than scalded yesterday), and in about two minutes they were firm, yet not shrunken. She took them from the fire and stirred in the yolk of an egg, already whipped, with a tea-spoonful of the cold sauce. They were thick before, but immediately became thicker as the heat cooked the egg, and the sauce was now about the consistency of the cream filling used for cream cakes or éclairs.
By this time the patties were baked. They were more than three inches high, and after they had been out of the oven a short time, Molly carefully removed the centre of the top layer marked out with the small cutter, and laid it aside, for it was the cover of the patty; then with a small coffee-spoon she scooped out the half-cooked paste from the centre, and then replaced the top. They were now ready to be filled, but as they would have to be made hot for dinner she did not fill them, as the paste would be burnt up before the inside would be warm; she therefore directed Marta to stand the oysters in boiling water a few minutes before serving them, and keep them stirred, and to put the patty-cases in the oven at the same time; let them get thoroughly heated, and when both were hot, put the oyster filling in them with a spoon. Molly gave these directions for the moral effect, but, having strong suspicions that Marta would be unequal to such neat-handed work and might cover the outside of the patties with the filling, saw to that part herself before going to the table.