Mrs. Welles’s trunk arrived the next morning and Molly found her friend had come as she said, “prepared and loaded for a kitchen campaign.” Several little things not easily obtained in a country town she had brought, and last of all she handed out a paper package.
“There, Molly, I thought, perhaps, you had none, and I have two or three recipes needing the stuff, so I made sure and brought it with me.”
Molly had meanwhile cut the strings and saw in the paper a thick roll of something wrapped in waxed paper.
“Ah, almond paste! I wished when I was chopping almonds the other day that I had some.”
The almond paste was a substance that looked, in color and appearance, like very heavy bread: it was almonds ground by machinery, and saved infinite time in preparing almonds for macaroons, cake, etc.
“There, Mistress Molly, you see we are going to make goodies while I am here.”
“I shall be glad to do my part and sit at your feet again.”
“Nonsense, Molly, I have nothing to teach you. You were too intelligent not to see, when you had the key to a few things, that the rest was a matter of experiment and practice; but while I was in London I had some recipes given to me, vaguely written, as amateur recipes usually are, but I want to try to get them right.”
Molly, mindful of her guest’s English tastes, had asked her butcher to save her two ox-tails, as they were very cheap things, and she prepared them for soup while Mrs. Welles finished her unpacking.
First, she cut up the tails into joints and each joint of the root of it into three, then put them on the fire, in cold water, let it come to the boiling-point, drained them off and pumped cold water on them. This was the process called “blanching,” so often directed in cooking-books without further explanation. They were then dried in a cloth, dusted with flour, put in a pot with a table-spoonful of butter, and fried a bright brown and frequently stirred round, to color them evenly; then she cut up a carrot, a turnip, and an onion, and put them into it, then added a bay leaf, three sprigs of parsley, half a salt-spoonful of thyme and marjoram, two cloves, a tea-spoonful and a half of salt, and half a salt-spoonful of pepper and two quarts of water. This was to simmer four hours; at the end of the second hour a few of the nicest joints of the tail were taken out to serve in the soup, the others left to boil down with it. Half an hour before dinner the soup was strained and a table-spoonful of brown thickening (recipe in Chapter XIII.) stirred into it to make it the consistency of very thin cream. As it boiled down it would grow thicker; then it was put to boil fast, without a cover, and every few minutes skimmed. When quite clear of fat, the joints of the tail were put in, a glass of wine added,[3] and the soup was ready to serve.
Mr. and Mrs. Bishop’s turn was near to receive the reading-club, and Molly had thought it would be pleasant to have it the week Charlotte was with her. The lady entertaining could, of course, invite any of her friends, and Molly asked Mr. and Mrs. Lennox. Mrs. Welles was delighted to help, and the afternoon was given to a discussion of what should be provided.
“We are wisely limited as to what is to constitute the refreshment. There must be no oysters or ice cream, only cakes and sandwiches and coffee and tea, or chocolate.”
“No bouillon?”
“Yes, that has been admitted in place of one of the other beverages, as so many can’t take coffee or tea at night.”
“Let’s say coffee and bouillon, then, and sandwiches. Are you limited to one kind?”
“No. Mrs. Framley, last week, had tongue, cheese and chicken.”
“Well, have chicken and lobster then. How many guests shall you expect?”
“About thirty-four.”
I suppose it is not necessary to go further into figures at this day to show that Molly was likely to do all she had undertaken to do on her allowance of ten dollars a week, but as her evening was a great success and cost very little, I will give the details to show how it was done and what the actual cost was. The flavorings formed part of Molly’s stores and the almond paste was given to her, yet I add the price here, for those who may wish to go and do likewise may not be so fortunate. Although the list of articles were ordered, they were not all used.
| One dozen eggs | $0.25 |
| One lobster, 3 pounds | .36 |
| One can of boned chicken | .50 |
| One pound of almond paste | .30 |
| One pound of butter | .25 |
| Leg of beef | .50 |
| Half pound of coffee | .15 |
| Milk | .12 |
| Sugar | .24 |
| Bread | .20 |
| $2.87 |
The first thing was to make four loaves of nice bread; this Molly did, using two quarts of water and one cake of yeast (see recipe for bread, Chapter XV.). To save trouble of cutting, Mrs. Welles suggested pipe bread (grisini) to eat with the bouillon, and before the bread was put to rise a piece was broken from the dough of the size of a large orange; to this was added the white of an egg, whipped a little, a tea-spoonful of powdered sugar and a good tea-spoonful of butter softened. When it was all well incorporated, flour, warmed and sifted, was added to bring it to the consistency of stiffish bread-dough. It was kneaded long and well and set to rise. It took longer than the bread, because it was a little stiffer and also the bread and additional flour weakened the yeast. When it had swelled well, however, Mrs. Welles and Molly sat down together to roll it, while Marta attended to the dinner, which was to consist of soup, stewed lamb and peas, stuffed potatoes and méringues, with whipped cream.
The méringues had been made in the morning and the cream whipped. The stewed lamb was something so simple that it could be left to Marta, although in leaving any stewing or boiling to Marta, now or any other time, Molly never omitted an occasional glance to see that it neither left off simmering and that the simmering had not become boiling.
“The rolling out of grisini is a very tedious task,” said Mrs. Welles, “but the compensation is that they keep as well as crackers, once made.”
“You will have to direct me, Charlotte, as I have never made these before.”
“All you have to do is to roll a small piece of dough under your hands on the board, so, till it is no thicker than a pencil. If the dough is too soft—it should be stiffer than bread-dough, yet quite elastic—you can add a very little flour.” As she spoke she laid her two hands over a bit of dough as large as a hickory nut and began rolling, pressing pretty hard as she rolled.
“If they do not roll smooth, wet your palm with milk slightly.”
Molly followed directions. As each pipe was made it was laid on a baking-pan. They were irregular in length, but generally about nine or ten inches long.
It took them half an hour to roll them, for it was difficult at first for Molly to get hers of fairly even thickness all the way down, but practice brought facility. The dough made about three dozen, and they were put in a warm place to swell till as thick as a medium-sized cigar. Then they were to be baked in a cool oven half an hour. They were to be very lightly colored, when done, about like pilot biscuits, and should snap short; hence the slow oven, as they must dry as well as cook.
The bread had not been set till early in the morning, so that it might bake late in the day, for Molly’s reception was to be on Friday—this was Wednesday—and she wanted the bread to be as near as possible two days old, for sandwiches, yet not at all stale. The bouillon and cakes would be made Thursday, and there would be nothing but the sandwiches to cut and coffee to make on the day itself. Molly was anxious to get all done before that, so as to be quite fresh for her friends.
Before leaving the kitchen she went over the recipes she had written for Marta’s guidance, emphasizing all important points. For the stewed lamb there were some lean chops from under the shoulder (see Chapter III.); these were floured and laid in a stewpan with a little butter and fried brown, an onion cut up and a piece of carrot (half a small one), and enough hot water barely to cover them was poured on them with half a tea-spoonful of salt. They were to stew very slowly for two hours, then taken up and kept hot while the gravy was skimmed and allowed to boil down to half a pint, a large teaspoonful of brown thickening was put into it and a can of peas, and seasoned to taste, then the meat was returned and allowed to stew very gently a quarter of an hour more.
Harry had been told laughingly he was to expect a very plain dinner.
“And is that the result of having two expert cooks in the house? Mrs. Welles, I’ve been petting my digestion for the last month in order to cope with the culinary productions of the pair of you, and this is the result. I’ve heard before that too many cooks spoil the broth, but I didn’t know it extended to the whole dinner.”
Although Molly had made the méringues herself, she had written the recipe, which is as follows:
Beat the white of two eggs as stiff as possible, that is to say, till it will not slip out of the bowl, then stir into it very gently three ounces of powdered sugar, remembering the rule that anything to be mixed with white of egg must be done with a light lifting motion of the spoon, rather than stirring, which may liquefy the eggs. Fill a table-spoon with the mixture and turn on to a sheet of white paper placed on a board which has been made a little damp; the moulds should be oval, like half an egg. Put them in a very cool oven for fifteen or twenty minutes, then open the door and leave them ten minutes longer; the idea is to make the crust as thick as possible, which is done by the long slow drying; if firm enough remove them from the paper, take out the moist centre very carefully, and when cold fill them with cream, flavored, sweetened, and whipped solid (recipe Chapter XXVIII.), then put two together; they should be over full, and the cream show considerably between the two sides.
[3] The wine is optional.
The next day Mrs. Welles and Molly were in the kitchen bright and early. She had ordered the day before all she would need for dinner, and did not require to leave the house. They had planned to make macaroons and fancy cakes. For the macaroons, half a pound of almond paste and three quarters of a pound of powdered sugar were weighed carefully, then three large eggs were separated and beaten. Mrs. Welles put the almond paste in the chopping-bowl, and chopped it into fine crumbs (which saves a good deal of mashing with a fork), while Molly beat eggs and added the sugar, making icing, in fact; then the crumbled almond paste was put to it and mashed with the back of a fork into the icing, till it was all smooth and perfectly blended; some sheets of thin paper were rubbed with suet and cut to fit the dripping-pan, on which they were to be baked; half a tea-spoonful was dropped on a bit of paper, and put in to try the oven, and meanwhile a dozen or so of almonds were blanched and each split into six.
The macaroon, when looked at, had flattened down, as it should do, but just a shade more than was just right, and a tea-spoonful more powdered sugar was stirred in. Then the mixture was taken up on the end of a tea-spoon, and bits as large as small nutmegs were dropped on the greased paper,—about two inches apart,—and then on each of them three or four bits of almond were put irregularly. The oven was moderate,—not too cool, nor yet hot enough to color them till they had been in it ten minutes.
“While you bake those, I’ll make some Genoese pastry,” said Mrs. Welles.
“That is a novelty to me; at least, I have heard of it, but not tried it. If I remember rightly you told me you had once tried it, but found it very unsatisfactory.”
“Yes, it was too sticky while warm to cut, and too brittle when cold, but I have now another recipe which I want to try, and if it is good it will be just the thing for your fancy cakes. This is the recipe:
“Genoese pastry.—Four ounces of flour, three of butter, four of almond paste, and five eggs. Melt the butter in a bowl, taking care it does not get very hot. Break the eggs into a bowl, add the sugar to them, stand the bowl in a saucepan of boiling water, and whip eggs and sugar for twenty minutes, but they must not get very hot; take the bowl from the water, add the almond paste, crumbled fine, to it, beat till smooth, then add the butter, and last of all slip in the flour, stirring lightly all the time; bake, in a round jelly-cake-pan lined with buttered paper very neatly fitted and standing an inch above the edge, in a rather quick oven for half an hour. When it is done, no mark should remain on it when pressed with the finger.”
“Has any one you know tried the recipe?”
“Oh, yes; and I have eaten the cake, and found it excellent.”
Molly now opened the oven to look at the macaroons, and found they could be put for one minute at the top, to take a deeper tint, and another pan which she had ready could be put in the bottom of the oven.
Then she prepared one more sheet, after taking the first from the oven. These she left on the pan to cool a few minutes before touching them; then she lifted the paper from it, replaced it by a fresh one, and did not attempt to take the macaroons from the paper till they were nearly cold. She handled them after they were baked, and until cold, as if they were egg shells.
Marta, who had now finished her morning’s work, was told to put on the bouillon.
“You must take the largest pot, Marta; that shin weighs eight pounds. It is cut in three, but gash it well, take out the marrow, and put on eight quarts of cold water; when it is near the boiling-point, skim it,—take care the scum does not break. After it is off, throw in a wine-glass of cold water and wait; when it is once again near boiling, skim again; repeat the cold water and skimming twice, then leave it to boil four hours very slowly.”
When separating the yolks of eggs from the whites, for the macaroons, they had been at once beaten with a tea-spoonful of cold water to prevent hardening,—which they are apt to do when waiting even a very short time, if not beaten,—and set aside for jumbles, which Molly made while Mrs. Welles made the Genoese pastry. She used for them six ounces of butter, six ounces of sugar, and half a pound of flour, with the yolks of the three eggs. The butter was beaten to a cream and then the sugar and eggs added, the flour sifted in, a table-spoonful of wine put in, and when all was well mixed a few drops of extract of rose was added, Molly tasting the paste to judge the quantity. It needed to be perceptible, as it goes off in baking. Then she rolled it into little balls about the size of a hickory nut, and on some stuck half a blanched almond, on others a little bit of green citron, and on others a strip of candied lemon peel.
Rolling them thus was much less trouble than cutting them into rings and shaping them in sugar, and quite as sightly, for the balls melt down in the oven into round cakes. They require a moderate oven; if too slow they melt too much, if too quick they burn before they are done.
To keep the oven just right this morning when a steady, moderate heat was required, Molly attended to the fire herself. Having seen that it was solid at first, she kept it so by adding a very few coals before it had shown any signs of going down. As soon as the jumbles were firm and the bright yellow had changed to the palest pine color, they were taken out, without waiting for them to brown at all.
The Genoese pastry was now done; it looked like a thick jelly-cake, and when cool was to be cut and jelly laid between it sandwich-fashion, and some pieces iced plain.
When the macaroons were taken off the papers, there were found to be between seventy and eighty, but as in two pans there were two or three that had sunken somewhat and were less handsome than the rest, those were laid aside. There were also nearly four dozen jumbles, and there would be about three dozen tablettes from the Genoese pastry.
It was getting near luncheon time and they were both rather tired; therefore they gave up till after they had eaten and rested.
“I hope, Molly, you take care of yourself in this way,” said her friend as they sat down to a comfortable lunch. “I remember how you used to horrify me in London by going without food for hours, or only eating cake or pastry, if you had anything on hand to interest you.”
“Yes, nowadays I do, whether I feel hungry or not: I sit down and force myself to eat, and I do it leisurely also, for if I finish eating in ten minutes I take a book or newspaper and spend the full hour resting, then I go to work fresh again; although I confess I do it often in spite of my nerves, which urge me to finish. But I do it, and I know that eating nothing at all or a mere snack in a hurry, at noon, and then keeping on with the sewing, or preserving, or shopping, is what wears out half us American women. I used to get tired and faint about three o’clock, after doing very little, and was almost ashamed that I, a healthy young girl, should do so when I saw elderly women keep on from morning till night. You and your mother first awakened me to the fact that it was lack of food. My own dear mother had been like myself all her life, neglecting her noon meal, simply because she never felt hungry. Now I get a meal of some substantial kind, and I make Marta do the same, for she also is inclined to take a standing lunch,—just a bit of bread and cheese, she likes best.”
“Well, I don’t believe people can work well if they do not eat sensibly. I can eat three meals comfortably, but I agree with Dr. Richardson: we could do without both the others better than the mid-day meal. I suppose if you and I had kept on for a couple of hours longer we should have been a pair of wilted beings.”
“Yes, there is nothing like leaving off and resting before one is really tired, if one wants to get through a great deal without feeling it; but it is a very difficult thing to do.”
“I know it; especially difficult to those who need it most,—the nervous, energetic women; to the phlegmatic ones it comes easy enough, and they seldom overwork.”
“I have eaten the last of your ‘weal and hammer,’ my dear, and I agree with Silas Wegg: ‘it mellars the organ,’—and now I am ready for work. The next thing is to ice those cakes, I suppose, and I will put on the sugar to boil.”
“No, I have French icing ready, but I forgot until this minute to make some coloring; I bought the cochineal yesterday.”
“Well, there’s plenty of time; it will only take a few minutes; I’ll put it to boil and we will both get the Genoese cakes ready while it does so.”
Molly handed to her a packet containing an ounce of cochineal and one of cream of tartar, mixed; this was put to boil in half a pint of water, and was to reduce to half. While this was going on Molly got out some raspberry jam and the lemon paste she had made.
“I wonder what I should have done if these good things had not come so apropos!”—alluding to her mother-in-law’s gift.
“Done, my dear? You would not have felt the lack of them; you would just have made your jumbles and some cocoanut macaroons and cones; made some sponge drop-cakes, which you would have iced, and would have forgotten to wish even that you had not the other things; I know you, Molly.”
Molly laughed. “To tell the truth, I had thought the matter over, and decided to make some orange paste, for which I have a very old recipe, and as two oranges are enough, it would not have been very costly.”
“Before I go away I want to try it, if oranges are to be got yet, out here.”
“I saw a few pale things, but Harry can bring some early Floridas.”
As they talked they worked. The bread-board was put between them, and the Genoese cake was split carefully into four even layers. The rounded sides were trimmed off wide enough to cut into odd-shaped pieces to be dipped into icing.
The cochineal had now boiled fast about ten minutes uncovered, and by the rim round the little saucepan showed it had diminished to one-half.
“Now if one can avoid getting one’s fingers in it, and looking like an executioner for a day or two, it will be very nice; where’s the alum, Molly?”
Molly handed the tiny packet containing two drachms of alum to Mrs. Welles. It was put into the cochineal, stirred, and then a small strainer was put on a cup, a piece of muslin laid in it, and the coloring poured through it; then the ends of the muslin were gathered together and the sediment gently pressed with a spoon and then thrown away.
Molly, meanwhile, had been spreading one of the layers of cake with the lemon paste, very thinly, and laid another on top of it,—this was one cake; the other layer was spread with raspberry jam, and on that also a slice was laid. I have said that the rounded sides were cut off, leaving the centre square. These sides were cut into three-cornered pieces; there were, consequently, a number of these corner pieces, and two square cakes,—one with raspberry jam, one with lemon. Molly had brought out the French or fondant icing, the vanilla flavoring, the bitter almond, and the caramel coloring. She divided the icing, putting one part into a small bowl which she set in a saucepan of boiling water, stirring it till it was creamy. Mrs. Welles had laid a sheet of confectioner’s paper on the board, and when the icing was melted, Molly brought it to the table and put to it a very small half tea-spoonful of vanilla, and stirred it; then she dipped a table-spoon in the boiling water, shook the water from it and then took it full of the icing from the bowl and poured it on the layers of cake containing the lemon, and spread it, using more icing as she needed it, smoothing it with a knife dipped into boiling water and shaken.
When it was done, Mrs. Welles warmed a knife and cut the cake into neat tablettes an inch wide and two inches long, while Molly put the same icing over the fire, stirred it slowly till the water under it was boiling, and the icing creamy. She took it to the table, colored it a beautiful creamy coffee color with a few drops of caramel, and then dropped the corner pieces, one by one, as fast as she could, into it, taking them out as soon as they were covered, and laying them on the waxed paper with a fork. Before half were done the icing got stiff, and she had to put it on the fire once more; and this time, as each heating up made the icing a degree higher candy, she put in a few drops of water from the end of a spoon,—a dozen drops perhaps in all,—then the icing became creamy again. She finished dipping the cakes, all but three or four, for which the icing fell short. Now the other portion of icing was put in a bowl, melted to cream in boiling water, a few drops of cochineal added to it, and a few drops (very few) of almond flavoring. The cochineal made it a beautiful pale pink. This was laid on the tablette of cake in which was raspberry jam, in the same way as the white, and it also was cut into tablettes while Molly dipped the rest of her three-cornered pieces of cake into the pink icing.
There was now a plate of pink, almond-iced tablettes with raspberry jam; one of white, vanilla-iced tablettes with lemon filling, and on the sheet of waxed paper lay several that looked like large, oblong, French candies, pink and pale coffee-colored,—being completely covered with icing, no one could tell they were cake.
“Now the cakes are all made, are they not?” asked Mrs. Welles.
“Yes; but I’m sadly afraid people will think they have cost much more than is usually spent at these meetings; but I know they have not. Mrs. Framley had sponge cake only, yet the eggs alone for the five loaves she made would cost more than these cakes.”
“Well, it can’t be helped,” said Mrs. Welles.
“No,” laughed Molly; “I meant only to have the iced jelly cakes, and though Genoese is so delicious I don’t know that that difference will be understood, but your bringing the almond paste tempted me into the macaroons, and then to make use of the yolks; of course they led to the jumbles.”
“Yes, but they would pass; it is the ‘Frenchy’ look of the iced cakes that will seem costly, but you can tell your friends what the cost really is.”
“I know, only I hate to seem to lay myself out; yet when things can be made so pretty one can’t resist doing it.”
“You can’t, because you love the work as others love Kensington stitch and can’t resist adding to the beauty of their surroundings in that way. You and I resist that temptation very well, but this makes one understand it. All work is pleasure if you love it and know how to do it.”
“Now I’ll see the dinner on and we’ll adjourn and leave Marta in possession,” said Molly.
Molly looked at the bouillon, which had been simmering four hours; and Marta asked if she should put in the vegetables.
“No; this is to be extra strong, in fact consommé,—which means bouillon very much reduced,—so this can simmer two hours more; then strain the meat from it, and to-morrow you can take off all fat; and then put to it two carrots cut up small, two turnips, two onions, and let them boil in it two hours; this will reduce it enough; then it can be strained and cleared.”
Molly had arranged to have for dinner just such things as Marta could cook, but the substantial part of it was to be Irish stew, that good old savory dish. Excellent as it is when well made, there is nothing more “poverty seeming” than the same thing carelessly done; therefore she meant to see it all on to cook before leaving the kitchen.
Irish Stew.—Half a dozen lean chops from the neck were floured and put in a saucepan with two onions and a tea-spoonful of butter, and quickly browned; but the onion was not allowed to burn, and therefore it was all kept moving about. A pint of cold water was then put to it, and the fat that this brought to the surface skimmed off and a tea-spoonful of salt and one third of a tea-spoonful of pepper added. It was put where it would simmer very gently for an hour and a half, when it was to be again skimmed, and a tea-spoonful of Worcestershire sauce put to it; the gravy tasted to see if salt enough, and half a dozen large potatoes (or more if small) cut in half; then it was to be closely covered and was to simmer for another hour. Molly cautioned Marta against adding more water.
“When you put the potatoes in, never mind if the gravy does not cover them; they are to stew over the meat; sufficient good gravy to serve is all that is necessary, if you cover the potatoes with liquid as often is done, you get a good deal of broth, but no gravy.”
The next morning the lobster which Molly had ordered was sent; it was quite a large one, and it was put on head downward into boiling water in which there were four table-spoonfuls of salt to the gallon. Marta was told to let it boil gently half an hour, then to take it out, as if it boils too long the meat becomes tough and stringy; but, although Marta had that order and Molly left the kitchen to go through her usual morning duties up-stairs, Mrs. Welles noticed that when the half hour was up Molly herself went to see that Marta had not forgotten.
“My dear Molly, a Marta would be the death of me, or I of her, if I had one.”
“Why?”
“She requires such endless looking after. Why don’t you get a more experienced girl?”
“Because perhaps the experienced girl would be the ‘death of me.’ I mean it is unlikely the experience would exactly fit my needs, and if it did not, it would be in the way of her learning my ways.”
“Does Marta learn?”
“Indeed she does—slowly; but remember, she is so newly arrived.”
“Oh, it is not her accomplishments I disparage, but that you cannot trust her to carry out such a simple order as to take a thing out of water at a certain time. What made you give the order if you did not expect to have it remembered?”
“Moral effect, I suppose,” laughed Molly. “I always pretend to leave things to Marta, but as a matter of fact, it was the very simplicity of this thing that made me careful; Marta is impressed, I find, with large appearances; if I tell her to do something that is to have some very choice result, although I expect her to blunder, she generally surprises me by carrying out the order well, because she is impressed, and all her attention on the alert. She can do three or four things now she is proud of; one is frying, because she has completely mastered the art, and the results are so showy; then she has lived in Germany as scullion, where she has heard fine cooking spoken of with respect, and knows it is worth doing well. The difficulty lies generally in the fact that half our servants don’t know that there is such a thing as standard cooking; anything beyond their ken is ‘new-fangled,’ and is a mystery not worth knowing.”
“Well, well, I admire your patience; I never could emulate it.”
“Oh, yes, you would, if it were only necessary; but with you it is not; you have several servants, and can import your cooks specially trained.”
“Molly, I could do without servants easily; I would, rather than watch and follow as you do Marta.”
“We’ll talk over this another time. I’m sure you would not, for long, like to do without a pair of willing, if clumsy hands; a dirty servant, I grant, you are better without,—but I must go down.”
“And I too. What shall I do?”
“Make mayonnaise for the sandwiches.
“Put on the soup, Marta, and the vegetables in it as I told you yesterday.”
The lobster was now cool, and Molly began to prepare it. She took off the claws, split it down the back, then called Marta to watch as she removed the entrail that runs through the tail. “In the head is found a small bladder or bag which must be taken out; it is sometimes called the ‘lady;’ and along each side, under the shell, will be found bits of a drab-colored spongy substance called the ‘lady’s fingers;’ they are at the root of the small claws; when these are removed, all the rest of the lobster is good. This soft, greenish fat might seem to you should be thrown away, but it is, many think, the best part of the lobster.”
The claws were then cracked and the meat taken out. Molly then made a pint of white sauce and divided it into two parts. Into one she put the meat of the lobster chopped fine, and seasoned it very highly with pepper and salt, and enough lemon juice to give a perceptible acid or piquant taste, and two tea-spoonfuls of very finely chopped pickled cucumber.
To the other sauce she stirred the contents of a box of chicken also chopped fine, and a large table-spoonful of the mayonnaise, which was made rather more tart than usual, and this also was seasoned highly and a tea-spoonful of capers stirred through it. Both the lobster and chicken were put away till time to cut sandwiches.
The dinner was to be oysters on the half shell and stewed steak, as being easy and British.
The recipe was given to Marta, who, with a little looking after, could prepare it. It was as follows:—
Put a table-spoonful of butter in a stew-pan; when hot lay in a pound and a half of the tender side of round steak floured, having removed nearly all fat. Let it quickly brown with one onion, cut in slices; then put to it a pint of boiling water. Draw it to the side of the fire, where it will just simmer for two hours and a half; then take the meat up on a hot dish, and skim the gravy clear of fat; stir into it a dessert-spoonful of brown thickening (see recipe, Chapter XIII.), and a half can of mushrooms, with the liquor. Let this boil fast till there is about half a pint; season with pepper and salt, take off the little skin of grease that fast boiling has sent to the surface, draw it back from the fire, and lay the steak in again; let it all just keep at the boiling-point, not boil, for a quarter of an hour.
Harry was to come home at five to get dinner over, and by way of a sweet dish they were to have omelette soufflé, or as Harry called it, hot ice cream; it was quickly made and required no sauce. After luncheon, as there was nothing more to be done till the consommé was ready to clear, Molly and her friend went out to walk. At half a mile distance there was a spot where Molly had remarked the lovely ferns and moss; they took a basket to bring some home to dress the rooms, and as there were few flowers, they gathered the white plumes of the wild carrot.
“I think we will resist the golden-rod, graceful as it is; every room in Greenfield has a bunch of it, no doubt.”
When in the house two ginger-jars were filled with the ferns and tall white blossoms; from one, long sprays of honeysuckle from their own piazza were trailing, and this was put on the little stand in the hall. The other jar was put in the fireplace in the parlor. About the rooms tufts of bright red geraniums were set in specimen glasses.
“I think that looks quite festive,” said Mrs. Welles, surveying the effect. “Will you have autumn leaves for the buffet?”
“I confess I don’t like them in rooms, beautiful as they are on trees; I thought of filling those tall jars with these ferns and putting single sprays of them in tall champagne glasses between the dishes of sandwiches.”
“That will be prettier.”
Molly had decided, as Marta would be a shy and possibly awkward waitress, to have everything except soup and coffee arranged prettily on the sideboard, and every gentleman could help himself and a lady. The coffee and consommé would be sent round, and a small table had a tea-equipage arranged on it. Mrs. Welles would steer Marta to safety, when she should start with the waiter. It was a matter for discussion whether Marta should be called upon at all, and she was admitted to service simply as a pleasure to herself; Molly knew she would be greatly disappointed if she were not allowed to take some active part in the proceedings.
“You are a curious girl, Molly,” Mrs. Welles had said when she heard Molly’s reason. “It would not have occurred to me.”
“Nor to me, perhaps, if I had not remembered that this girl has no acquaintances about here, and to the festive German nature to sit in a quiet kitchen, and hear voices and laughter, must be infinitely more dull than making herself useful and seeing the faces of those who laugh and talk. I can see she is quite excited by the thought of numbers of people.”
The sideboard was moved into the pantry off the dining-room; two Albert biscuit boxes were put, one at each end of it, a small board (one of a set of hanging book-shelves removed for the occasion) was placed on them and then covered with a fine white napkin; at each end a vase of ferns, and along it, disposed so that the colors would show to best advantage, were the iced cakes and macaroons. On the sideboard itself another long white napkin was laid, and here were to be the dishes of sandwiches; the arrangement of this beforehand freed Molly from anxiety, and when the door of the pantry was closed it was not seen; yet with it open the sideboard was so placed that it and nothing else was visible from the room. A bracket lamp was to be fastened so as to light it up as much as the interior of the dining-room. When the arrangements were all made, Mrs. Welles and Molly repaired to the kitchen. The dinner was quietly cooking and Marta had just got through her work.
“I will clear the soup first, because I want you to see it, Marta.” Molly took the two whites of eggs and their shells left from the mayonnaise and two more; then she beat up shells and all to a froth, mixed a small cup of the cold soup with them, and poured the whole into the soup, beating all the while till it was at boiling-point again; then she drew it back from the fire and left it ten minutes. While it settled, she put a large mixing-bowl on the table, and a colander in that; then an old napkin, that she had dipped into boiling water and wrung out, was laid over the colander. In ten minutes the egg was hanging in the soup like white curds and the soup itself looked quite clear.
It was poured through the cloth and allowed to drip. Molly lifted the colander, and when the soup had run through removed it without squeezing. The soup lay in the bowl like clear weak tea. Molly added a few drops of caramel (see Chapter XIII.), and then tasted it for seasoning. The caramel only made it a shade darker than it was, just a bright straw color. The boiling with the vegetables had reduced it to about five quarts. Intending it to be so reduced had caused Molly to omit part of the salt; if salted for eight quarts and reduced to five it would be too salt to use, as salt never evaporates.
The soup was now put into a marbleized preserving-pan, which would give no more taste than a china bowl, and be ready to boil up when required.
Mrs. Welles had, meanwhile, been cutting sandwiches, and already had quite a pile of thin slices of bread, which Molly now spread thinly with mayonnaise. When two loaves were cut up, Mrs. Welles put a thin layer of the chicken mixture on some of the slices Molly had spread with mayonnaise; then put another slice over it, and when a good many were done, the crust was cut off all round and each slice cut from corner to corner, thus making four little three-cornered sandwiches. When there were enough of these done, they treated the lobster in the same way, and when all were cut and arranged on dishes a damp cloth was laid over them, and they were put in a cool place till just before they were needed. Everything was now ready. Mrs. Winfield’s reserve cups and saucers had all been got out and dusted; Mrs. Lennox had sent over a dozen. These were put in readiness, with piles of small plates, napkins, etc., on a large tray to be brought in and placed by the sideboard when the time came.
Omelet Soufflé.—Molly beat four whites of eggs till they would not slip from the bowl, just before dinner, and then the yolks of two she beat four minutes with three table-spoonfuls of powdered sugar and one tea-spoonful of vanilla extract.
When Marta was ready to put the dinner on the table, Molly turned the whites of the eggs on the yolks, and mixed them very gently, lifting the yolks as it were over the whites with the spoon, not stirring them; any quick movement with whites of eggs tends to liquefy them; then she buttered an oval dish and heaped the mixture lightly on it, a table-spoonful at a time, piling always towards the middle; then she sifted powdered sugar over it, and just before she went in to dinner she put it in the oven, which was moderately hot.
“It will take about ten minutes to get a golden brown, Marta, and when you look at it be careful not to fully open the door, for the least draught may cause it to fall; and when it is nicely brown bring it in without waiting for anything. I will have the table ready for you.”
Of course Molly’s supper was a success, and of course there were many who thought it must have cost a great deal more than the amount usually expended; but when there was a comparison of expenses there was nothing to be said, for Molly was well within the lowest, and then every one wanted to know how it was done, and especially how the sandwiches were made, such a pleasant change were they from the usual thing, good as it is. Molly was not experienced in quantities needed, and had feared something might fall short, but there were both consommé and cakes left.
“Shall we have to live on ‘stale party’ the rest of the week, Molly?” Harry had asked.
“You’ll have ‘stale party’ soup a couple of times, but no other reminiscence shall be served up.”
And to give Marta an opportunity of showing her way of making noodles to Mrs. Welles, Molly decided to have noodle soup and roast beef for dinner.
They all three set to work to remove the traces of the night before. While Marta swept, Molly and her friend washed up dishes and returned them to their places. When all was done, Molly said, “What can I make with the spare yolks of eggs from yesterday?”
“How many are there?”
“Four,—two from the omelette soufflé and two from clearing the soup.”
“Then make a French rice cake for dinner.”
“You make it, for I don’t know how. And now you are here, I want to cook a calf’s head. You are fond of it, I know, and one is too much for us alone; besides, there are so many English ways of cooking it. I only know one.”
“Get the head, and I will show you half a dozen dishes from it. Do you want mock-turtle soup?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Then we will use half for that purpose, and the other we will do various things with.”
Molly had already ordered her butcher to get one for her one day this week. He had sent word it would be ready this morning, and she was expecting it.
Calf’s head, although a fashionable dish, either as mock-turtle or any of the several ways in which it is served, is, like some other things with an awe-inspiring name, a very economical one, especially in country places, where calves’ heads have few buyers. For this reason Molly wanted to perfect herself in preparing it. By the time Mrs. Welles had put a small cup of rice on to boil in a pint and a half of milk, the head came. She watched the rice come to the boil, then put it where it would simmer slowly, and turned her attention to the head. It was a very good one, for Molly had said if it were not fat she would not care to have it. She had also directed it to be split. He had asked her if she wanted it skinned.
“No, indeed; only scalded and the hair scraped off.”
“I only asked, because some folks like them skinned.”
Molly was relating this to Mrs. Welles and preparing her to see the head either skinned in spite of her order, or else sent with the hair half on when it came, but it was really very well dressed.
“I’m going to let you prepare it, Charlotte, and look on, for I have only seen it done once at a cooking-demonstration.”
“Very well, you attend to the rice, then, and keep it from burning. It must stew slowly, with the cover tight on it, till it will mash into a paste, and more milk added if required.”
Mrs. Welles laid the head open on a meat-board, and then removed the tongue and brains, being very careful not to injure them. She laid them in a dish of water, in which was a small cup of vinegar, until they were needed for use; then she took out the membrane of the nasal passages and washed the head in salt and water. This done, she put the head in a pot and covered it with six quarts of cold water. It was to boil very slowly two hours. Into the water she put a large carrot, a turnip, and an onion, with six sprigs of parsley, two bay leaves, half a tea-spoonful of marjoram and the same of thyme (these herbs were tied up in a bit of muslin), and a small table-spoonful of salt, with half a tea-spoonful of pepper.
By the time this was done the rice was cooked thoroughly, and it was as stiff as could be stirred and turned out into a bowl, when it was sweetened, a tiny pinch of salt put into it, a large tea-spoonful of vanilla extract, and the grated rind of a lemon; and when a little cool, the beaten yolks of eggs, and all was stirred together. It was now about the consistence of stiff mush. A square shallow pan was thickly buttered, and strewed with bread crumbs, and the rice put into it. The pan used was a small-sized dripping-pan, and the rice formed a layer an inch and a half deep. It was made very smooth over the top, and then a little butter was oiled and poured on it; the pan was then so moved that the butter ran over the rice in every direction; sugar was then sifted all over it a quarter of an inch deep, and the whole was put in the oven to bake till a fine brown.
“If you want that to be extra fine, Molly, at any time, chop a cup of almonds quite fine, and strew them over with the sugar. When it is baked, let it get cold in the pan, then turn it out and cut it into strips or tablets an inch broad and two or three in length. They should be put on a dish in the ice-box before serving, to be ice cold.”
When the calf’s head had been boiling very slowly two hours, it was taken carefully from the water and one half of it was laid aside; the other half was to be for dinner. This was wiped, the inside bones carefully taken out, and it was closely scored through the outer skin; then it was washed over with a beaten egg and thickly covered with fine bread crumbs, in a cup of which half a tea-spoonful of salt, half a salt-spoonful of pepper, a tea-spoonful of finely-chopped parsley, and the third of one of thyme or savory, had been thoroughly mixed. This was to be basted with butter melted in a cup until all the crumbs were moistened, and then baked till brown. If the crumbed surface looked dry in the oven, it must be again basted. This was to be garnished with little rolls of bacon, made by cutting thinnest slices, trimmed from rind and smoke, rolled round the finger, and laid on a tin in a quick oven till clear and crisp, but not overdone.
Mrs. Welles got everything ready early, put the half head on the dish ready to go into the oven at five o’clock, cut the bacon, and told Molly what the gravy was to be, so that she might make it while she herself went on with mock-turtle soup, which was for next day’s (Sunday) dinner.
“You can have almost any sauce; English sauce piquante is very nice, or brown mushroom sauce.”
“What is English sauce piquante?”
“I call it so, although the old-fashioned name for it is Wow Wow sauce.”
“Let’s try it, if you like it.”
“I do. This is the recipe: Chop fine a dessert-spoonful of capers, the same of parsley, and one large pickled walnut or two small. Put a table-spoonful of flour and one of butter to get brown together in a saucepan; put to them, stirring all the time, half a pint of stock or the broth you have—that in which the head was boiled will do; when it boils, mix a tea-spoonful of dry mustard with a table-spoonful of wine, half one of vinegar, and a tea-spoonful of red currant or cranberry jelly, and one of Worcestershire sauce. Let all simmer till of a creamy thickness, season to taste, and last add the capers and pickles. It is a convenient sauce, because you can vary the flavor as you like, putting pickled cucumber instead of walnut or capers, any other store sauce instead of Worcestershire, and cider in place of wine, and if you have no jelly, a lump of sugar. The characteristic of the sauce is to be a very little sour, a very little sweet, and a little hot, with an agreeable flavor beside.”
The bones that had been taken from the part of the head that was to bake were put back in the pot, the meat was cut from the other half in neat pieces and laid between two dishes to keep it flat, and all the liquor that ran from it, with the rest of the bones, was put back to boil with the liquor till it was reduced to three quarts.
“Now, Molly, as it is impossible to tell how strong or weak dried herbs are, and mock-turtle is a highly flavored soup, I am going to adopt the plan of making essence of the herbs and use just enough.”
So saying, she put into a little saucepan two tea-spoonfuls of chopped parsley, three quarters of one of marjoram, three quarters of one of savory and the same of lemon thyme, and a bay leaf and a half.
“Now I’ll put these to boil, closely covered, in half a pint of water for twenty minutes, then squeeze out as much of the goodness as I can, and add this herb juice to the soup, little by little, till we get the right flavor.”
As the soup was more than sufficient to serve for two dinners, it was decided to flavor it all, then divide it, and have one half thick mock-turtle, the other clear. The thick was for Sunday’s dinner, as Mr. Welles, who was coming to dinner, was particularly fond of it. While the soup was boiling down Mrs. Welles prepared egg balls to serve with it, Molly made some rough puff paste (see Chapter VI.) for pigeon pie, and when that was done Marta was ready to make noodles.
The egg balls were made as follows: Two eggs boiled hard, the yolks pounded with a half tea-spoonful of finely chopped parsley, half a salt-spoonful of salt, a scant quarter one of white pepper, made into stiff paste with raw yolk of egg, and moulded into balls, size of marbles. Each ball was rolled in white of egg beaten a little; when well coated they were dipped in flour and dropped into boiling water for two minutes. These were part to be served in the thick soup next day, the rest left for the clear mock-turtle.
Marta used one egg for the noodles, a pinch of salt, and flour enough to make part of it into a smooth paste about as large as a small egg; this she worked smooth and laid aside; to the rest she added more flour, and did not work into a smooth paste, but into a rough, crumbly sort of ball; this, she explained, was for the quickest made and most generally used noodles, in the part of Germany she came from. She took a coarse grater and grated the rough ball into coarse crumbs that looked like yellow tapioca; these could be dried carefully in a very cool oven, and used whenever wanted. Then she took the smooth ball she had made, and asked Molly whether she would like her to make the ribbon noodles as before (see recipe, Chapter XXV.), or another sort.
“Oh, another, by all means!”
She then grated on the smooth ball of paste just a suspicion of nutmeg, put the least bit of butter on her hand,—a bit as large as a small hazel nut,—and rolled the ball and worked it over till the nutmeg and butter were in it; then she cut the paste into pieces as large as a hazel nut, made each into olive shapes, and they were finished.
“Thank you, Marta, we will have those in our soup to-night. I think I remember eating them in Germany.”
Molly had already prepared a pair of pigeons. She now put on to stew very slowly, with half a pint of water, a pound of juicy round steak, for the pigeon pie, which she intended to make next day. When the steak had simmered an hour and a half, it was taken up and put away. The calf’s tongue was parboiled, to be used on Monday.
The next morning Molly made the pie directly after breakfast. Laying the steak, cut into finger-lengths, at the bottom of a deep oval dish, the birds were divided into halves, and both steak and pigeons seasoned highly with pepper and salt. The birds were laid over the steak, placing them so that the pie would be dome-shaped when covered; two eggs were hard boiled and cut in four and the pieces laid among the meat; then a small half cup of water was poured in; the gravy from the steak was left to pour in hot when the pie was cooked. The pie was then finished in the same way as the veal and ham pie (see recipe Chapter XXXII.), except that the feet of the two birds were put in boiling water for a moment, the skin rubbed off them, leaving them a bright crimson, and a slit was made at each end of the groove that went round the pie, and two of the little feet put in each, the claws outwards.
Mrs. Welles gave Marta the pieces of calf’s head that were to go into the soup, told her to put them in half an hour before dinner, let them simmer, and just before serving she was to put into the quart, which was all that was to be made hot, a table-spoonful of brown thickening, a glass of wine, and the juice of half a lemon, with half the egg balls. The pigeon pie would need an hour to bake, and was to be kept in a very cold place until twelve.
“Molly, what are you going to do with all that beef from consommé?” asked Mrs. Welles, on the Monday after the reception.
“I have usually made hash of it and given it to a family who need all the help they can get; but there is so much, I am inclined to try an experiment. Would not part do to make an imitation of that mock brawn that is so good in London? What is the recipe?”
“That is made with new beef and pork, but if the jelly can be supplied, it would be very nice and savory treated exactly as if it were new meat.”
“So I thought, and I got from the butcher the day I bought the beef two hocks of pork. It’s early for pork, but he assured me this was killed right on a farm here, and I could see it was really good, although I must say I think November early enough, as a rule, for pork.”
“It’s a little different when you buy it in that way. What are you going to do with the feet, or ‘hocks’ as you call them?”
“They have been cleaned and laid in salt; to-morrow they will be salt enough. I think of boiling them till the bones slip out, cutting the flesh in small bits, and putting the bones back into the water and boiling till there is no more goodness in them; but as the beef is over-cooked, I don’t want the pork to be so; then strain the liquor, which will be solid jelly when cold. I think two quarts and a pint of water may be put on the hocks,—that will leave rather less than two quarts when boiled slowly for three hours with the lid on,—then I shall choose the firmest pieces of the beef, cut them into large dice, and put them into the liquor with the pork; but I want you to give me the seasoning of the regular recipe, if you brought it.”
“Yes; as you wrote you wanted some English pickling and curing recipes, I brought my little book; but I advise you to remember the difference in climate.”
“Yes, I do; but I know a family who have the most delicious bacon and ham, and they use old country recipes in curing.”
“Very well, then, I came supplied.” She took from her pocket a note-book. “The seasoning for mock brawn is as follows: Two tea-spoonfuls of salt, one of ground allspice, one of black pepper, one of sugar, half a tea-spoonful of marjoram dried and rubbed fine, half one of thyme.”
“I think I’ll use sage instead of thyme, and I fancy it will prove a very savory dish to eat cold.”
Of the calf’s head there was still the tongue, the brains, nearly two quarts of clear mock-turtle soup, a small platter of the pieces of the head boiled, and some of the baked head.
“It’s rather an absurd joint to buy for such a small family as ours, unless one is prepared to eat it in every form for three days.”
“Well, it will keep a few days, but the brains and tongue must be used soon, as they spoil easily. Suppose you have stewed tongue for dinner to-day, with brains and brown butter? The rest of the head and soup can be left for a day or two this weather, and I will prepare them at once.”
They went to the kitchen together, and Mrs. Welles began by taking the skin off the tongue, which had been parboiled on Saturday; then she trimmed it neatly and cut little strips of salt pork, parallel with the rind, as thick as a match, and larded it; then she put into a small stone pot that had a cover two slices of fat pork, a tea-spoonful of chopped parsley, half an onion, a bay leaf, a salt-spoonful of salt, half one of pepper, and half a tea-spoonful of thyme. She sprinkled the tongue with salt and pepper, laid it in the jar, and round it cut a carrot in slices; over this she poured a cup of soup and covered it close. It was to bake three hours and a half. When done it was to be taken up and the gravy strained and skimmed; the tongue was to be laid in a dish, with green peas round it, and the gravy poured over it.
She also cleaned the calf’s brains, carefully removing all the slime and fibrous skin, but without breaking them; then she told Marta to put them, half an hour before dinner, into well-salted water in which was a small bunch of parsley and a bay leaf, to boil for twenty minutes; then she was to have ready some fried circles of bread, the size of a tea-cup and half an inch thick. (See frying, Chapter IV.) When the brains were done they were to be taken up and divided, and a neat piece put on each round of bread, and on the centre of each a small piece of pickled gherkin or red beet, and then they were to have poured over them brown butter, made as follows: One table-spoonful of butter melted in a little saucepan till it was a pale brown (not the least burnt), then a tea-spoonful of lemon juice and the same of finely chopped parsley was to be put in it. She warned her if the butter should get the least bit too dark it would be spoilt, and it would darken even in carrying from the range to the table, therefore to remove it as soon as the color began to change.
The following were the ways in which the remains of the head were disposed of. Though Molly was tired of it by the time it was gone, Harry was not, and she could not but recommend it to Mrs. Lennox as an economical dish to have for a large family, provided she bought only a large fleshy head; a bony one is not worth the trouble of cooking.
The pieces already boiled in the soup made two small entrées for Wednesday and Thursday; the first was simply some pieces simmered half an hour in a very little of the soup, then taken up and a Hollandaise sauce poured over it. (See recipe, Chapter XXIX.) The second was the quite celebrated one.
Calf’s Head en Tortue, made as follows: A table-spoonful of butter was melted in a saucepan, a table-spoonful of flour mixed with it and allowed to bubble; then a cup of the clear soup reserved for the purpose was put to it and stirred, to make a thick, smooth sauce; the juice of a large tomato (Molly used a little pulp of canned tomato, as the season was over) was strained to it, and the liquor from half a can of mushrooms and a dozen of the mushrooms; the pieces of meat were laid in this sauce and stewed for twenty minutes very gently, with great care that they might not burn. While this was cooking, a small saucepan was put on, half full of fat, and made very hot; then one egg for each person was broken into separate cups; these were dropped one at a time into the smoking fat, just as if it were water, and they were to be poached; one minute was enough to brown each one, and only one was done at a time, or while one was taken out the other would harden in the intense heat of the fat. The eggs were perfectly round and brown. They were laid round the dish of meat, and between them tiny green gherkins.