Author: Kaila

I am a amateur genealogist from Canada who is interested in exploring my ancestry from Manitoba and beyond. I will use this blog to document genealogical finds in newspapers and other sources as well as other interesting tidbits surrounding my family and others from the surrounding area.

Delicious and Savory Soufflés

KailaLeave a comment

This is the second article in March of the School for Housewives 1907 series published on March 10, 1907, and is a discussion on the soufflés.

I have never made a soufflés myself, however, based on television, movies, etc. I am aware that it can be difficult ensuring the soufflé does not fall after it has been taken out of the oven.

Transcribed from the Sunday edition of The Boston Sunday Post.

Delicious and Savory Soufflés

PRONOUNCED as if written “soofflay.” Some will recognize them by the hearing of the ear who might mispronounce the printed word into unintelligibility.

“Kitchen French” thus translates it: “A pudding beaten to a froth and baked very quickly.”

Our good standby, the dictionary and cyclopedia, goes into details: “A delicate dish, sometimes savory, but usually sweet. It is made light by incorporating whites of eggs beaten to a froth, and placing it in an oven, from which it is removed the moment it puffs up, and served at once.”

Not a bad description from one who, presumably, is not a professional cook. The souffle is as often savory as sweet in my kitchen. It is one of the most popular methods known to us of utilizing left-overs. As I shall show presently, there are few vegetables that may not be saved from the stigma of “warmed-ups” by working them into the compound with the French name. For a quarter century the potato puff has been a frequent and welcome visitor to our table. It may not taste better when christened “souffle,” but it more nearly approximates the dignity of a “company dish,” especially if it be crowned with a meringue.

She is a stupid or bigoted mistress who does not learn something from every change of cooks. I, for one, am not ashamed to confess myself the debtor to even the least accomplished woman who has ever presided over my range and sink. If you will deign to study her methods, you will find that each incumbent has some specialty. One, a redheaded daughter of Erin, boasted modestly when I engaged her, that she “had quite a name for her corn bread.” She was a mediocre cook in general. She made the best corn bread I have ever eaten that was made of Northern Indian meal. I introduced the recipe into my first cook book under the title of “Nonpareil Corn Bread,” and told her I had done it. From a second cook I got a capital recipe for Yorkshire pudding, registering it under its rightful name in the face of her insistent declaration that it was “Auction Pudding.” To a later date belongs my instructor in souffles. She was a fair cook in other lines. She had a genius for souffles. It did not lower my respect for her that she was conscious of this. So long as harmless vanity in her one accomplishment did not interfere with the average excellence of her work, I encouraged her. In fact, I had secret enjoyment in the sight of Janetta’s mien and movements when allowed to transform a cupful or a saucerful of this or that left-over that might have been consigned to the garbage pail but for her proclivity to reduce any given culinary quantity to a souffle.

Her methods were worth watching. To begin with—and this stage is commended as an example to the novice in kitchen work—she collected all needed materials and tools before beginning the real business of the hour. Eggs, cream or milk, the vegetable or fruit, or marmalade, or rice or tapioca, which was to act as the foundation of the airy structure—bowls, egg beater, bake dish, sugar and other condiments—were set in intelligent order upon the table and duly scanned ere she seated herself solemnly in front of the array and fell to work. In the three years of her incumbency she never once failed to send in a soufflé at the right moment—puffy, tender, hot, and in all things satisfactory. What matter if an artist magnify her office when the result is invariably success? It is something to be proud of—the ability to do one thing as well, if not better, than anybody else can do it—be it ruling an empire or tossing up a souffle.

RECIPES FOR SOUFFLES OF VARIOUS KINDS

A Cheese Souffle
(A nice luncheon dish.)

PUT two tablespoonfuls of butter into a deep frying-pan, and when it hisses stir into it two tablespoonfuls of flour. Rub and stir to a smooth “roux” and add gradually a cupful of milk. Bring to a boil, having dropped a quarter of a teaspoonful of soda into the milk, and stir in an even cupful of grated cheese, a saltspoonful of salt and a dash of cayenne. In two chilled bowls have ready the yolks and the whites of four eggs, beaten separately and very light. Turn the contents of the frying-pan into a third bowl, and pour in with this gradually the beaten yolks, beating all the time. Fold into the mixture, and lightly, the stiffened whites. Pour all into a bakedish ready heated and buttered, and bake in a quick, steady oven to a delicate brown. Send to the table promptly, before it falls.

Bread-and-Cheese Souffle.

Scald two cupfuls of milk, adding a half-teaspoonful of soda. Add a cupful of fine, dry crumbs, and take from the fire. Leave the crumbs in soak for ten minutes, beat to a smooth paste, add a cupful of finely grated and very dry cheese, a tablespoonful of melted butter, a pinch of cayenne and a saltspoonful of salt. Beat hard for a minute and add the yolks of three eggs whipped light; lastly, the stiffened whites of the eggs. Pour into a heated and buttered bakedish, sift fine crackerdust on the top and bake, covered, for fifteen minutes in a brisk oven. Uncover and brown lightly.

A delicious dish, and more wholesome than one based entirely upon cheese.

Baked Souffle of Eggs.

Scald a cup of milk, putting in a tiny pinch of soda. Beat the yolks of six eggs until light and creamy, and the whites till stiff enough to stand alone. Add one-half teaspoonful of salt, a dash of pepper and one rounded tablespoonful of butter to the milk, and stir it into the yolks; then beat in the whites very quickly. Pour into a deep, buttered pudding dish and bake in a moderate oven ten minutes, or to a delicate brown. Serve immediately in the bakedish.

Orange Souffle.

Cut stale sponge cake into small cubes and saturate with orange juice. Pour into a dish and pour over it rich custard. Cover with whipped cream and put Maraschino cherries on top.

Spinach Souffle.

Chop a cupful of cold cooked spinach very fine, or run it through the vegetable press. Beat in a tablespoonful of melted butter, salt and pepper to taste, half a teaspoonful of sugar and a pinch of mace nutmeg. Stir and beat to a smooth paste; add half a cupful of milk, the beaten yolks of three eggs, and when these are well mixed with the other ingredients, ??? in the stiffened whites. Beat for thirty seconds and turn into a buttered dish. Bake twenty, minutes in a quick oven. It is very good.

Green Pea Souffle.

Mash a cupful of cooked peas to a smooth pulp, working in, as you go on, a tablespoonful of melted butter. Mix with this a cupful of milk, into which you have dropped a pinch of soda. Season with salt and pepper; beat in the whipped yolks of three eggs, and, a minute later, the stiffened whites. Turn into a buttered bakedish; bake, covered, in a brisk oven for twenty minutes, then brown lightly.

Potato Souffle.

Into a cupful of mashed potatoes work a cupful and a half of milk which has been scalded, and a pinch of soda added. Beat hard and light. Season with salt and pepper and a teaspoonful of onion juice. Add a teaspoonful of melted butter and beat to a cream before whipping in the yolks, then the whites, of two beaten eggs. Turn into a buttered pudding dish and bake, covered, for ten minutes in a quick oven. Then, uncover and brown.

Rice Souffle.

Make a roux of a tablespoonful of butter and one of flour heated and stirred together in a saucepan. When smooth pour in a cupful of milk heated with a bit of soda. Remove from the fire, and, when it is lukewarm, beat into the sauce a cupful of cold boiled rice, then the yolks, and finally the whites of three eggs, beaten separately. Bake in a pudding dish set in a quick oven. Keep the dish covered for ten minutes.

Onion Souffle.

Make as you would the rice souffle, substituting for the cold boiled rice a cupful of boiled onion—yesterday’s “leftover”—run through the colander or vegetable press, and free from all bits of skin and fibre.

It is very savory.

The Queen of Souffles.

Soak half a pound of prunes over night. On the morrow drain them well, remove the stones and mince the prunes finely. Whip the whites of seven eggs to a standing foam, beat in quickly six spoonfuls of powdered sugar; whip the minced prunes into this meringue; turn into a buttered pudding dish and bake in a hot oven. Twenty minutes should send it to table hot and high—a very dream of lightness and deliciousness.

Serve whipped cream as a sauce.

Date Souffle.

Is made in the save way, and is esteemed by some epicures as hardly second to the “Queen.”

Chocolate Souffle.

Make a roux of a tablespoonful of butter and one of flour in a saucepan. When smooth, add, by degrees three-quarters of a cupful of milk. Have ready in a bowl the beaten yolks of three eggs, into which have been stirred three tablespoonfuls of sugar. Turn the white sauce upon this; add four tablespoonfuls of grated sweet chocolate, and whip to a lukewarm cream. Set on ice to cool, stirring now and then to hinder a crust from forming. When quite cold, fold in the frothed whites of the eggs, and turn into a buttered pudding dish. Bake quickly and serve at once with whipped cream.

Marion Harland

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Some Delicious Lenten Entrees

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This is the first article in March of the School for Housewives 1907 series published on March 3, 1907, and is a discussion on the entree. It is interesting to note that the entree was once identified as “a made dish introduced between the principal courses of a dinner.” Over one hundred years ago today an entree was a dish eaten prior to one of the main dishes, whereas, today the entree is known as the or one of many main dishes in a meal.

Also discussed in this article are sweetbreads. Like the chafing dish, sweetbreads are something that have gone out of fashion based on my knowledge. In fact, on first glance I assumed sweetbreads would be confectionery considering sweet is in the word. Imagine my surprise when I Googled that sweetbreads are actually the thymus or pancreas of a calf and lamb and that sweet refers to the flavour of the meat.

Another item on the menu is the calf’s head which is another item that isn’t exactly easily accessible to people today.

Transcribed from the Sunday edition of The Boston Sunday Post.

Some Delicious Lenten Entrees

Who sets the fashions? The question never has been, and it never will been answered satisfactorily. About 800 years before the birth of the Christian era somebody or something ordained that the daughters of Zion should wear changeable suits of apparel, round tires (tiaras) like the moon, mantles, wimples and crisping pins. The inventory is too long to be copied out in full here. So circumstantial it is, one suspects that the indignant prophet called upon the womenkind of his household for help in making it out.

St. Paul, writing in the second half of the first century, A.D., is more general in condemnation of the ultra-fashionist whose taste ran to embroidery and jewelry. In the fiftieth century, the mysterious arbiter of customs had so led away wise as well as silly women that the heap of finery cremated in the public square at Savonarola’s command to his converts made a smoke that darkened the heavens at midday.

Who first abolished the hoop and towering headdress of Queen Anne’s reign, and who brought them in again in the middle of Queen Victoria’s? Who forbade the sweeping curtsey of our grandmothers, and is now drilling our grandchildren in the very same motion?

WHENCE TABLE FASHIONS?

Who ordained the good man’s tables must no longer groan under the weight of a dozen dishes, but be decorated with flowers, and tricked out with chef d’oeuvres, and that all which builds up and solaces the inner man shall be served from kitchen and “service table”? Who dictated that dish is not to be touched with the knife and ice cream must be eaten with a fork in preference to the honest and convenient spoon?

Who banished the “side dish” from the main board and taught us to call it an entree?

We, who cling to English speech—sometimes at the expense of grammar and oftener by the sacrifice of elegance—persisted in naming them as “made dishes” until chefs and butlers put us to open shame and forced the foreign phrase between our teeth. We all say “entree” meekly now, and we have ceased to torment ourselves with speculations as to the identity of the Tyrant to whom man and woman kind have done homage for all these thousands of years. In the days of the Empress Eugenie we said with glib complacency that she “gave fashions to the world.” She sank out of sight, and the nameless Despot of whose abiding place no man knoweth unto this day still tells us, though his thousands of myrmidons, what we shall wear, and when; what we shall eat, and how and where.

MODERN IMPROVEMENTS

This is not a growl, dear reader! The Dictator is not consistently unkind. We eat, drink and live, generally, more sensibly than our fathers dreamed of doing. But one can’t help wondering how it happens that we do! When did you, dear housemother, who lay no claim to the reputation of a fashionable woman, discover that it is no longer “the thing” to have a hot roast at the foot of the table to be carved by John, a secondary roast at the head, a couple of side dishes and faithful flankings of vegetables up on side of the board and down the other? This was entirely en regle for the second course of a dinner party forty years ago. Soup preceded it. When we wished to be in very fine feather, we had a fish and a salad course. Can you cast your thoughts backward and tell us, with any degree of accuracy, how you arrived at the conclusion that your present mode of serving and eating was the better way—in fact, the one and only way for “nice people? To adopt? Go a step further. How did it come to pass that, without any concert of action, all your neighbors also took to the altered fashion of “diners a la Russe,” and the accompaniments of service table and a dozen etceteras to which your children have been used for the major part of their lives? We spoke with bated breath of giving what the consulting caterer called “a course dinner” when those young folks were in the nursery. We sit down to “course dinners” seven days in the week, nowadays. We have not grown much richer. Our position in society is an inheritance from parents who were of gentle blood and breeding. Yet we do not live as they lived. Who sounded the order for the change of base?

“Entree” is defined in my small manual of “Kitchen French” as “a made dish introduced between the principal courses of a dinner.” The definition is food—as I once heard a circuit rider say encouragingly to a brother who stammered to a hopeless breakdown in the middle of a prayer—“very good, so far as it goes!” But “made dishes” is a term so constantly applied to “rechauffes,” or warmed-up meats, that we have come to associate it exclusively with “left-overs.” And all entrees are not second thoughts, an effort more or less successful, to evolve savoriness out of insipidity. For example, sweetbreads, kidneys, mushrooms, asparagus—in some of the ways I have written of lately—macaroni in divers shapes, sweet core on the ear or as a pudding, stuffed eggplant—and half a score of other “first hand” edibles—are entrees. I do not undertake to supply one word which will aptly define what has superseded the obsolete side dish; the intermediate course of the company dinner, and which serves excellently well as the principal dish of the family luncheon when the base is meat. As a matter of necessity and custom, we fall back upon “kitchen French” and cover the long list—growing with the increasing luxuries of our civilization—with the ambiguous, elastic ENTREE.

MANY TOOTHSOME DISHES

I am thus minute in explanation, because I know of no other culinary phrase which is more misused and abused. Your “made dish” may be an entree, but, as we have seen, all entrees are not left-overs. It is a joy, too, in these days of individual ramekins, casseroles and casserole chafing dishes to make toothsome and savory entrees.

The chafing dish pictured for instance, is a product of modern arts and crafts workmanship, and a most useful one. The tray itself is of mission wood, and the stand copper, with brass trimmings. The head is inclosed so the whole dish gets the benefit, and there is a quaint door effect like and old-fashioned oven. The cover is of copper, and has a mission wood handle, in keeping with the tray. In fact, it is quite unlike the silver and aluminum chafing dish of other days.

Bake Sweetbreads

Wash the sweetbreads carefully, freeing them from skin and strings. This done, drop them into boiling water, slightly salted, and cook for ten minutes. Turn off the water and cover the sweetbreads (in a cold vessel) with iced water. In five minutes drain and cover with more iced water. Leave them in this for one hour. Take out and wipe dry.

This process is known as “blanching.” It is necessary to the right preparation of sweetbreads, making firm and white what would else be flabby and dull-red.

Cut fat salt pork into thin strips (lardoons) and make incisions in the sweetbreads with a narrow, keen blade. Thrust the lardoons into these. They should project half an inch on each side of the sweetbread. Arrange the larded sweetbreads in a deep bakedish; pour a cupful of well-seasoned stock about them, cover and bake for twenty minutes. Several times during the cooking lift the cover and baste the sweetbreads copiously with the gravy.

Remove the sweetbreads to a hot dish; stir into the gravy left in the dish a roux made by cooking a tablespoonful of butter with one of browned flour. Add a teaspoonful of onion juice and three olives, minced fine. Cook one minute, add a glass of brown sherry and pour the gravy over the sweetbreads.

An Easter Entree of Sweetbreads

Blanch, lard and bake the sweetbreads as directed in the last recipe. Set in a closely covered dish over a pan of boiling water while you prepare the “nest” which is to receive them. Cut into long shreds some cold meat. Chicken or turkey or veal is best for the purpose. The meat should be white. Mix with a generous cupful of boiled spaghetti, drained and clipped into length. Make a ring of the mixture upon a hot platter, wet well with a cupful of rich, hot gravy, set in the over for five minutes, or until heated through, lay the sweetbreads within the garnish around with the dish.

A pleasing variation of this handsome dish may be made by pouring tomato sauce, made rich with butter, thickened with browned flour and seasoned with salt, pepper and onion juice, over the nest and content after they are dished.

Sweetbread Pates

Wash and blanch the sweetbreads. Cut into neat dice and mix with an equal quantity of canned mushrooms (champignons), cut into pieces of corresponding size. Blanch a dozen almonds and shred into tiny bits. Have ready a cupful of good drawn butter, rather highly seasoned. Stir sweetbreads and almonds into this and set over the fire in a double boiler. Heat a dozen shells of pastry in the oven and when the mixture in the inner boiler is very hot fill them with it.

A Casserole of Liver

Wash a lamb’s liver and lay in cold water for an hour. Take it out, wipe, and slice. Fry together half a dozen slices of fat pork and a sliced union until the fat is crisped. Strain off the fat and return to the fire. Lay the liver in it, and fry quickly, first on one side, then the other, until it is slightly browned. Scald the casserole and lay the sliced livery in it. Between the slices put a dozen potato marbles, cut out with a gouge and parboiled, and half a dozen boiled green peas, left from yesterday, or a few champignons, may be added. Fill up the dish with soup-stock or gravy, thickened with browned flour. Fit on a close cover and cook for an hour and a half. This is a cheap and most savory entree that will not be unwelcome as the mainstay of a family dinner.

Send to table in the casserole. If the cover does not fit tightly, fill the space between it and the casserole with a thick paste of flour and water. The chief advantage of the casserole is that it keeps in all the flavor and juices.

Calf’s Head en Casserole

Boil a calf’s head until the flesh leaves the bones of its own weight. Leave it in the liquor until perfectly cold. Cut into pieces an inch long and half as wide. Thicken two cupfuls of the pot liquor with a roux made by cooking together two tablespoonfuls of lemon juice.

Add the meat to this and turn into the casserole. The tongue, cut into dice, should go in with the rest of the head. Lay on the top two hard-boiled eggs, sliced, then sift over all very fine bread crumbs to form a light crust. Stick dots of butter in the crumbs; fit on the cover and bake for forty minutes.

Send to table, covered, in the casserole.

Savory Macaroni

Cook half a pound of macaroni for twenty minutes in salted, boiling water. Into another saucepan put two cupfuls of beef stock; thicken with a brown “roux” made as I have directed in former recipes. Cook for five minutes, stirring it smooth; add four tablespoonfuls of tomato catsup, a teaspoonful of kitchen bouquet, the same of inion juice, salt and pepper to taste.

Drain the cooked macaroni and add it to this gravy. Pour all into a bakedish; sift a mixture of fine crumbs and double the quantity of Parmesan cheese over the surface, stick bits of butter here and there; add the tiniest dust of cayenne, and bake, covered half an hour, then brown lightly.

Marion Harland

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Different Ways of Preparing Asparagus

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This is the final article in February of the School for Housewives 1907 series published on February 24, 1907, and is a discussion on how to cook asparagus.

Transcribed from the Sunday edition of Boston Sunday Post.

Different Ways of Preparing Asparagus

THE high rank of “Asparagus officinalis” awarded to this child of the early springtime justifies us in making it the subject of a paper entirely given up to its nature, works and ways. It was in high favor in imperial Rome. The epicurean patrician— when the modern master would say, “Be quick about it!” and the city conductor would growl, “Step lively!”—enjoined his slave to “do it in less time than is needed to cook asparagus!”

Most of us are familiar with the tale of the two French gourmands who quarreled over the rival merits of oil and butter in cooking asparagus, finally compromising by sending word to the cook to prepare half of the vegetable with butter and half with oil. The friends chatted amicably for awhile after the point was settled. Suddenly the advocate of butter, who was the guest of the other, fell down in a fit. The host raised him and saw that he was dead. Whereupon he laid down the lifeless body, ran to the head of the kitchen stairs and shouted to the chef: “Do it all in oil! The butter-man is dead!”

An American lover of the table avers that Asparagus officinalis “is an aristocrat from tip to stalk.” All of which goes to prove that the owner of the high-sounding title differs utterly from human upstarts. He is an upstart, nevertheless, and the further he gets away from his native soil the less worthy is he.

AT ITS BEST IN VIRGINIA

In Virginia, where our aristocrat of the kitchen-garden is at his best, he is systematically kept under the surface of the ground. Asparagus is planted in rows, and as it peeps above the earth, it is banked out of sight, the long lines of rich mould rising steadily to keep pace with its growth. As a result, when the asparagus is cut for the table it is bleached from root to tip and tender throughout. It took me a long time to learn to accept the spindling green stalks offered in Northern markets as asparagus. Sometimes German green-grocers and market-women called it “grass.” This was said to be a perversion of the stately name. Indeed, country folk often spoke of it as “sparrowgrass.” A half century ago Frederic Cozzens, genial and loving humorist, made us laugh with him at the bucolic ambitions of Mr. Sparrowgrass and his spouse. We quote him to this day.

PREJUDICE AGAINST “GRASS”

I own, frankly, to a rooted prejudice against the “grass,” which time and usage have not overcome. My heart still turns fondly to the plump and pale columnettes grown in Southern market-gardens. Yet I am told that what medicinal virtues are inherent in asparagus are more, potent in the green spindles than in the bleached larger stalks. I am quite ready to believe the further assertion that these virtues are eliminated from canned asparagus and that the delicate straw-color of the closely packed stalks is due to chemical agents. We all know how flavorless the canned imitation is by comparison with the fresh vegetable.

Like other succulent growths, asparagus depreciates quickly when drawn from the earth. If cooked within an hour or two after it is cut, the twenty minutes’ boil recommended by cook-books will send it to table tender and good. It has long been my custom to cut off half an inch from the lower part of asparagus bought in the markets and to set the stalks upright in water as I do with cut flowers. It responds gratefully to the treatment, growing crisp and plump in a few hours. A damp cloth should be thrown over it and the vessel in which it stands.

ASPARAGUS RECIPES

Boiled Asparagus (English Style).

Cut off an inch from the lower part of the stalks and scrape them from end to end with a sharp knife, taking off the thin outer skin alone, without bruising the rest. All the stalks must be of equal length. Bind them into a bunch and set up right in a saucepan of boiling water slightly salted, just deep enough to leave over an inch of the tips out of water. Lay clean stones about the base of the stalks to prevent them from tipping over. Fit a close cover on the saucepan to keep in the steam, and after you feel that the boil has begun, cook twenty minutes.

Take up the asparagus, drain off all the water, untie the threads and lay the stalks, alternately tip to base, on a hot dish. Cover with a good drawn butter and serve.

This might be called a “steamed” rather than boiled asparagus, the distinctive feature of the process being that the tips are steamed and thus left plumper and less sodden than if immersed with the stalks in the boiling water. If the asparagus be withered and stale, cook for twenty-five minutes.

Boiled Asparagus (German Style).

Cut two inches from the lower part of the stalks. (The thrifty German housewife never throws these away. They go into the stockpot, adding pleasantly to the flavor).

Scrape off the woody skin and tie into bunches of a dozen stalks each. Lay at length in a saucepan and cover with boiling water. Put on a cover and cook fast for ten minutes; then add an even teaspoonful of salt and a heaping teaspoonful of butter. Cook for fifteen minutes more; drain, lay on buttered toast and pour over it a cupful of drawn butter based on milk, into which a beaten egg has been stirred and heated for one minute. Season the white sauce with salt and pepper.

Baked Asparagus (Italian Style).

Cut the stalks short, as directed in the last recipe, and cook tender in salted
Boiling water. Drain and cover the bottom of a buttered bakedish with a layer, arranging in alternate rows of tips to the ends of the stalks. Have ready this sauce: Drawn butter, based upon a cup of hot milk thickened with a roux of a tablespoonful of flour cooked smooth with a scant tablespoonful of butter; the yolks of two eggs beaten light and two heaping tablespoonfuls of Parmesan cheese. Cover the layer of asparagus with this, dust lightly with cayenne, put in the rest of the asparagus, arranged as before; pour the remainder of the sauce on this and sift fine crumbs that have been dried in the oven on the top of all. Bake, covered, for ten minutes, then brown delicately.

This is a savory entree, and much liked by those who have eaten it in Italy. Parmesan cheese must be used in the manufacture. No other kind will give the right flavor.

Asparagus Cups.

With a cake-cutter cut rounds of stale French bread an inch and a half thick. With a cutter a size smaller mark a circle in the centre of each round to the depth of an inch. Carefully take out the crumb defined by this circle, leaving a well-rounded well, with a thin layer of bread at the bottom. Fry these to a light, even brown in salted fat, and fill with the following mixture:

FILLING.

Cook the tips of a bunch of asparagus tender in water to which you have added a little salt and a teaspoonful of butter. Drain, pepper; mix with a rich drawn butter; return to the fire, and when it simmers stir into it (carefully, not to break the tips) a beaten egg. Simmer for a minute; arrange the hot “cups” on a heated platter and fill them with the mixture.

Serve very hot. You may improve the entree by sifting Parmesan cheese over the filled cups and setting in the oven for a minute. It is very good, prepared in either way.

A Scallop of Asparagus (Swiss Style).

Leave but an inch of the stalk below the tender part of the tips. Cook tender in boiling water, salted, adding a bit of butter at the end of ten minutes. Drain and dispose a layer in a well-buttered bakedish. Have ready six eggs boiled hard. Rub the yolks to powder, season with pepper and salt and strew thickly over the asparagus. Dot with butter and put in the rest of the asparagus. Pour over the top a cupful of milk heated to scalding, then thickened with a roux made by stirring together in a pan over the fire a great spoonful of butter with a tablespoonful of flour. Cover this sauce with very fine, dry crumbs, stick bits of butter in it, pepper and sift Parmesan cheese over all. Bake for fifteen minutes, covered, in a brisk oven, then uncover and brown lightly.

Curried Asparagus.

The tips are used for this dish.

Make a roux by frying a sliced onion in three tablespoonfuls of butter, until the onion is slightly colored. Strain it out, then return the butter to the fire and stir into it a heaping tablespoonful of flour, a teaspoonful of lemon juice, a dash of paprika and a tablespoonful of curry powder. Have ready heated in another saucepan a cupful of milk (adding a pinch of soda), and stir it gradually into the roux, removing it from the fire to do this. Set again on the range, stir for a few seconds and pour over the asparagus tips, which have been cooked tender in salted boiling water, drained and arranged in a deep dish.

A delightful side dish when cold lamb or cold chicken is the piece de resistance.

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Savory and Nourishing Lenten Fare

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This is the final article in February of the School for Housewives 1907 series published on February 17, 1907, and is a discussion on Lenten fare such as mushrooms.

Personally I love mushrooms but I am hesitant towards Dandelions.

Transcribed from the Sunday edition of Boston Sunday Post.

Savory and Nourishing Lenten Fare

IT IS hardly thirty years since I wrote, prefatory to a chapter on mushrooms:

“Not being ambitious of martyrdom, even in the cause of gastronomical enterprise, I never eat native mushrooms; but I learned, years ago, in hillside rambles, how to distinguish the real from the spurious.”

All the mushrooms sold in our markets at that and anterior dates were gathered in such rambles. August and September were harvest months. Then, parties of young folk, baskets in hand, repaired to sunny uplands early in the summer day before the freshness of the dew was dried by the climbing sun. The younger the mushroom the more wholesome it was, provided it were fairly above-ground and fully formed. The foraging party was led and officered by one learned in the characteristics that set aside the edible fungi from his prettier and poisonous brother.

THE TIME-HONORED TESTS

“Would you mistake a peach for a potato?” demanded one to whom I lamented my ignorance and consequent dread of mushrooms. All the same, when we got our spoils home, we applied to them all the tests known to our grandmothers and to the generation following. We inspected the root for signs of the poison “cup”; the stem for trace of the ominous “hood”; we stirred the mushrooms with a silver spoon while cooking them, and dropped a silver-skinned onion into the pot. And, after the savory mess was pronounced “Not guilty,” the most wary of us declined to eat of it, “for fear all signs might have failed.”

It is not ten years since the younger member of our family went wild over a new mushroom manual just published. Quoting to the bewildered cook the lament, and failing to convert her into the belief that “whole hundredweights of rich, wholesome diet was rotting under the trees, and that a plenteous harvest of delicious feasting annually goes begging in our woods and fields,” the explorers brought home to me “specimens” they were sure were rich and wholesome, or would be when properly cooked. One dark-red fungus complied with every requisition of the “beefsteak mushroom.” lauded by the fascinating mushroom author.

TRIED IT ON THE DOG

“It cannot be poisonous, even if it is not a real steak,” argued the ringleader of the experiment party, “for it grew upon a stump, and the wrong kind never grow on wood.”

As a compromise between the elders who hesitated and the juniors who urged, it was finally decided to “try it on the dog” literally, and “Mops,” described by his small master as a “pure mongrel,” was chosen as the victim. The steak was cooked, also a fine specimen of the “oyster mushroom,” which grew on a tree trunk, and poor Mops swallowed a few inches of each. This was at breakfast time, and as he was alive and jumping at 1 o’clock, the boys ate the rest of the “rich, wholesome diet” for luncheon. It was a successful experiment, as all agreed. That is, neither dog nor boy was the worse for it. If the cook and I noted, with silent satisfaction, that beefsteaks and oysters were left to grow and perish on the logs for the rest of the season, we refrained from raillery.

A NEW ERA

The facile French tongue has a way of disposing of a dead and introducing a live era in a single phrase—“Nous avons change tout cela!”

The product of latter-day mushroom culture is absolutely safe. The edible springs from “spawn” harvested by the intelligent horticulturist. He has greenhouses, hotbeds and cellars built expressly for the work. His supply is not dependent upon summer suns and September dews. By judicious management, he has a goodly crop on hand to meet the epicure’s demand for tempting variation of Lenten fare as the penitential weeks tax the housewife’s resources.

Nor need the demand be confined to the rich and epicurean. Mushrooms are the Lenten substitute for meat. In certain portions of the city they may be bought for 50 cents per pound, while in fashionable quarters they bring 95. Study your markets. It is well known, for example, that in New York the same quality of meat, poultry and vegetables may be bought from one-quarter to one-third cheaper in the large markets near the wharves than in the upper districts where wealth and fashion dwell. The same difference is to be found in all large cities. Buy mushrooms in the lower markets. Buy them, too, from responsible dealers who will not impose those that are stale to rottenness upon you for fresh, or raise them yourself if you have a good cellar space.

DANDELIONS

They are a native and not a patrician “greens.” In the country they are highly and justly esteemed as wholesome, and the eaters who relish turnip tops the more for the bitter “tang” which sets nicer tastes against them reckon dandelions as suave by comparison.

They, too, have their bitter stage. It does not begin until the flower forms. The greens should be gathered in advance of the appearance of the “harmless gold.”

Mushroom and Dandelion Recipes

Broiled Mushrooms.

Wash and strip off the skins. If large, cut each in half; if small, leave them whole. Lay upon a buttered broiler, and cook over a clear fire, turning at the end of three minutes, to broil the other side. Have arranged on a hot-water dish rounds of thin bread, delicately toasted. Butter, sprinkle lightly with salt and pepper; lay a mushroom on each and serve.

Grilled Mushrooms.

Wash and peel, cutting off the stems. Lay all in a platter and cover with melted butter, with which you have mixed the juice of half a lemon.

Leave the mushrooms in this for fifteen minutes before transferring them to a buttered broiler. Brown lightly on both sides. Lay upon buttered toast (cut very thin), cover, and keep hot while you broil the stems, and when they are done garnish the dish with them.

Baked Mushrooms.

Peel and cut off the stems. Put a layer of the mushrooms in the bottom of a well buttered bakedish, the gills downward. Pour upon them a few spoonfuls of melted butter, mixed with a little lemon juice, salt and pepper. Next, put in a layer of the stems and treat in the same way. Cover with mushrooms and set in a brisk oven, fit on a close top and bake, covered, for ten minutes: remove the top, pour hot butter over the mushrooms; leave in the oven for ten minutes more and serve.

Creamed Mushrooms.

Peel, scraping the stems, without cutting them off. Turn into a saucepan, cover deep with hot water, slightly salted, and simmer for ten minutes. Meanwhile, heat in another vessel a cupful of milk, adding a tiny pinch of soda; rub a heaping tablespoonful of flour into a heaping tablespoonful of butter; stir in the milk and bring to a boil, stirring all the while. Drain the salted water from the mushrooms, season with pepper and add the hot, thickened milk. Set the saucepan in a pan of boiling water over the fire for five minutes and turn the contents into a heated dish.

Mushrooms and Lobster.

To two cupfuls of picked lobster meat allow half a pound of mushrooms. Peel, skin them, and cut into dice of uniform size. Heat two tablespoonfuls of butter in a saucepan, and stir into it one of flour. With a silver fork ??? and mix the lobster and mushrooms together, add to the hot “roux”; set over the fire and simmer for five minutes; take from the range, add half a cupful of cream, which has been scalded (with a bit of soda). Now return to the fire, setting the saucepan in an outer boiler of hot water. Simmer for three minutes more; stir in a glass of sherry and serve.

Mushrooms Stewed With Oysters.

Select twenty-five fine oysters; drain off the liquor and dry them between two towels. Put two tablespoonfuls of butter into a saucepan, and when it hisses add the oysters and stir until they “ruffle” and are smoking hot. In another vessel heat the oyster liquor; season with salt and pepper. Turn into this a cupful of milk heated and thickened with a tablespoonful of flour wet up with cold milk. Heat these together for three minutes. Have ready a cupful of mushrooms, peeled and cut small, stems and all. Turn these into the white sauce you have just made and simmer five minutes. Cook slowly and steadily, stirring often; season with salt, pepper and a tablespoonful of butter. Heat again, stir in the hot oysters, cook for one minute, and add the beaten yolks of two eggs. As soon as they are fairly mixed with the other ingredients turn out and serve.

If properly made, this is a delicious dish.

Dandelion “Greens.”

Pick the leaves from the stems, wash and drop into cold water. Boil as I have directed you to cook spinach—in the inner vessel of a double kettle—adding no water to the vegetable except what clings to the leaves. Fill the outer saucepan with boiling water and cook, covered until the greens are soft. Rub then through the vegetable press into a saucepan; beat into them a teaspoonful of sugar and one of lemon juice, salt and pepper, a tablespoonful of butter and one of cream. Don’t forget a pinch of soda in the cream. Beat light and smooth. bring to the final boil and serve.

Creamed Dandelions.

Cook the leaves as directed in last recipe. While they are boiling make a good drawn butter with two cupfuls of milk, two tablespoonfuls of butter, one of flour, a little salt and pepper. Add the pinch of soda to the milk. Drain the dandelions, pressing out all the water; mince finely, stir into the sauce, cook for a minute after the boil is reached, and, just before serving, beat in slowly a well-whipped egg. Take immediately from the fire and pour into a deep, covered dish.

Marion Harland

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Savory and Nourishing Lenten Fare

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This is the second article in February of the School for Housewives 1907 series published on February 10, 1907, and is a discussion on spinach.

I absolutely love spinach and use it every chance I get in my cooking.

Transcribed from the Sunday edition of The Washington Times.

Savory and Nourishing Lenten Fare

Spinach the Broom of the Stomach

I WAS not the first to call it that! I wish I had been! In my opinion it outranks all other spring vegetables in virtue as a gentle and agreeable alterative of unhealthy conditions incident upon winter weather and the abrupt change from winter to spring. Dandelion greens have their merits, as we shall see by and by. But they are coarse in quality, and less palatable than spinach. Their chief recommendation, beyond their medicinal properties, is that they are cheaper than the more aristocratic spinach, which, let me remark in passing, is held at exorbitant prices by some marketmen, unmindful of the gracious possibilities wrapped up in the lush, dark-green leaves.

Spinach, when sold by the least conscientious of greengrocers, is cheaper by far than medicine, if only because, in its action, it adds no sorrow therewith. “I would not owe my health to a disease!” says a scornful satirist. Spring medicines of man’s devising poison before they cure. Juicy fruits, succulent salads, dandelions, asparagus and spinach taste good and act pleasantly upon liver and blood, the beneficiary, meantime, blissfully unconscious that he is “under treatment.” Meat heats and clogs the sewerage of the human system. Green vegetables are assuasive and cleansing.

Spinach shrinks so much in the cooking that our caterer must make allowance for this failing in purchasing. A quart will make a family soup, but two quarts are not too much for a dish of spinach a la creme, or spinach boiled plain.

CHEAPER THAN MEDICINE

It ought not to cost over 15 cents a quart. Should the grasping huckster demand 20, or even 25, reflect that you are treating your household with “kitchen physic,” and be complacent in the superiority of your regimen over the sulphur-and-molasses administered by our granddames in the times of ignorance in which our children can hardly believe.

They loved us as well as we love our bairns—those resolute dames of yore. It was principle, and sincere regard for our best interests, that made them line us up on balmy spring mornings, and, beginning with the baby in arms, pour a great spoonful of treacle and brimstone, beaten to a baleful mess, down our protestant throats. It was done before breakfast (also upon principle) and three days “handrunning,” after which came “three days off,” and then three more of the “spring sweetening” purgatory. It was supposed to act directly on the blood. Of the effect upon stomach and temper nothing was said—or thought.

USES FOR SPINACH

As soon as spinach comes home from market, lay it in very cold water if it is to be used that day. It will revive and plump up, growing crisp and comely, just as your cut flowers respond to the scent of water.

When ready to prepare it for cooking pick the leaves from the stalks. The stalks, if tender, may be utilized in the soup, but strip them of the leaves. Wash all carefully in two waters to rid the leaves from grit and insects.

Spinach Cream Soup.

Put your spinach, prepared as above, into a saucepan, with a cupful of cold water, and bring to a fast boil. Keep this up until the spinach is tender and broken to pieces. Turn into a chopping tray, straining off the water in which it was cooked, but not draining the vegetable. It must be quite moist. Chop very fine and run through the vegetable press. It should be a soft paste. Have ready a scant quart of boiling milk in a farina kettle. Never forget to drop a pinch of soda into milk when you boil it. In a frying pan melt two tablespoonfuls of butter, and stir into it a tablespoonful of flour. Cook and stir smooth, add to the spinach paste. Let the whole simmer for a minute. Pour in the hot milk, stirring all the time; take from the fire, season to taste with salt, pepper, a little sugar and a dash of nutmeg, and pour out. Strew sippets of fried bread on the surface of each plateful.

Spinach a la Creme.

Freshen and crisp the spinach as directed in the preceding recipe. Cook the leaves, dripping with water, in the inner vessel of a double boiler. Do not add water. Enough juice will exude in cooking for all purposes. Cover the kettle, and keep the water the outer at a hard boil until the leaves are broken and tender. Stir and beat up from the bottom several times. Press out the moisture in a colander, turn the drained spinach into a wooden bowl and chop as fine as possible.

Make a “roux” in a saucepan of two tablespoonfuls of butter and one of flour; cook for a minute and add the spinach, beating it well as you do this. In a separate vessel have half a cupful of cream heated with a bit of soda as large as a kidney bean. Turn this into the smoking-hot spinach, beating diligently to get the mixture smooth. Season with salt pepper, a little sugar, to correct the crude acid of the spinach; add a dash of nutmeg. Beat and cook for three minutes and serve. Garnish with triangles of fried bread laid about the edges of the dish.

There is no more delicious preparation of spinach than this. It is too little known in America. Some French cooks add lemon juice.

Boiled Spinach (American Style).

Prepare the spinach as already directed. Put over the fire in the inner vessel of a rice boiler, with no water except that on the wet leaves. Cover closely; fill the outer boiler with hot water and cook the leaves tender. Drain off the water and chop fine in a wooden bowl. Put back over the fire, and stir into it two tablespoonfuls of butter with a little sugar, and pepper and salt to your taste.

Mound on a hot platter and garnish with hard-boiled eggs cut in slices. A prettier garnish is the yolks of hard-boiled eggs rubbed to a line powder through a sieve, and strewed thickly over the mound. Shred the whites fine and lay about the base.

A Spinach Souffle.

This is a nice way of using left-over spinach. If it was creamed at its first appearance on your board, it will need no more chopping or beating. Add to it the beaten yolks of two eggs if there is a cupful of spinach, increasing the number of yolks proportionately if you have more of the “leftover”; a tablespoonful of melted butter and salt and pepper to your liking. Stir a pinch of soda into a cupful of sweet cream, mix with the other ingredients, and, this done, dip in the whites of the eggs beaten to a standing froth. Turn into a buttered dish and set at once into a brisk oven. Bake to a light brown and serve immediately.

Spinach Daisies.

Prepare and boil the spinach as for spinach a la creme or “in American style.” Press out all the water that will come away through a colander. Chop very fine while hot and mix into it a “roux” made by cooking together two tablespoonfuls of butter and the same quantity of flour. Season with pepper, salt, a little sugar and a suspicion of powdered mace. Cook all together for three minutes, keeping the spoon busy all the time. Have ready some scalloped pate pans. The more sharply scalloped they are the better will be the shape of the “daisies.” Butter them lavishly and press the cooked spinach firmly into them. Set in a shallow pan containing enough boiling water to keep the spinach very hot while you make a white sauce by “drawing” a tablespoonful of butter rolled in cornstarch in a cupful of milk. It should be really white and thick enough to mask the green when poured upon it.

Now turn out the forms of spinach upon a hot platter and pour a large spoonful of sauce over each. Lay rounds of cold hard-boiled eggs on the shapes and you have a pretty dish.

ASPARAGUS

The favorite vegetable of all classes, rich or poor, and one of the earliest in the spring market, is slightly medicinal. The mildly aperient qualities that make fresh asparagus desirable diet are not found in the canned stalks and tips. Moreover, the stronger chemical agents used as “preservatives” destroy much of the nutritive values of the succulent plant. The slightly bitter flavor characterizing the green vegetable is lacking from the pale, straw-colored spikes standing erect and close in the jars that crowd the grocer’s window as the days grow long and the new crop threatens to push out the old stock on hand.

The faint bitter is the wholesomest trait of our patrician asparagus. Robbed of it, and cooked and canned, it is as nutritious as so much wet cotton and well-nigh as insipid.

Asparagus a la Vinaigrette.

The salad whose popular name stands at the head of this recipe makes a delicious entree in the course of a Lenten dinner where fish has played the leading part.

Cut off the thickest and toughest portions of the stalks. (N. B.—Put them away carefully, with an eye to a vegetable soup to be served at the family dinner next day.)

Lay the edible tips attached to the upper parts of the stalks in cold water for an hour. Tie them then into loose branches with soft strings. Put these into a broad saucepan where they will not be crowded; cover with cold water, slightly salted, and cook gently for twenty-five minutes—for a shorter time if they are very young and slender. Make a dressing of two tablespoonfuls of vinegar, two tablespoonfuls of French mustard, half a teaspoonful of sugar, a saltspoonful of salt and half as much white pepper. Rub all these condiments together in a bowl until you have a smooth emulsion. Then begin to beat in oil and keep at it until you have incorporated six tablespoonfuls with the “emulsion.”

Set the vessel containing the dressing in a pan of boiling water, stirring frequently. When it is smoking hot, leave in the water while you drain the asparagus, remove the strings and lay in a deep dish. Pour the hot dressing over it, cover closely to keep in the strength of the vinegar and set away to get cold. When it is cool, set in ice until you are ready to serve it. Pass crackers and cream cheese with it.

Baked Asparagus.

Scrape the upper halves of the stalks down “to the quick,” as it. That is, get off all the hard, horny skins.

Let me say that asparagus, cooked in any way, is much more tender and digestible if the stalks be thus freed from the outer casing.

Boll in hot salted water until tender. Drain off the water and chop the asparagus —not so fine as to make it mushy. Make in a saucepan a “roux” of two tablespoonfuls of butter and the same of flour, and add to it, when it has cooked for a minute, two cupfuls of milk, heated, with a bit of soda dropped into it. Stir over the fire to a cream; add the minced asparagus when you have seasoned it with salt and pepper, and set it aside to get cold. Then beat into it three eggs whipped light and two tablespoonfuls of cream. Pour into a well-buttered dish and bake in a quick oven. Cover with paper for twenty minutes. Remove the paper and brown. Serve at once.

Asparagus a la Tom Thumb.

The tips alone are used for this dish. Scrape the stalks and lay them in cold water. They will work well into a cream-of-asparagus soup.

Cook the tips—none of them more than two inches long—in boiling water slightly salted. Meantime, make a rich white sauce by stirring into two tablespoonfuls of butter one of flour and, when it is smooth, a generous cupful of milk. Season with white pepper and salt; add the hot asparagus tips; cook for one minute and serve upon rounds of toast, laying six tips, side by side, upon each round.

ARTICHOKES

Italian artichokes look more like a flower than a vegetable. The taste for them, like a fondness for olives, is believed to be a matter of education. I cannot recall the time when I did not like the odd-looking things. They are as peculiar in taste as in appearance, and the slightly acrid, aromatic “bite” they give the tongue is disagreeable to some eaters. In Italy they are cheap. In the United States they are absurdly dear at certain seasons. I never eat them without the association, mingling with the aforesaid “bite,” of a whisper launched at me by the mother of a rich and fashionable hostess at whose table I was lunching with eleven other women:

“I do hope you are fond of artichokes!” said the handsome dowager, leaning well toward me. “My daughter would have an artichoke course. She says it is so ‘chic’—don’t you know? I think it awfully extravagant. For, would you believe it, she paid 50 cents apiece for them! I shouldn’t have the heart to eat them, even If I loved the bristly things. And I don’t!”

I was “fond” of the “bristly things,” and I swallowed the half dollar’s worth apportioned to me the more zestfully for the sauce of the naive comment.

Boiled Italian Artichokes.

Don’t pay 50 cents apiece for them. Watch the markets and you can get them for less than a quarter of the sum. Especially if you know where to find an Italian huckster, who never fails to have them when Lent is on. If they are large, one will do for two portions.

Cut the stems close to the body of each “flower” and lay all in cold water. Leave them there for half an hour, watching to see if any drowned insects rise to the surface, and removing them.

Cook in boiling salted water for another half hour, drain and, with a sharp knife, cut each neatly in half, from crown to stem. Put into a hot root-dish and pour over them this sauce:

Into six tablespoonfuls of melted butter beat a tablespoonful of lemon juice, half as much onion juice, a half teaspoonful of French mustard, a pinch of salt and of paprika, last, a teaspoonful of salad oil. Stir to scalding over the fire, remove the saucepan to the table and add, carefully, a beaten egg. Beat for a minute and pour over the artichokes; or,

You may serve with them a simpler bearnaise sauce, letting each guest help himself to it.

Bearnaise Sauce.

Put the beaten yolks of two eggs into a saucepan and set into another pan of boiling water. Add, drop by drop, three tablespoonfuls of salad oil; next, as slowly, three tablespoonfuls of boiling water; then the juice of half a lemon, a dash of cayenne and a little salt.

Serve hot.

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Savory and Nourishing Lenten Fare

KailaLeave a comment

This is the first article in February of the School for Housewives 1907 series published on February 3, 1907, and is the first in a series of talks on Lenten food which a specific look at fish.

Transcribed from the Sunday edition of Boston Sunday Post.

Savory and Nourishing Lenten Fare

AN EMINENT metropolitan divine has put upon record as his opinion that, were it not for the intervention of Lent between the fashionable winter season and the almost as gay summer campaign, the women who compose the major proportion of his cure of souls would never remember that there is any other life than this.

“In Lent it is the fashion to go to church,” he said, “and women must, perforce, get some idea of the reason for holding church services.”

A learned Judge who belonged to a communion which does not enjoin church services during the forty days observed as a penitential period by other sects took another view of the expediency of abstaining from flesh-foods in the late winter and early spring. Chancing to go into his coachman’s house, and finding the family at dinner, he noted that there was no meat on the table.

“Ah, it is Lent!” he remarked. “And a very sensible thing it is to abstain from meat on three or four days a week in the spring! We should all be better off for following your example. We eat too much flesh-food.”

“You mean better for the body, sir,” rejoined the man, respectfully. “We think fasting good for the soul’s sake!”

THE PHYSICAL SIDE

This is not the place for a dissertation upon the spiritual benefit to be gained from denial of the grosser dispositions of the body, nor for a computation of the influence of a purified body upon religious experience. For the present I range myself with the jurist who claimed that we should all be in better condition physically if meat were stricken from the family bill-of-fare for three days in each week as a relief from the congestion wrought by winter diet and habits and in preparation for summer heats.

The national appetite for flesh- foods may be called a passion with certain classes. Conspicuous among these are adopted citizens of our lavish land. It would be a curious and a melancholy study—the comparison of statistics as to the quantity of flesh per capita, eaten by the transplanted immigrant and that eaten by the brother or sister left in the old country. As curious and more melancholy would be the difference between the doctor’s bills and the death rates of the two.

It is not to be denied that we need carbon in winter and that meat supplies more carbon than vegetables. It is as undeniable that continuous consumption of meat and a scanty use of esculents begets bile and uric acid. A third and consecutive truth is that to these two evil agents may be traced at least one-half of the maladies from which residents of the United States suffer and die.

REFORM MENUS

Let us begin a much-needed reform by inquiring how the national menu may be modified without making it less attractive; in other phrase, add to our culinary repertoire Lenten dishes that will commend themselves to the popular palate. The average eater does not take kindly to fare the chief recommendation of which is wholesomeness. He wants what “tastes good.” Savoriness is a prime essential. And savoriness is a natural characteristic of meat. Having once eaten thereof, and frequently, the sophisticated palate accounts all else insipid. As my oft-quoted Hibernian maid—“three years in the coontry”—complained when eggs were put before her at breakfast—“I moight ate six, and rise hoongry! The mate corner must be filled!”

She is a wise caterer who contrives to fill the meat corner with food that is at once nourishing, acceptable to the taste and, at this time of the year, gently alterative.

The object of this and the next paper will be to direct the housemother’s efforts into channels that may lead to these desirable ends.

If in dealing with Lenten fare I seem to make less than might be expected of these, the usual main stays of cook and caterer who exclude animal food from their daily menus while Lent holds on, it is because so much has already been written of the multifarious ways of cooking eggs—and with respect to a fish diet in winter I have grave misgivings. Fresh fish is wholesome—to some digestions. Others cannot assimilate it. Stale fish is poison. And fish that has been laid up in cold storage for weeks and months is as stale as if it were not advertised as “fresh.”

DANGERS OF FISH DIET

Have you ever paused to consider how many more cases of ptomaine poisoning occur in the winter than in summer? I have been led to look into the subject by several severe and two fatal cases that have come under my immediate observation. In each instance the fish—cod, salmon, halibut and shad—was purchased from a reputable dealer at a high price. It lay buried in ice on the stall, and the buyer assured that it had been drawn from cold storage within a few hours. A majority of women marketers do not ask themselves questions as to the age of fish thus glibly recommended. They know that salmon are not caught in ice-locked rivers and that the shad season in the Northern States is not January and February. They accept the fishmongers’ word for the wholesomeness of their wares, and take no further thought in the matter.

Cold storage is a blessing when the antiseptic process is complete. Because it is faulty sometimes, and the vender’s conscience is elastic, I drop a word of caution to my fellow-housewife touching fish caught in the autumn and kept over for Lent. Southern shad are brought into Northern markets before the Hudson and Connecticut rivers are free of ice. Unless you are wise in determining the age of finny creatures, coax the fisherman of your family into doing this part of your purchasing for you (I do!).

EXPERIENCE ALONE IS SAFE

He may tell you, as my especial John has told me, times without number, what are the hall-marks of really fresh, therefore safe, fish. All the same, join him in his walk downtown—or get on the same car with him, and beguile him into looking into the market with you. The subtle flattery of your confiding appeal to his superior wisdom will do the work—if he be a real fisherman.

As to eggs, I have fifty ways, all told, of preparing them for the table, and I prefer giving the space these would occupy to recipes that have to do with the kindly fruits of the earth.

If eggs are used, however, as they will be by thousands of devotees, be sure to use only those that are fresh. A simple test, and one which is well known, should be given by the housewife if she is not sure of her grocer. Hold the egg before a lighted candle with both hands and scrutinize it between the thumbs. The reflection of the candle light will tell the story. If the shell is clear and opaque, the egg is good; if it appears dark and mottled, throw it aside.

It is my intention more particularly in this paper to talk of a branch of the culinary art which is sorely neglected by our native cooks. I mean the making of meatless soups, known in the inventory of the French chef as “soupes maigres.”

Spinach Soup.

Wash and pick over a half peck of spinach and, while still dripping wet, put it into the inner vessel of a double boiler, and fill the outer with boiling water. Fit a close top on the inner vessel and cook steadily until the spinach is soft and broken. Turn it into a bowl with the water that has oozed from it, and mince very line. When run it through a vegetable press. Return to the double boiler with boiling water in the outer kettle. Season with Hungarian sweet pepper (paprika), salt, a teaspoonful of white sugar and a teaspoonful of onion juice. While it simmers, heat in another boiler a quart of milk, putting in a good pinch of soda to prevent curdling. The richer the milk the better the soup. Put two heaping tablespoonfuls of butter into a frying pan, and when it hisses, stir in a tablespoonful of flour. Cook, stirring all the time until you have a smooth “roux.” When the milk is scalding hot, add the roux, cook two minutes, and pour, keeping the spoon going all the time, into the spinach broth. Boil up once, stirring faithfully, and serve. Scatter croutons of fried bread on the top.

An excellent “soupe maigre,” if properly made.

Tomato Soup.

Stew a quart can of tomatoes soft and rub them through a colander or a vegetable press. Return to the fire, seasoning with salt and pepper to taste, two teaspoonfuls of white sugar, the same of onion juice and a tablespoonful of butter. Meanwhile, scald a pint of milk in a double boiler, adding an even teaspoonful of baking soda. Make a “roux” – as directed in the last recipe—of two tablespoonfuls of butter and one of flour, stir into the milk, boil one minute and add the boiling tomato soup. It will foam up furiously. Pour out and serve.

This may be made into a perfect company soup by laying a tablespoonful of whipped cream upon the surface of each plateful when served.

Tomato Bisque.

Cook a can of tomatoes soft, run through the vegetable press and return to the fire. In another farina kettle scald two quarts of milk with an even teaspoonful of baking soda. When it is hot add three tablespoonfuls of butter, and, simmer gently. Season the tomatoes with pepper and salt and a heaping teaspoonful of white sugar, also one of onion juice and, if you can get it, one of Hungarian catsup. Cook for three minutes after the seasoning goes in and add an even cupful of finely rolled cracker crumbs. Simmer for two minutes, add the milk and stir smooth. Then pour into the tureen or plates at once.

Browned Potato Soup,

Pare and cut into thick slices ten large potatoes, and leave them in cold water for an hour. Dry them between two towels and brown in butter, cottolene or in oil. They should be nicely browned, but not crisped. Fry with them a sliced onion. The frying should be done in a deep saucepan and not in a frying pan. Pour upon the browned potatoes the onion and the fat in which they were cooked two quarts of boiling water, cover the pot and cook until the potatoes are boiled soft. Add a tablespoonful of browned flour rolled in butter. Rub through a colander, return all to the kettle, season with pepper and salt and a tablespoonful of minced parsley.

Have ready in another vessel a cupful of scalding milk, add a pinch of soda and, a minute later, two well-beaten eggs. Pour the potato broth into a tureen or bowl, stir in the milk and eggs and serve.

A most palatable puree. Some cooks omit the browned flour, but it gives a richer color to the soup and prevents wateriness.

White Potato Soup.

Pare, boil and mash ten fine potatoes. Heat a quart of milk in a double boiler with a pinch of soda, and when it is scalding add an onion that has been parboiled, then chopped. Simmer for three minutes, and rub through a colander to get rid of the onion. Make a roux of two tablespoonfuls of butter and one of flour, stir into the milk and set in boiling water while you beat into the hot mashed potato, pepper and salt to taste and a tablespoonful of minced parsley. Stir the boiling milk into this, set over the fire and add two beaten eggs swiftly and with deft whirls of the eggbeater. The instant they are fairly mixed with the soup pour out the latter and serve.

Marion Harland

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Under My Foreign Vine and Fig Tree – In Russia

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This is the fourth article in January of the School for Housewives 1907 series published on January 27, 1907, and is the final talk on keeping house in foreign lands.

Transcribed from the Sunday edition of Boston Sunday Post.

Under My Foreign Vine and Fig Tree

In Russia

OWING to the distracted state of all ranks of Russian society few peace-loving nomads are inclined to settle even for a season within the Czar’s dominions. Should curiosity or expediency compel the step, one should, if possible, pitch the family tent in the capital or in some other city where the United States Consulate and a fair sprinkling of American residents make life moderately comfortable, because measurably safe.

In such a city one can rent a flat or apartment, where the task of keeping warm in winter is less formidable than in huge country houses, more like barracks or barns than human residences.

One’s menu, also, requires less thought in a city. In St. Petersburg, especially, supplies are easily obtainable, and one may fall back on French cooking when the national diet becomes too unspeakable for American palates.

In the country, where one is frozen in for months at a time, unless a housekeeper be prudent and packs away in the underground storerooms during the summer enormous supplies of fermented cabbage, beets—roots and leaves—dried or smoked fish, ham and meats in casks, barrels of flour, bushels of carrots, parsnips, turnips, potatoes, kegs of butter and oil, cheese of every description, dried and canned fruits, and tidbits for the “zakouska”—eatables which form the staple diet of most Russians—starvation may tissue.

SERVANTS ARE HOPELESS

The servant question is likely to prove annoying, not from overindulgence, but because the Russian maid, being but a generation removed from serfdom, is hopelessly irresponsible and careless, with little regard for “meum” and “tuum.” One may hire them for a pittance, but too often they are dear at any price.

The arrangement of Russian meals does not differ materially from that in other European countries. We have the early breakfast of bread, coffee and tea, and the heavier midday meal between 11 and 2, similar to our luncheon.

At this last one has a soup, hot or cold; sour cabbage, mushrooms prepared with sour cream, some sort of cold meat or game, or possibly a creamed fish or vegetable salad, or a chopped-up meat in cutlet, with a sauce of vinegar and sour cream added to the fat in which the meat has been fried. The mixture is then boiled, with a sliced herring and sardine thrown in by way of zest.

Then there maybe curd dumplings, a remarkable compound of rennet curds, pastry, sour cream and eggs, baked in a moderate oven and eaten with melted butter or with sour cream poured over them. Or, perhaps, one tastes “Blinis” for the first time, the Russian hot bread, which enjoys as great popularity as our buckwheat cakes.

Usually there will be “kvas,” a Russian sour soft drink, to wash down the breakfast, or, perhaps, the fiery and intoxicating “vodka.”

The dinner hour in Russia varies from 6 o’clock to 8, and the meal itself is the most important function of the day.

The hostess who aims to be truly Russian will begin with “zakouska.” This is not the simple little appetizer of caviare on toast we know in America, but an elaborate “spread,” usually served in an antechamber; if in the salle a manger, at a side table. In fact, a stranger to the customs of the land may find that he has unwittingly made a full meal before he has approached the dinner table, so enticing is the array of cold dishes, dried fruits, cheeses, wines and liqueurs offered for his selection.

At the zakouska will be found, besides caviare, potted and highly spiced chicken, ham, fish, game and thin slices of aromatic smoked Russian ham, smoked sturgeon or dried salmon.

At the dinner proper one has soup and fish, a roast and curiously prepared vegetables, a salad and dessert, for all of which the preliminary appetizers have probably deprived one of appetite.

Perhaps the soup will be the national stchi, made of pounds of fermented cabbage, an equal amount of cold boiled mutton, chopped together, and boiled with two quarts of kvas, eight ounces of butter, concentrated soup stock, salt, pepper, a little barley and various herbs.

Then one may have the highly prized roast suckling pig stuffed with black buckwheat, hulled and boiled like oatmeal and browned in the oven before it is used as stuffing. Or there may be delicious half-grown chicken squabs, long known in Russia and now popular in the United States.

For an entree might be served Russian croutes, made of finely shredded smoked or spiced beef, cut into strips about an inch long and a quarter of an inch wide, and soaked for half an hour in a little French dressing. Cover the croutes, or blocks of fried bread, with a slice of hard-boiled egg, seasoned with salt and pepper. Place the strips of beef on the croutes and cover with a sauce made of whipped cream, or, better yet, sour cream, into which grated horseradish, cayenne pepper and a few drops of lemon juice are stirred.

The famous Russian salad of cold boiled peas, cauliflower, potatoes cut in strips, dice of carrots, turnips and beans comes next in order. Sliced raw tomatoes, chopped pickle and truffles are arranged in distinct layers in a salad bowl or fill a mould lined with jelly. Season each layer with mayonnaise, salt and pepper, pile the salad high in the centre, cover with mayonnaise and garnish with shredded salmon and beets, olives, capers and anchovies.

After zakouska, topped by dinner, it might be thought the Russian would survive until the next day without another meal. Not he! In winter there is always a light supper after the theatre, while in summer there are refreshments at 10 o’clock, such as berries, with cream and cake, followed by tea passed at midnight. The long twilights are conductive to late hours.

DELICIOUS COFFEE AND TEA

Both coffee and tea, by the way, are delicious in Russia, even when they are passed in great trays at the railroad stations. The samovar plays an important part in the social life, and it was from Russia learned to use lemon instead of cream in our tea. What the initiated palate considers a rather pleasant variation in the tea served at midnight is a spoonful of strawberry jam stirred into each cup.

Russian hospitality is sometimes overpowering. A whole family will meet a guest at the door on her arrival and shower her with attentions during her stay. Frequently at the table the host or hostess will jump up and offer some extra delicacy that has been overlooked by butler or footman.

This proved rather embarrassing to two young American friends visiting the home of a noted Russian scientist. Without a language in common, it was impossible to explain why the guests could not go on drinking indefinitely a heady wine to which they were unaccustomed. The host, thinking they disliked the brand, made an excursion to the cellar several times during the course of the dinner to bring out choice vintages in honor of his visitors, to the embarrassment of all concerned, as the guests dared not touch them.

The half-fermented cabbage of Russia is one of the food staples. It is dressed in a variety of ways, and is much used in soups. It is prepared by chopping the cabbage, pressing it down hard in casks, and adding a little salt. In a few days it will be fermented sufficiently for the casks to be sealed and stored away for winter use.

Sour cream is also to be found on every table and is considered a delicacy in any form in which it is used. It may be bought in all Russian dairies.

Mushrooms, both fresh and dried, are a national delicacy.

A curious combination of fermented cabbage, sour cream and mushrooms is made by stewing dried mushrooms in cold water, pouring the liquid over sour cabbage and boiling for fifteen minutes. Add the chopped mushrooms and salt; stew till thick. Add sour cream, and, lastly, a tablespoonful of flour, browned in butter. Stir thoroughly and cook in a covered dish until as thick as boiled cabbage.

REAL RUSSIAN TOFFEE

A Russian toffee beloved by the children is made with a pound of loaf- sugar, a half-pound of butter and a half pint of cream. Stir all three over the fire till the mixture draws away from the sides of the pan. Flavor with two tablespoonfuls of currant jelly, pour into buttered pans, and when cool cut into squares.

“Kvas,” for which a recipe is given here with, is a refreshing and healthful drink, and is also used in souring soups and roasts.

“Blinis” would make a pleasing variation in our hot breads. The moulds can be bought at Russian delicatessen shops in this country.

Russian Recipes.

BLINIS (NATIONAL HOT BREAD).

One pound flour.
Four eggs.
One and a half glasses milk (lukewarm).
Half-pound rice flour.
Two ounces German yeast (or one yeast cake).

Dilute the yeast with a large glass of warm milk. Pour the flour in to a bowl, make a hollow in the centre and pour in yeast. Stir in the flour gradually to a light, soft paste, and let it rise three hours. Beat the yolks of four eggs and mix with one-half glass of tepid milk. Knead into the risen paste one-half pound of rice flour; add the eggs and milk, and, when light and smooth, a glass of whipped cream and the well-beaten whites. Let the paste rise in one and one-half hours.

Ten minutes before serving, warm a dozen small blinis moulds (shaped like tartlet moulds, but larger and higher). Grease with melted butter and put into each a tablespoonful of paste. Slip a spatula under the moulds and put into a hot oven. Turn, moisten with a paste-brush dipped in melted butter, and three to five minutes later serve hot with a sauceboat of melted butter.

KVAS (A SOFT DRINK).

Four quarts of malt.
Eight pounds rye flour.
One and one-quarter pounds wheat flour.
Seven gallons cold water.
One and one-quarter quarts warm water.
Three-quarters gill of yeast.
Three ounces mint (scalded).

Mix the rye, malt and three-quarters of a pound of the wheat flour with boiling water to a dough and set it in a moderate oven for a number of hours to sour. Take out the dough, place in a large crock or tub and pour over the cold water, mixing till there are no lumps. Let it settle and pour off.

Stir together the rest of the wheat flour, yeast and warm water, then mix with the kvas or soured liquor; beat till very thin and pour into a cask, in which the scalded mint has been placed. Cover the cask and put into a warm room over night, when it should be removed to the cellar or other cold place and bottled.

ANOTHER KVAS

Four pounds barley meal.
Two pounds honey.
One-half pound salt.
Four gallons boiling water.

Put the barley, honey and salt into a stone jar, pour on the boiling water and stir well. Place it on the back of a stove, where it should simmer but not boil for twelve hours. Strain it and let it stand five or six days to ferment slightly. Skim off the foam, strain again and bottle. This drink is non-alcoholic and refreshing.

The honey gives it a flavor not unlike that of the old English drink, metheglin.

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Under My Foreign Vine and Fig Tree – In Merrie England

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This is the third article in January of the School for Housewives 1907 series published on January 20, 1907, and is a continuation of the talk on keeping house in foreign countries.

This talk is on lodging in England.

Transcribed from the Sunday edition of Boston Sunday Post.

Under My Foreign Vine and Fig Tree

In Merrie England

“O, the homes of Merrie England!
How beautiful are they!”

LODGING-HOUSE life in England is a kind of semi-housekeeping that appeals most strongly to Americans who have been traveling far enough to long for a touch of home seclusion and domestic comfort. We “went into lodgings” for the first time during the second year of exile. For six months we had—as the slangiest member of the party put it—“cropped the promiscuous vegetation” of pensions and hotels, and were a-weary of printed menus, of ambiguous entrees, of ubiquitous national dishes, of questionable beds and unequivocal impositions upon the strangers within foreign gateways. We yearned for food we need not analyze; for plain, wholesome living and the right of free speech, if not of high thinking.

We sought—and found—our pleasant pastures, and what the marginal reading of the Shepherd Psalm translates as “the waters of quietness,” in Brighton, just an easy run from London by railway.

We lived in lodgings subsequently in Leamington, and in the Isle of Wight, and in comfort. The Brighton experiment was so triumphantly satisfactory that the memory is an abiding delight.

The personnel of our landlord and his wife interested us from the beginning to the end of our sojourn in the famous old town—a fashionable and expensive resort of royalty and nobility 200 years ago. It is highly respectable still, but modern modes of travel have brought it so near to town that the charm of exclusiveness beloved by fashion has departed.

LUXURY WITHOUT FASHION

“Arry” and “Arriet,” taking advantage of cheap holiday excursions, make love with the frank, matter-of-course audacity of the British cockney, in the forsaken haunts of fop and coquette of the olden time. Shopmen do a fair, but not a brisk trade; parks with high-sounding titles are bordered by buildings that were once grand, and are now described by agents as “genteel and roomy.”

In such a house and upon Regent Park (a name that must have dated back to the youth of George IV, of scapegracish memory) a retired butler, who had lived for thirty years as boy and man in the family of Lord Somebody, had taken up his abode ten years before we were recommended to his good graces by a real estate agent. True to the traditions of his order, he had wedded the cook and drawn her, and the tidy sum she had saved in the same “service” as himself, into his honorable retirement. That is the way they do things in sensible old England. Upon the foundations of their united savings the mature couple leased the “genteel-roomy” house that had out lived its mansion days, and took lodgers.

The business is so little known in America (a more’s the pity!) that I will explain what the term means.

They furnished the house, dividing it into suites and flats for the accommodation of a certain number of individuals and families, for whom, when domiciled they kept house, the lodgers purchasing food and other requisites for daily living, and the proprietors doing the rest. The retired cook had but changed her scene of labors, but she was the nominal mistress of the house. The retired butler transplanted his dignity and dress coat in new soil, of which he was the owner. Both worked harder than ever before, but under conditions more honorable, from their point of view.

Let the report of one day set the case more distinctly before the mind of the reader who has never lived in lodgings.

IN COMMODIOUS QUARTERS

It was early in the summer, and the London “season” was not over. In consequence, Brighton was not full, and we had no difficulty in securing the best lodgings in the whilom mansion. We had the “drawing-room floor.” The English drawing-room is always gained by mounting stairs. Hence, our “English basement houses.” On this floor was the drawing-room entered through a smaller ante-chamber, which we, receiving no visitors, used as a library and writing room. Back of the spacious drawing-room, which looked out upon the Park, was one nearly as large, in which our meals were served. On the floor above were four bedrooms, of fair dimensions. All were clean and airy, and those in the front of the house gave us glimpses of the sea.

Even in summer we never breakfasted earlier than 8 o ’clock, and the “R.B.”—thus christened by our irreverent youngsters, and spoken of by no other name out of his hearing—made known, by a sort of plaintive patronage unattainable by any but a cidevant chief butler, that the meal was spread at that ghostly hour out of deference to our “colonial” prejudices. He was too well bred, or too wary, to quote “the quality” to us, then or ever. I have observed that those who have the offensive trick are usually people who have the least acquaintanceship with the authorities they cite. If there were mild protest in the R.B.’s shining morning face, clean shaven daily—as he passed muffins, toast and bacon, coffee, chocolate and tea—it went no further. He was a shade graver, perhaps, than after the world was better aired. More respectful he could not be. His deportment was of the best brand, and ripened by years. His spouse never, even by accident, gave us a brew of tolerable coffee. In this she was not unlike the chefs of the best hotels in London. She did make excellent chocolate, and the tea was delicious in flavor, although costing just half what we pay for inferior quality in our own country.

ADMIRED A TEA MAKER

The R.B.’s respect for me mounted visibly when he found that I expected to make tea at table. It was “uncommon to see a lady from the States do that,” he informed me. And when, kettle, tea-caddy and urn in place, I measured the dried leaves into the heated pot, poured a little boiling water over them and slipped the cozy into place, he was moved out of his habitual calm.

“Ah, madam, you do macerate your tea!” was an outburst of surprised admiration.

He was addicted to polysyllables, and they went well with the brand of deportment I mentioned just now.

The Continental breakfast does not take with the English. We had oatmeal and cream, bacon and eggs, or fish and bacon. Always bacon—the English breakfast variety we never get out of England, and which we ordered seven mornings in the week. About twice a week we had stewed, or deviled kidneys, muffins almost everyday and toast as invariably as bacon. Another inevitable adjunct of the morning repast, as it was of luncheon, afternoon tea and the Sunday night supper, was marmalade.

It is the Briton’s piece de resistance at three of his daily meals. Dundee marmalade; apple marmalade; marmalade based upon apricots green and apricots ripe; damson marmalade—marmalade named for every berry that grows—are native species of the genus. Besides these we had occasional treats of East Indian guava and preserved ginger.

After breakfast was cleared away, the R.B. presented himself, paper and pencil in hand and professional responsibility upon his brow, to receive my orders for the day. He was to do the marketing; he was familiar with shops, supplies and prices. I knew as well as he, that the programme for the next twenty-four hours and week was settled in his long head before be appeared in “Madame’s” presence. His manner of consulting me as to the least detail of the memoranda he jotted down, as from my dictation and his deferential attention to every suggestion, were inimitable. He was there for my “commands” and he went through the form of taking them. In reality, I had little to do with catering beyond paying the bills on Saturday night. I do not think I was cheated, albeit I was fully aware that my major-domo got his little commission from the tradesmen favored by our orders. He shopped to better advantage than a foreigner could hope to do. His show of protecting me against my lavish self was as good as a play.

“Strawberries, Madame!” in plaintive reluctance. “I am afraid you would hardly care to pay the market price for strawberries today. The recent rains have curtailed the supply, I grieve to say. I could not reconcile it with my conscience to let you order them without telling you that they are two shillings per quart. Uncommon fine berries, of course, but really, two shillings in the height of the season is extortionate!”

The English strawberries were as he said, uncommon of their kind. I have never seen finer, or tasted any that were more delicious, and when we could not get them for less, we smothered the R.B.’s conscience and our own, and paid the extortionate 2 shillings (50 cents) per quart.

When it came to paying six pence (12 1/2 cents) apiece for peaches in the Leamington market, we hesitated, and thought longingly of the basketfuls of the luscious fruit rotting at the week’s end on New York docks.

The weak point in the cuisine managed by the thrifty pair was the 1 o’clock luncheon. The retired cook had evidently lived out her term of service in a family that had the true British contempt for made dishes.

The distaste is as old as the reign of “Good George the King,” whose favorite dish was boiled mutton and turnips. Mrs. R.B. could compass a mince on toast. Her ignorance of croquettes, salmis, scallops and the like matched her ineptitude for all manner of salads. Her lord looked upon luncheon as a stop-gap for appetites that had been satisfied with breakfast and were reserving their best energies for dinner.

This, the fourth meal of the eating day, was to him a serious luncheon. A meaty soup—sometimes rather heavy for our taste—was succeeded in due and solemn procession by fish, a roast with vegetables, pudding or tarts, crackers and cheese and black coffee. Fruits and nuts were brought on with the crackers and cheese. These were the “dessert.” Tarts, custards, puddings and ices were “sweets.”

The main defect in the average English cuisine is sameness. We were painfully conscious of this during a fortnight’s stay at one of the largest and most expensive of London hotels. We did not weary of juicy Southdown mutton, unequaled in savoriness by any we had eaten in any other part of the world, unless it were the small roasts of lamb we used to get in Italy. Charles Lamb said of roasting pig: “He is a weakling; he is a flower.” The Italian lamb is a gentle bud—a very exquisite in his way. And his English cousin South down is a larger edition in flavor and tenderness. The “roast beef of Old England” was a lasting disappointment, and, with all deference to the native cooks, it was killed in the kitchen. We ate none that was not overdone until what gravy followed the carver’s knife was almost colorless. Sometimes it was boiled while fresh, an unheard-of method with us. The liquor in which it was boiled made good soup. The meat was insipid and fibrous.

In roasting poultry Mrs. R.B. was an adept. Her “fowls,” which she never called “chickens,” were done to a turn, pleasant to the sight and eminently satisfactory to the palate. If we did not learn to appreciate the “liver-wing” as the choicest morceau of the goodly bird, we approved of the jaunty touch lent to a plump young cook, or a capon, by tucking the brown liver under one wing—“like an opera hat”—said a saucy girl of the party.

The list of vegetables was pitifully short. Potatoes, that were perfect in their way, miracles of mealiness and magnitude; broad beans, a sort of overgrown lima; vegetable marrow, to which we inclined favorably, and Brussels sprouts, were the chief of our diet, so far a stable vegetables went. Day after day the round was repeated, with an occasional and most welcome interpolation of delicious green peas, when ducks took the place of the “regulation” fowl. Those who hankered for coarser esculents might regale plebeian tastes with cabbage and turnips. The finer vegetables that make our home markets beautiful and enticing throughout the year are unknown luxuries to the untraveled Briton.

I should be ungrateful and unjust if I failed to descant briefly upon the chaste joys of afternoon tea in the country that gave birth to the fascinating function.

AFTERNOON TEA’S JOYS

At 5 o’clock P.M., England, from palace to hut, “puts the kettle on and they all have tea.” It is the hour sacred to domestic tranquility and social comfort. We had the habit before we went into lodgings. It was confirmed for the rest of our lives by our two summers in the tight little island. And, verily, the teas spread in our sight by the Turveydropian R.B. were something to remember. However far we might have wandered afield, Londonward or into the country rich in downs, dykes, castles and historic ruins, we were sure to bring up at tea time in the quiet drawing room, and as sure to find the round table, covered with a snowy cloth, drawn to the corner of the hearth. The late afternoon was sometimes chill with sea-fogs, and in England the least suspicion of dampness and falling temperature is seized upon as an excuse for lighting a fire. Sometimes we came in wet, but cheerily, for we knew what awaited us. Then the sea-coal was a glow in the grate; the tea-urn bubbled in unison with it, and the cloth was hidden by plates of thin bread and butter, sandwiches, the toast rack, cake basket, a plate of hot scones or tea cakes shrouded in a napkin, always marmalade, and, not infrequently, a delicacy with which we became acquainted—and zestfully during that halcyon summer at Brighton—to wit, Devonshire cream! It was eaten with brown bread and butter and jam, otherwise marmalade.

At 10 o’clock we might have had supper if we had wanted it. I think the R.B. and his spouse never failed to eat their bread and cheese with, maybe, a bit of cold beef or pork, and to wash the food down with a “pint of bitter” at this ungainly hour. The poorest cottager must have his supper, if there be a crust of bread or a wheel of cheese in the cupboard.

How the better classes keep up the national custom, when they have breakfasted at 9, lunched at 1, had tea at 5 and a heavy family dinner at 7.30, or a dinner party at 8, passed our comprehension then, and is not yet quite clear.

ENGLISH RECIPES

Tea Cake.

Sift four capfuls of dried flour into a bowl and chop into it a scant cupful of butter. Dissolve half a yeast cake in four tablespoonfuls of warm water and stir it into two cupfuls of milk, or enough to make a soft dough. Roll this out into a sheet and cut into cakes as large as a tea plate and less than half an inch thick. Set them, covered lightly, in a warm dark place until they have nearly trebled in thickness. Bake in a floured pan. Keep them covered for twenty minutes, then brown.

Run a sharp knife around the edge, tear the cake open, butter and serve upon a plate lined and covered with a heated napkin.

Yorkshire Pudding.

Two cupfuls of flour, into which have been stirred, and then sifted with the flour a teaspoonful of baking powder and one of salt. Mix to a soft batter with two cupfuls of milk. Beat four eggs light and whip into the batter with quick, upward strokes.

This is always served with roast beef. When the beef is done, transfer it to a heated dish and keep hot over boiling water. Pour off the fat from the top of the gravy left in the dripping pan; turn the batter into the pan, set back in the oven and bake quickly to a delicate brown. Dish the meat and lay the pudding, cut into squares, about it in the platter.

Jam Pudding.

Line a buttered bake dish with a good puff paste. For a batter allow two eggs and their weight in butter and in dried and sifted flour. Cream the butter and sugar, whip in the yolks beaten smooth, and then the frothed whites, alternately with the flour, which has been sifted twice with a tablespoonful of baking powder.

Now spread the puff paste in the bake dish with peach jam, or with preserved peaches, mixed with a tablespoonful of preserved ginger, cut fine. Pour the batter upon this prepared bed and bake in a steady oven. Cover with paper as you would cake, removing to brown after the pudding has puffed up well.

It is really very nice when properly made, although un-American in construction.

Castle Pudding.

Two eggs, the weight of the eggs in granulated sugar, dried flour and in butter. Sift the flour twice with half a teaspoonful of baking powder. Cream the butter and sugar, working in the juice and grated peel of half a lemon. Add the beaten yolks; beat hard and whip in the stiffened whites, alternately with the flour. Bake in buttered pate pans as you would small cakes; turn out and eat hot with sauce.

Marion Harland

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Under My Foreign Vine and Fig Tree – Switzerland

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This is the second article in January of the School for Housewives 1907 series published on January 13, 1907, and is a continuation of last year’s talk on keeping house in foreign countries and what can be learned from Switzerland.

Transcribed from the Sunday edition of Boston Sunday Post.

Under My Foreign Vine and Fig Tree

Switzerland

NO CONDITION, or combination of untoward conditions, is intolerable when once one has seen the ridiculous side of it. A laugh salves the smart of defeat and blunts the edge of an insult.

The funny side of our initial experiences in Swiss cookery was quick in coming to the front. It lay in the discovery that not one of our family party could speak the language of the region in which we had pitched our moving tent for six months. And this although a year in Italy had given half of the number a colloquial acquaintance with the musical, facile tongue. Granted a tolerable familiarity with spoken and written French and a substratum of Latin, and Italian was the easiest of lingual tasks. We had furbished up our French in anticipation of the year in the Swiss Republic, for was it not the vernacular of the free-born Switzer?

A Trying Lingual Experience

“Boy,” now 5 years of age, and a glib chatterbox in three languages, was one of the first to proclaim our formidable disability. Returning, red of face and swelling with rage, from a visit to the excellent fruit market on the shore of the lake along which ran the crooked streets of the historic town, he thus relieved his humble soul: “I asked an old woman how she sold her grapes, and she said a long nonsense I had never heard before. And when I told her ‘Non capisco Tedesco,’ she laughed at me. It was good Italian, and meant I don’t understand your horrid old Dutch!”

We laughed, too, at the small man’s discomfiture, and brought our proverbial family philosophy to bear upon countless similar experiences no less surprising and inconvenient, the unlooked-for obstacles to settling down comfortably in our chosen nest. The speech of the common people of Lucerne and the surrounding region is a wretched patois of blended German and French, with a smack of Italian, introduced, as our disgusted Parisian professor used to say—“pour la rendre plus difficile.” As if it were not difficult enough already to make the earlier weeks of our sojourn in Helvetian lodgings a series of distractions!

From first to last, the fruit market in which “Boy” had his hard lesson was a surprise and a delight. Grapes, figs, oranges, pears, nespolis (a novelty to us) and berries were a delicious jumble that set season at defiance. We ate Alpine strawberries in November and grapes and pears at the same meal.

In September of the next year we reached Geneva just in time for the autumnal “grape-cure,” of which I have written somewhat at length in our Exchange. We “took” the cure conscientiously, but neither then, nor ever, did we learn to like the much-lauded grapes of Switzerland and Germany. They were fair to view, and, we thought, at first sight, preposterously cheap. The latter opinion we changed after sampling every variety we could lay hands upon. They were sour when fully ripe, even those that blushed rosily on the side of the cluster kissed by the sun. The purple-and-gold of the finest varieties was a delusion and a snare to eye and taste, until we came to know them well.

The berries, including currants and gooseberries, were delicious, and, as I have said, phenomenal in the length of seasonableness, in consequence of the wide range of altitudes in the mountain lands.

Here, as in Italy, our rooms were lofty as to ceiling; the windows were casements, opening down to the floor, and the floors were of brick in the chambers, stone in the salon and dining-room. When we got to Geneva we entered upon the realm of parquetries and rugs. The stairs were of stone, everywhere, and uncarpeted.

The Swiss are, as a nation, notably clean, and their thrift sets an object lesson to all Christendom. In none of our bedrooms was there any provision for a fire, and the steady wood-blaze that never went out in our big salon was a continual marvel—and I suspect a scandal—to our landlady and native visitors. This when the snow that lay on the mountain tops the year round cloaked the lower heights, and fierce winds filled the air with whirling white and drove long lines of fine flakes between the ill-fitting leaves of the long casements. We had fallen into the practice in Italy of tucking hot-water jugs between our sheets nightly to temper the chill of the beds. An assortment of tall round water jugs, used for this purpose and none other, is as regularly apart of household plenishing as cups and saucers and knives and forks. There was running water, hot and cold, in the kitchen, and cold in the bathroom, the primitive appointments of which would have moved us to active discontent had there been any hope of altering them. Since there was none, we pushed the family philosophy hard in that direction, and got many a laugh out of this and dozens of other discomforts.

Europe is Late Breakfasting

America leads the world in the matter of early breakfasts. In Switzerland, as in Italy, France, Germany and England, we arose at the hour at which we would have sat down to the first meal of the day at home. Not a shop in the business portion of Lucerne, Lausanne or Geneva was opened before 9 o’clock. To desert one’s pillow before 8 would be to invite remark, and the inconveniences of an uncleaned, unwarmed apartment. Not a drop of hot water could be had at 7, or at 7.30. We were lucky if we could secure a pint apiece for our matutinal ablutions at 8, and early in the season began to utilize the embers of the extravagant salon fire for heating a kettleful shaving water and to take the chill from boy’s bath. Firewood was the most expensive it m in our weekly bills. We computed that the short billets cut from small trees we would call saplings at home and the bunches of dried twigs bound into fagots for kindling cost at least $20 a cord. And this in a house that had no furnace to make, as it were, a background of heat for the ceaseless flare of our ruinous wood fire!

An Uncomplaining Maid

Breakfast was served in the salon upon a table drawn directly in front of the hearth. It was brought up from the lodging-house kitchen, three flights below, upon a huge tray, borne by a pretty maid about five feet two inches in height. When Marie comes to America she will not “engage” in a house where there is not a dumb-waiter from the kitchen to the dining room, one floor above. For four months she lugged the loaded tray up three flights of stone stairs with never a murmur, except on one dreadful morning when an incautious step on the topmost stair brought the corner of the tray in to contact with the railing, and tray and contents —coffee, cocoa, rolls, eggs, marmalade, cups, saucers and plates—went hurtling down the abysmal well of the lofty stairways and crashed upon the stone floor of the basement. What wonder that the poor little maiden, all forlorn, sat herself down on the upper stair and wailed aloud!

“For it is I who will have to pay for all that is broken!” was the burden of her plaint.

Of course, as “soft” foreigners, we made ourselves responsible for the breakages—deliverance for which we suffered in the esteem of our landlady—“padrona,” as we had learned to call her in Italy. Nor will Marie set it down to the account of some other American mistress when she emigrates.

The Swiss breakfast differed from the usual continental pattern in nothing save that marmalade of some kind was an invariable accompaniment of rolls and coffee, and that a slab of tough Swiss cheese balanced the butter. Nobody ever ate it, and, for all we know, the same slab may have mounted guard the season through. The Swiss are as strong on cheese as are the Netherlanders. I do not recollect that it ever failed to appear in some form at every meal to which we sat down during the eight months we passed in the tight little republic. Nor that breakfast or luncheon was ever set before us that did not display a glass dish of “confitures,” alias jam, alias marmalade. The abundance and all-the-year-around supply of fruits may account for the craze in this line. Every housewife puts up her own fruit. “Canned goods” have no harbor in her larder. The Swiss honey also goes with the simple breakfast. Sometimes it is strained; oftener it is served in the comb, clear as amber, and fragrant with the distilled breath of mountain thyme and other wild blossoms that help to make the Swiss flora the richest in the world.

We became, in time, so fond of the native bread as to find the fine white rolls sent in from a French bakery insipid by comparison. The Swiss housewife rarely makes fresh yeast, or sponge. She carries it from one baking to another for weeks together. It may be that this custom accounts for the slight “tang,” sometimes sharpening into sourness, that is seldom absent from the loaf. It is a mammoth loaf, and round and high. Thick slices were hewn from it as it was called for at table. It had a stand all to itself, at luncheon; it was a creamy brunette in complexion, being made from whole wheat, and was, altogether, so wholesome and whole-souled, that we gave it a distinguished place in our regard.

Luncheon was spread in the dining-room at 12.30. Besides the big loaf we had a dish of hot meat—as often as not, kid or chamois, roast or braised. In spite of classic allusions to Ambracian kid carved to slow music, and winter rights in the mountain hut where the “kid turns on the spit” —we did not take kindly to him, or to his country cousin, the chamois.

Condiments Disguised the Meat

The meat came on the table, dark, almost black—colored, doubtless, by the spices cooked with it—and whatever native flavor it might have had disguised beyond recognition by the condiments. Ragouts were also frequent; we had potatoes-boiled in their jackets—always a salad, and cheese, of course. Light wine was the common beverage. For sweets there was pastry, or a layer cake of rounds of pastry separated, yet cemented by rounds of “confitures.”

Dinner was served at 6.30. Having taken up the English fashion of afternoon tea early in our pilgrimage, we were comparatively indifferent to the defects of our luncheons, solacing ourselves at 4 o’clock with the most informal, social and refreshing function of the day. Other exiles from the homeland and resident English soon fell into the habit of dropping in at teatime, until our modest salon became the rendezvous for a coterie of the most charming people I have ever had the good fortune to know. We brewed the tea in our own quarters, made cozy on the stormiest day by the American innovation of the open fire. The silver teakettle bubbled gayly over the alcohol lamp; we had light cakes and biscuits, thin bread and butter, lemon for those who preferred tea a la Russe to tea with sugar and cream—and this was all! Some of my happiest reminiscences of foreign life are of the winter spent in dear old Geneva, and the reunions of English-speaking folk in the salon overlooking the Lake Leman, of Byron, Shelley and Bonnivard, the snow-capped Juras forming the horizon line.

The Dinner Menu

Our chat was usually prolonged until we had just time to dress hurriedly for dinner. The first course was soup— sometimes a thin bouillon floating noodles or rice or manestra. A broth of lentils suggested “Tedesco” kinship about twice a week. Sometimes we had a “potage a la bonne femme,” which had squares of toasted bread a drift upon a sea of consomme besprinkled will parsley.

Fish followed the soup. The lake furnished a fair variety, and it was invariably breaded and fried. Potatoes went around with it. Next appeared a solitary vegetable—cabbage, with a cheese sauce; fried celery; or stewed celery root, or artichokes eaten with a sauce tartare or dipped in melted butter, an entree of sweetbreads, or, maybe, of boiled “bolognas,” attended by greens of unknown name and family. The roast was, three or four times a week, chickens. Turkeys and ducks appeared so rarely as hardly to deserve a notice. We got up an American Thanksgiving dinner in Geneva, even achieving a mince pie.

Fowls were cooked with their heads on. The somewhat gruesome fashion had crept across the frontier from the country that had lent gutturals to the French the natives assume to speak. Salad of some kind—chickory and endives being favorites of our housemother—was served with the roast. It is an uncomely custom, to my notion. The salad cools the fowls, and the hot meat wilts the crispness of the salad, but it has been adopted in America since we made our daily protest against it in Switzerland.

Biscuits and the inevitable cheese succeeded a course of fruit, pastry, custard or cream, wrought into fantastic shapes.

We affected especially “crema montata,” or goat’s milk, whipped to a standing froth and sweetened. Served with strawberries, fresh or preserved, it found signal favor in our eyes and mouths.

Black coffee wound up the list of courses.

The only time I ever saw snails on the table, and eaten, was in Switzerland. We had seen them by the barrelful in Parisian shops, and, after one shuddering gaze, turned away our eyes from beholding what was so abhorrent to transatlantic gastronomic prejudices. They are put up for the market, boiled in the shell, and shrinking in the process to a greenish paste. Gamins buy them by the handful, and dig out the paste with finger-mails and pins, devouring it greedily at the street corners.

During our temporary residence at a Genevan pension, I chanced, one day, to meet the proprietress in the corridor with a basket of snails in her hands. At my inquiring look she stopped to explain:

“M.B” (a Russian boarder) “has weak lungs, and is advised by the physicians to eat des coquilles for the malady.”

“M.B.” sat opposite to me at luncheon, and in front of him was a bowl of what might have been long clams, boiled down to a gray, thick broth. I tried hard not to witness his consumption of the mess, and harder still, to swallow my own food.

Tuberculosis in France and Switzerland took on, for me, new horrors from the incident.

Yet why not snails as well as frog’s legs, raw oysters, clams and oyster crabs?

SOME SWISS RECIPES

Potato Salad Dressing

Make a good mayonnaise in the usual way, and to a cupful add two large potatoes prepared thus: Boil in their jackets, peel while hot and rub through a fine colander or vegetable press. Whip, when cold, into the mayonnaise gradually, stirring until the creamy mixture is smooth. Season with salt, pepper and a dash of onion juice, and just before serving, stir into the mayonnaise the white of an egg whipped stiff.

This is an excellent dressing for a macedoine salad, one of tomatoes, or of fish. It is best suited for a side dish at luncheon or supper. Eat with brown and cheese.

Baked Eggs

Into a bakedish which has been warmed and generously buttered pour a cupful of milk which has been made a little more than lukewarm. Add a teaspoonful of strained onion juice, set in the oven and, a minute later, drop carefully into the milk five or six eggs, or as many as will lie in the dish without crowding. Sprinkle with salt and pepper and bake until the eggs are “set,” but not hard.

Berry Mousse

To a pint of the squeezed and strained juice of currants, raspberries or strawberries add a pound of white sugar. Stir until dissolved and bring to a boil. Keep this up for five minutes, taking off the rising scum. Meanwhile, beat six eggs light in a bowl and pour the boiling syrup slowly upon them, stirring all the time. Put back over the fire and cook until it thickens, not intermitting the stirring for one second. Turn out to cool, stirring still for two minutes, and when cold set on ice until you are ready to use it.

Marion Harland

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Under My Foreign Vine and Fig Tree – The German Housewife

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This is the first article in January of the School for Housewives 1907 series published on January 6, 1907, and is a continuation of last year’s talk on keeping house in foreign countries and what can be learned.

Transcribed from the Sunday edition of Boston Sunday Post.

Under My Foreign Vine and Fig Tree

The German Housewife

Before entering upon the consideration of the German cuisine, I am moved by a sense of justice and by sincere admiration for the national hausfrau to say a few words of her.

Housewifery is an honorable profession in in Germany. In all ranks it is studied by the women from childhood, and practiced at every age. The wonderful land owes more to the intelligent thrift of her women than can be appreciated in America, where kitchen duties are reckoned “menial” by rich parvenus who spend the rest of their lives in forgetting the steps by which they have climbed to the height which has turned their heads, and college girls glory in their utter ignorance of practical housewifery. Fathers, sons and husbands have more time and calmer thought for acquiring learning which has made them great because daughters, mothers and wives assume the care and conduct of domestic affairs and prove themselves competent to the undertaking.

KNOW HOW TO MARKET

Our hausfrau does the marketing even after she drives to market in her own carriage, and is too shrewd in selection and bargaining to be outwitted by the merchant. The fine stock phrases that retain the custom of the mechanic’s and day laborer’s wife in our country pass for sounding air with the Teutonic marketer. She knows the worth of meat, vegetables, groceries and fruits as well as if she had sold as well as bought them from babyhood. She keeps a sharp eye upon the scales; is rigid as to scraps and trimmings that belong to the purchaser; she is a judge of fish, and wide-awake to its dietetic and economic values; she knows how to utilize second-rate fruits, but she will not pay full price for what is not excellent. The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her management of raw materials after she has bought them wisely. She rules larder and kitchen as efficiently as he controls shop, counting-room, office and class-room. For every pound of meat, every handful of herbs, sent home, she expects to receive an account. The crude ingredients are an investment, and she will demand her interest regularly. Wastefulness is a crime; the mistress who condones extravagance in cook, butler or housemaid is recreant to her trust.

To her such a judge the “easy ways” of the traveling America are a continual marvel. She has heard tales that rival Grimm’s stories of genii and fairy godmothers, of the mighty fortunes made and spent in the transatlantic “States.” The rapid making of what grows slowly, if steadily, in her native land may be a mystery to her. She is at no loss to comprehend on what swift wings riches fly away when once she has marked our works and ways in the household.

UNPLEASANT CONTRASTS

In turn, the American resident for one or more seasons in a German town is loftily disdainful of the appointments of the apartment—usually paid for by the room—in which she bestows her family and portable belongings, with the fixed intention of living after the manner of the country for three, six or twelve months, while the children study German (the mother says “while they learn it”), and she visits galleries and gets bargains in lace and amber.

There is no furnace for warming the living rooms. The salon is disfigured by a huge porcelain stove, planted stubbornly in one corner. Mark Twain is not the only traveler who likens it to a family monument. After some weeks of dependence upon it for all the warmth that can be coaxed into the lofty room with its dreary outlook through casement windows upon sunless skies, the exile overcomes the sense of graveyard chill and gloom excited by the tall, hard, white construction she cannot screen or drape. The bedrooms are luxurious—almost to sinfulness, thinks the hausfrau —if they are supplied with smaller cenotaphs.

The kitchen is probably small, paved with stone or brick, furnished sparsely, and often destitute of hot and cold water. Most of the utensils are wooden.

Then, it you keep late hours, you will have to face a reproachful “hausmeister,” or janitor, who religiously closes the outer door at 10 P.M. Woe be it to you if you should forget the enormous key he gives you when you announce your intention of staying out until midnight! You will pay a fee to be allowed to enter your own domicile and grope your way upstairs in inky blackness by the ghastly illumination of your Sulphur matches.

Nevertheless, housekeeping in Germany has wonderful compensations in a comparatively unstrained servant question. Where two maids can be had from $8 to $10 a month, and the two of them do twice as much work as any two over here would, with laundry included and plain sewing thrown in; when the police can compel them to stay with you up to the time for which they contracted, there, indeed, is a distracted American housekeeper’s haven of rest.

This police surveillance of servants is curious. Each maid must register at the nearest station when taking a place, and the policeman can arbitrate in case of a dispute. He also inspects the maids’ rooms to see that they are in proper condition.

Every German servant musty give two weeks’ warning or a month before leaving a place. Her mistress, at her departure, will write her character in a book, which she must show at her next place.

If, in pondering upon these items which differentiate the servant problem of the German housewife from that which wears her American sister into an untimely grave, we are moved to amusement by the recollection of the high and mightiness of imported Anna, Martha, Gretchen and Dorothea when they inquire on this side of the ocean into our recommendations to their confidence, their society and putative services for a consideration that grows bigger every month—if, I say, we be moved to momentary mirth, our mood soon changes. For, why should we, the most imitative and progressive nation upon earth, lag so far behind the conservative Teutons in what lays the corner-stone of domestic comfort?

HOME LAUNDERING

It is a relief to scarified national complacency to pass on to the home laundry system of our hausfrau and compare it with ours. Lavish as we account ourselves to be in the matter of household plenishing, few families outside of the millionaire belt can boast of keeping in store twelve dozen of each kind of bed, table and body linen. The rule of twelve is imperative in the German household. Washing is done but once a month; sometimes but once in six weeks in some families; respectable and well to-do quarterly! As garments, bedclothes and napery are soiled by wear and use they are carried off to “die Boden,” a big upper chamber furnished with clotheslines, there to hang until the next washday. The foreigner who recoils from the idea of festering perspiration and bacteria and begs for the privilege of paying handsomely for a weekly washday is regarded with wondering suspicion.

“Yours must be a dirty people!” was the comment of a blunt hausfrau when I told her that we sent our clothes to the laundry every Monday, and that washing was done every day in some wealthy families, laundresses being engaged to do nothing else.

The unconscious humor of the remark was ample compensation for the rudeness to one who had that day chanced to pass the open door of “die Boden.”

They undoubtedly have the advantage of us in respect to family mending—the bugbear of our housemother. Her German sister, as a rule, employs a visiting seamstress, who once a week does the mending for the absurd salary of from $1.50 to $2 a month.

TWO BREAKFASTS

Being safely domiciled, if you are going to be really German you will rise at 7 o’clock for the “Erstes Fruhstuck,” or first breakfast, consisting of coffee or tea and rolls.

At 10 o’clock comes the “Zweites Fruhstuck,” or second breakfast, when one’s fainting spirit is sustained with sandwiches, fresh or stewed fruit, cold sausage and beer. In the season, pears, apples and cherries are plentiful and good; the peaches, while as fine as ours, are rarer and expensive; and the berries, particularly blackberries and wild strawberries, are very nice.

Except among the higher classes, “Mittagsessen,” or dinner is eaten in the middle of the day, from 12 to 2. Business is suspended for this function and the children come home from school, where they have been since 7 o’clock if it happens to be summer, or since 8 in winter. After dinner most of the men rest for an hour. Another un-American custom.

A truly German dinner always has soup; perhaps a lentil soup, with soaked and boiled lentils and small pieces of sausage added to a rich beef stock; or, even more characteristic, the much loved “Biersuppe,” or beer soup, made with a pint, each, of milk and water, one-half pint of light beer, three ounces of currants, three ounces of flour, three ounces of sugar, two spoonful of salt, and the yolk of an egg.

I digress from the line of narrative at this point, to avow frankly my disrelish for certain distinctively German soups. Aside from my exceptional aversion to chocolate in any form, I do not think a sweet, thin preparation of chocolate, served in soup-plates as the first course of a dinner, appetizing or wholesome. The custom savors too much of the ultra-economical expedient of the early housewives of New England, who served Indian meal pudding before the meat course, to blunt desire for the costlier food. Nor did I ever learn to like a queer broth based upon ripe rose-pips. They were pounded fine and cooked in weak stock, and a few whole pips, cooked tender, were left to float upon the surface of each plateful.

THE MEAT COURSE

With meat courses are served potatoes and one other vegetable.

The meat may perhaps be a roast, sometimes seasoned with onions. Seedless raisins are roasted with beef or they are added to the gravy.

Then there is the much-loved “Hasenbratten,” or wild hare, larded with bacon and roasted. Again it may be “Sauerbratten,” or a pot roast laid down in spiced vinegar for several days beforehand, then roasted and dished with a gravy of the spiced vinegar and browned juices.

Around the “Sauerbratten” are dished “Kloese,” or potato balls, mashed potatoes moulded around small blocks of toast and fried in butter. “Pfefferkuchen,” a sort of gingerbread, is also cut in pieces and used in the gravy to thicken it.

A favorite dish for Sunday dinner is a large cabbage parboiled and cooled before the centre is removed and filled with a finely chopped raw meat. Then it is boiled in a cloth so that it keeps its shape. It is sliced into wedge-shaped pieces at the table.

In Scott’s immortal lines beginning:

“At Christmas time the bells were rung,
At Christmas time the mass was sung,”

We read:

“Nor fails old Scotland to produce
At that glad time her savory goose.”

Substitute “Germany” for “Scotland,” and you have the record of a culinary custom as invariable in the Kaiser’s realm as the appearance of roast turkey at an English or American Christmas dinner.

Dessert and black coffee are served together. Cream puddings are extremely popular, always with a fruit sauce. Pies and tarts never have a top crust, and the shells are generally bought at a confectioner’s and filled with whipped cream and fruit conserves. The ice cream is like our frozen custard flavored with fruits, and is helped in tiny portions. Whipped cream is served with almost all cream cakes and tarts.

DELICIOUS COFFEE

At 4 o’clock comes the “Kaffee,” which, when it becomes a formal function where women are invited to bring their work or to play whist, becomes the far-famed “Kaffee Klatsch.” Here one has coffee which is delicious when served in the German way, in the little brass coffee pot in which it is made. A piece of white “coffee paper” (something like blotting paper) is usually placed over the holes of the perculator to cause slower dripping, and thus to gain the full strength of the coffee.

Here, also, one has the many delicious “Kuchen,” or cakes, such as “Kaffee Kuchen,” or coffee cake; “Nuss Kuchern,” or nut cake; apple, peach and cheese kuchen, “Honigkuchen,” or honey cakes. If it happens to be Lent, there will be the marvelous “Berliner Pfanne Kuchen,” or so-called pancakes. In reality, they are more like our dough-nuts, with jelly imbedded in them, fried in boiling fat. Often, too, there is smooth, rich German chocolate with whipped cream.

Between 6 and 8 o’clock comes supper, or “Abendessen,” with a half-dozen or more kinds of cold meats; uncooked smoked “Liverwurst,” or liver sausage, “Cervalatewurst,” made of the best smoked pork, and that crowning delicacy, to the German taste, raw ham, cut very thin and eaten with salt and pepper. It is served on snowy white individual wooden plates. Yet the immigrant German will hesitate long before eating this in America even though the best Westphalian hams are said to be imported.

This habit of eating uncooked ham is undoubtedly the reason of the fearful distrust of American pork awakened in Germany by the tales of trichinae-poisoning in our country. The baleful germs may be killed by long boiling. They are rampant in raw meat.

Another favorite uncooked meat is Beef a la Tartare, simply raw Hamburger flavored with chopped onion, salt and pepper and covered with a raw egg.

With the supper meats go a fish or other heavy salad, pumpernickel sandwiches, cut very thin, with cheese between, and some of the beautiful preserved fruits in which housekeepers take such pride. Sweet pumpernickel is often grated and served with whipped cream.

No German woman would allow a caller to be in her home ten minutes without pressing upon her something to eat. This form of hospitality is not so onerous as it sounds, for in addition to a well-stocked larder one can send out the maid with a little plate and get, freshly cut, a half-dozen varieties of beautifully sliced meat, every kind of cake and tart, and for 10 cents enough cream ready whipped for half a dozen people.

If one is going to the opera, and most music-loving Germans go several times a week during the season, supper is earlier and afterward the cafes are frequented. German women, strange to say, while they drink their beer at symphony concerts, rarely take anything to drink at cafes, contenting themselves with an ice or tart.

German Recipes (Contributed).

PFEFFERNUSSE.

Sugar, one pound.
Cinnamon, two teaspoonfuls.
Nutmeg, two teaspoonfuls.
Four eggs.
Flour, one pound.
A little pepper.

Beat the sugar with the yolks for a quarter of an hour. Put in the spices and flour, mould into little round cakes about the size of a soda biscuit. Bake slowly on iron sheets. Frost with plain icing.

BERLINER PFANNKUCHEN.

Warm milk, one-half cup.
Butter, one-quarter pound.
Sugar, five tablespoonfuls.
Yolks of four eggs.
Peel of one lemon, grated.
One yeast cake.
Flour, one pound.
A few bitter almonds.

Dissolve the yeast in warm milk, stir with the salt into the flour till a soft dough is formed. Stand in a warm place over night to rise. In the morning, melt the butter, add the sugar, well-beaten yolks, lemon peel and grated almonds. Mix well and let it stand until very light. Roll into sheets about two inches thick, and cut round. On the top of each cake put currant jelly or jam, and fold over the corners, moistening with a little water to close the edges. Let them rise again. Drop in boiling lard to fry like doughnuts. Dust with powdered sugar.

SAUERBRATTEN (SOUR ROAST.)

Soak five or six pounds of meat in a spiced vinegar, for three or four days in summer, eight to ten days in winter. Spice the vinegar highly with mixed spices ground fine, three bay leaves and peppercorns, and boil. Put the meat in this in a deep bowl and cover with a plate. Turn the meat every day, but do not insert a fork.

Take out the meat, lard with bacon, bake in a saucepan like a pot roast, adding a few carrots and a little onion. Just before serving, remove the roast, pour off most of the fat, add a little browned flour and some of the spiced vinegar. Serve in a sauceboat or pour around the roast.

KAFFEEKUCHEN.

Butter, one pound.
Flour, one and a quarter pounds.
Sixteen eggs.
Sugar, one and a quarter pounds.
Bitter almonds, one-eight pound.
Peel of one lemon, grated.
One yeast cake.

Beat the eggs and sugar together, then add the flavoring, flour and yeast. Let it rise till very light. Then roll in sheets. Spread with melted butter, sprinkle with grated almonds and cinnamon, and bake in a moderate oven.

This cake may be varied by the addition of raisins and currants. It may also be formed into a twist or plait, or for children is sometimes cut into little men, with currants for eyes. The plaited cake is always iced with a plain unboiled icing.

Marion Harland

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