The drawing above is by New York artist and illustrator Malcolm A. Strauss who was famous for his illustrations of young society women and early motor carriages.
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This is the first article in February of the School for Housewives 1904 series published on Feb 7, 1904.
The new French furnishings for the porch are a thorough-going innovation this year.
We seem to have revolted utterly from the ungainly rustic patterns of former summers, and the 1904 outfits are in every way dainty enough for an indoor apartment.
Rattan is the material commonly used. It comes in delicate shades never before dreamed of for the American veranda.
Pale lavender, pinks, blues or woven effects in a number of light tints vie with the pretty reds and greens to which we are better accustomed.
Some of the styles are “shaded”; that is, three or even more shades of green or blue occur in a single piece.
Willow furniture, too, has been greatly improved. So much so, in fact, that it is a possible rival of the new imported goods. It is especially pretty in green or red, either of which is always so chiming for piazza or lawn.
It is now possible to secure a hammock in silk or cord matching the tone of furniture, and in this way, with the assistance of pretty matting screens, to arrange a completely “matched” group of belongings.
In the matter of shape and “pieces” porch furnishings are becoming more and more promising with each season.
Where a few years ago the articles were limited to a few unpicturesque chairs and a tiff-looking lounge, the set of the present often includes a pretty reading table, tea table, flower stand, as well as a wicker chest or basket for golf sticks and debris of like nature.
Many of the latest tables and chairs are fitted out with capacious pockets intended to gather in the magazines and paper which, lying about loose, disfigure many an otherwise pretty porch.
Special wicker tea tables come for the veranda. They can be had n red, green or other tints to match different pieces of the piazza set.
Marion Harland
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This is the first article in February of the School for Housewives 1905 series published on Feb 5, 1905, and is a longer article on foods that can be used to cook with during the winter months especially vegetables.
When the days begin to lengthen,
then the cold begins to strengthen.
Then, too, in humiliating emulation of the of the Laplander who gorges himself with blubber and washes it down with train oil to keep up his supply of human carbon, we eat more meat than at any other season of the year. Beef, pork, and, in a less degree, mutton, generate heat, because they make blood. The quantity of that blood is a minor consideration with the average eater.
When feverish colds, feverish bilious attacks, undisguised pleurisy and unmistakable pneumonia lay the strong man low, and weaken the forces of delicate women and children, we pile the blame upon the broad shoulders of the weather and brace the system with beef tea and blood-rare steak. In order to keep well we have buckwheat cakes and sausage for breakfast, pork tenderloins for luncheon, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding for dinner.
I once heard a pig-headed man argue with hatred irrelevancy that it is flying in the face of Providence to use artificial means – glass houses and the like – to keep vegetables growing in winter.
“If God Almighty had meant us to eat them out of season, He would have made them grow all the year round,” was a clincher from which there was no appeal. It would have been worse than useless for his silenced opponent to ask why, if beasts of meat were made to serve man for food all winter long, the ground should be frozen into barrenness for six months of the year, obliging us to preserve food for them by artificial means.
SOME GOOD ARRANGEMENTS
In a later “Talk” I shall show how kind Nature, as if anticipating the deductions and practice of pig-headed men and their followers, has provided, in a measure, against the consequences of their blunders. We come now to reason together concerning the gentle influences upon blood and liver of such vegetables as are within our reach during the period when the “strengthened” cold does its cruel worst upon us.
Begin with what is perhaps the best-abused vegetable in the market and collar – cabbage. It is so cheap that the poorest may have to eat it every day. It keeps green and juicy from November to April, and while chemical analysis shows a result of 89 percent of water, it also set down “fats – next to nothing.” And fats are what we are trying to avoid.
Cabbage is an unmistakable plebeian, although some of its kindred – cauliflower, broccoli and Brussels sprouts – find welcome in refined circles. It tastes good – as most of us admit. It smells villainous in cooking, and it disagrees with tender stomachs.
To abate the nuisance of the odor and lessen unwholesomeness, cook in an open pot, covered with plenty of cold water, salted, and add, before the boil begins, half a teaspoonful of baking soda for a gallon of water. Then cook fast – always in two waters! Keep up the first boil for fifteen minutes, turn off every drop of water – “waster it into the sink,” as Bridget-Thekla would describe the process – return to the fire and fill up the pot with boiling water. Put in a teaspoonful of salt and a quarter teaspoonful of soda and cook, uncovered, twenty minutes longer. Turn into a colander and press with the back of a wooden spoon until no more of the 89 percent of water will run out. Transfer to a chopping tray, mince coarsely with a perfectly clean chopping-knife, put into a heated saucepan over the fire and stir in pepper, salt and a good lump of butter until you have a smoking hot mess – not disintegrated, yet well seasoned. Dish, and send around vinegar for those who like to qualify still farther the cabbage-taste.
This is the plain boiled cabbage which serves as a base for dishes, recipes for which are given elsewhere.
Onions – particularly the Spanish variety – while they contain 91 percent of water, and are, therefore, less nutritious than are generally supposed, owe their wholesomeness at this season largely to the portion of sulphur, which makes them smell, if not to heaven, to the topmost ceiling of a nine-story flat when cooked upon the first floor. Unless, indeed, our housewife takes the trouble to leave them in cold water for two hours before cooking, puts them over the fire in salted cold water with a half teaspoonful of soda to the gallon, and boils fast in an open vessel until tender, changing the water as with cabbage, for fresh boiling, at the end of fifteen minutes after ebullition begins. Drain, dish and cover with a white sauce.
TRY TO AVOID FATS
Celery may not make muscle and bone, but it is an excellent nerve bracer, either cold or cooked. Even when a fair-sized bunch costs 20 cents – and it is seldom more expensive – it is worth the price. Break off the outer and coarser stalks, scrape, cut into inch lengths, lay in cold water for an hour, drain, cook tender in boiling water, slightly salted; pour this off, cover the celery with a good white sauce and serve. The inner, crisp stalks are sent to the table raw, with bits of ice scattered over them.
Carrots are decidedly wholesome, containing sugar and mucilage and slightly medicinal mineral matter. They are cheap, and would be more popular if the average housewife knew how to cook them. (See Recipe Column.)
Beets carry a still larger percentage of sugar. The older they are the longer they should be boiled. Mrs. Whitney says: “For cooking old beets – all the time you have!” This is one of the good things that can hardly be overdone.
Parsnips are among the most nutritious of our winter vegetables, containing less water and more sugar than carrots. People who like them are very fond of them – those who “cannot abide” their peculiar, slightly aromatic sweetness never learn to like them.
Salsify, or oyster plant, is another friend who remains faithful to us from autumn until spring. It is nutritious, palatable and very slightly laxative. Of the various ways of preparing it for the table, I give one in the Recipe Column.
Marion Harland
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This is the fifth article of the School for Housewives 1904 series published on Jan 31, 1904, and is a little longer article on the crystoleum method of colouring photographs. A quick google of crystoleum paintings provides a number of examples including a nice example of one where the two glass plates have been pulled apart to show the paint work.
Like many of Marion Harland’s articles this is one that is indicative of the times that they lived in. Compared to present day where a coloured photograph is the norm it is interesting to say the least on the amount of effort that was required to create coloured pictures. I must laugh, however, as I imagine the first efforts of school children who might not have abided by the instructions for acceptable colours and instead created purple or green faced people instead.
Who has not wished, in looking at a photograph or other attractive picture, that, by some easy process, it could be colored?
The wish is now almost as readily realized as those of the nursery tales which became facts by a single gesture of the fairy wand.
The magic wand that makes real the present day wish for colored pictures is crystoleum.
Strictly speaking, crystoleum painting is by no means a new art, but until recently revolutionized by the invention of new methods and apparatus, it was a very poor art at best. The old-fashioned method of sand-papering the photograph and then treating it to a wax bath made the work at once trying and tedious, with the result that few reached the desired haven. By the new process, however, it is simplicity itself. Indeed, there are few arts which are at the same time so easy to acquire and so well worth acquiring. The labor has been abolished, and crystoleum painting today is a veritable delight and a pleasure.
The materials are neither numerous nor expensive. Before any actual painting can be done, three distinct processes are necessary. The photograph must be fixed on the first glass, he former rendered transparent by a special preparation, after which it is treated to a coating of preservative. This completes the preliminary preparations, and the photograph is then ready for painting. All colors on the first glass must be put on very thinly, and strengthened at the back of the second glass, two glasses being necessary in all crystoleum work.
Should a portrait subject be selected, the eyes, eyebrows and eyelashes will require the first attention. Then the lips should have a soft and natural appearance. Hair needs delicate treatment. Flowers, lace, jewelry and smaller draperies may be painted in appropriate colors. The second glass can then be taken in hand.
Strips of gum-paper are pasted down each see of the picture, as it is most essential that the glasses should not touch. It is the addition of the second glass that gives the wonderfully soft and ivory-like appearance so peculiar to well-painted crystoleums. Flesh tints are applied tickle upon the back of the second glass, also dresses, backgrounds, skies, etc. The picture is then mounted and bound ready for framing. Pictures can be reproduced in this way in almost any size, from carte-de-visite to large photographs 16 inches by 20 inches. The result is a really beautiful colored picture, suitable for hanging in the drawing room.
If the instructions are carefully followed amateurs will be satisfied and delighted even with their first picture, and consider it quite good enough for framing. Not only is crystoleum painting fascinating work, but as an educational medium should be welcomed by parents and school teachers. It first teaches all young people the value and meaning of colors, and how to use them. It makes them interested in everything around them, the color of the landscape, the architectural points of buildings, etc. They also unconsciously notice the color and form of flowers, trees, the decorative art displayed in furnishing rooms, etc.
But the work will owe its greatest vogue to the fact that by its means the amateur can make the most lovely miniatures of herself, friends and relations. If you look at an ordinary photograph you must admit at once that it would be far more charming if by some magic of the photographer’s art the hair, eyes, lips and cheeks revealed their natural colors. Then take snapshots; how much more interesting and fascinating they become when colored. Above all, crystoleum painting is by no means difficult to learn. It can be quickly mastered by everyone of ordinary intelligence. You can spend a few hours upon a picture, or longer, or spread it over a week, just as the fancy takes you. Some enthusiasts spend a fortnight or even three weeks in producing photographs of some of the famous masters in colors, and lovely pictures they have made.
Girls, too, can make money out of crystoleum painting. Many already do so by icing lessons to others. Some add quite a snug little sum to their income by painting pictures and then selling them, either to friends, or through dealers, or by advertising them. Photographs of local interest, nicely colored at bazaars, while colored portraits make admirable Christmas and birthday presents and are greatly appreciated.
Marion Harland
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This is the fifth article in January of the School for Housewives 1905 series published on Jan 29, 1905, and is a revisiting of a topic that had been covered two years previously on the dangers of “canned goods” although I have yet to come across this previous “talk” in my research. Transcribed from the Sunday edition of The Washington Times.
SOME of our readers may not have forgotten a lively discussion we had two years ago in this department concerning what we have all fallen into the habit of calling “canned goods.” In this course of our debate sundry unpleasant facts were evolved that moved me then, and ever since, to press upon housewives the importance of putting up fruits and vegetables for their own family use, when this is practicable. It was proceed upon the testimony of competent chemists that many of the “bleached” fruits and such vegetables as corn and asparagus owe color and “staying qualities” to certain acids and salts which are not conducive to the health of the eaters.
One of our staff of chemical experts announced that he found in three tablespoonfuls of preserved pears enough salicylic acid for a strong dose for an adult. From one canning establishment I received the formula for a powder warranted to preserve vegetables, etc., sent in ingenuous good faith. One of the principal ingredients was salicylic acid.
I am assured by several reputable canning firms that nothing of the kind is used in their works, in proof whereof they invite chemical analysis. I am the more willing to believe this because in mid-winter hundreds of families in the country and among the poorer classes of town residents are obliged to depend upon canned vegetables for variety in a diet of salted meats, cabbage, onions, and potatoes.
Next week I shall speak of the need of a winter fare of greenstuffs and fruits. Now, I propose to show how the reproach may be lifted in part from airtight esculents kept over from the fruiting season. We get very tired of them when served au naturel for days together. No matter how good they may be, they are an indifferent substitute for the things whose names they bear. Since we have them and must use them, if only for their antiscorbutic properties, let us study ways and means for making the best of them. The poorest of the tribe is a vast improvement upon the time when desiccation was the one method practiced for preservation, for winter use, of green vegetables, while preserving in syrup, vinegar, and spirits was resorted to for keeping fruits in palatable form for the table. Sweet corn was dried when nearly hard, and had to be soaked over night, then boiled for a long time before it could be eaten. After all, it was hardly an improvement upon the coarser hominy. Tomatoes, peaches, plums, cherries, and pears lost most of their distinctive flavor through long exposure to the sun and subsequent soaking and stewing.
While the demand for canned goods may not have lessened throughout the country, it is undeniable that there is a growing disrelish for them in the minds of people of dainty and cultured tastes, and this is not so much for the reason given in the discussion, viz., the belief that they are not wholesome, as because they are stale, flat, and “common,” if not unprofitable. People who can ill afford it, pay high prices for forced vegetables, rather than set before guests the content of cans purchased at the corner grocery.
Let us see if the cause of this growing dislike many be not in the nature of the thing preserved so much as in the cook’s determination to regard it as an end, not a means, a finished product, instead of semi-raw material. The wrong way to serve all potted provisions is to “dump” them from the can or jar into the saucepan, and from the saucepan into the platter or root-dish, with no attempt at seasoning or enrichment.
Must Have the Air.
It ought not to be necessary for me to repeat again and here as in invariable rule that canned meats, fruits, vegetables, soups, etc., should be turned out of the vessels in which they were preserved at least one hour before they are cooked, or sent to table, and left in open dishes to rid them of the close, airless smell which disgusts many with the entire class. One and all they need aerating – to be “oxygenated” before they are prepared for the service of man.
Get Them in Glass.
Tomatoes, when canned, are the least objectionable of the class. So far as I have pushed my researches for the presence of deleterious ingredients introduced by those who manipulate them for the market, they are comparatively – some brands entirely – free from salicylic acid and the like preservatives. Of course, with these, as with other vegetables, fruits, soups, and meats, there are brands and brands. Some turn out a superfluity of liquid, many unripe lumps and bits of skin mingled with the pulp. Note the name and address of the manufacturer and avoid the brand in future. The housewife who takes advantage of the height of the season, and puts up her own tomatoes, rejecting cores and hard pieces, and draining off half the juice, ill fare best on this score.
When you buy them, give the preference, if you can afford it, to tomatoes put up in glass. The natural acid sometimes forms an unholy alliance with the metals of the cans.
Were I to describe the scallops, croquettes, rissoles, puddings, bisques and other variations of lobster and salmon, which would tickle the palates of the eaters, and gratify the ambition of the hounsemother, I should present the best advertisement of “canned goods” ever spread before the American reading public. Were I to expatiate upon the ease with which the “tinny” taste can be eliminated from canned succotash, and how a can of corn and another of beans may be aired and combined into still better succotash; how canned asparagus, masked by cream sauce, and laid in state upon toast, almost recalls springtime, and when heated and dressed, while hot, with vinegar, melted butter and French mustard, then allowed to get ice-cold – is a delicious salad – there would not be room below this general “talk” for the recipes which are to illustrate this specifically.
The reader is confidently referred to this continuation of our subject for directions as to the “treatment” of some of the countless varieties of artificially preserved foods.
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This is the fourth article of the School for Housewives 1904 series published on Jan 24, 1904, and is a very short column on flounces – aka ruffles for the use of trimming garments.
Several novelties found in the shops at present greatly simplify the work of making one’s lingerie by hand.
Many of us, despite the variety shown on drop goods counters, sill prefer the pattern-made article, and any woman who does this dainty work is interested in time-saving devices connected with it.
One of these devices is the ready-made flounces of embroidery or insertion.
These ruffles come in a single piece, all ready to be attached to the new petticoat without further elaboration.
It will be seen from the shape of the flounce illustrated today that a gored skirt is the style for which the frill is intended.
The cheapest of these flounces costs in the neighborhood of $3.
They increase in elaboration, and consequently in peace, from this one onwards, the most expensive patterns bringing $6.
The ready-made corset cover is another innovation, and much more charming than the name would lead you to expect.
This is a new material sold by the yard, which requires nothing more than ribbons to become a full-fledged cache corset.
A yard and a quarter is usually to be advised for a single article.
The beading finish around the bottom rounds off the lower edge of the garment very daintily.
Ribbon is run through the embroidery around the top, and ribbon with knots and bows forms the shoulder straps.
The goods for this lingerie ranges from 50 to 60 cents a yard. That selling at 60 cents is quite elaborate.
Counting in the ribbon, a charming cover made on this plan need not cost more than $1 to $1.25.
Marion Harland
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This is the fourth article in January of the School for Housewives 1905 series published on Jan 22, 1905, and is a longer article in Marion’s series called Familiar Talks with Cottagers and Flat-Dwellers on what you can do when you have unexpected visitors and your maid is away or sick.
Let that most trying of all times come around, the time when your maid, who has been with you for years, and knows your every like and dislike, has been taken up sick and is obliged to give up, and immediately a score of friends and relatives descend upon you, each with the laudable intention of “spending the day” with you! Perhaps four or five at once (your table can’t possibly seat more than three additional guests) drop in, and bring a couple of children along, by way of adding to the general turmoil.
Now, it’s an understood thing that you’re hospitable, but no one can blame you, if the first feeling you have is the blankest kind of dismay or a wild desire to fall dead on the spot.
But you “come to,” and the dear old aunt and uncle who’ve come up from the country to visit a few days, and who have counted largely on having a day with you in your home, never know how near a little thing came to upsetting an honest welcome.
You make them comfortable with books and things, and then fly to inspect the kitchen and dining room. The table is your first anxiety; no matter how you contrive, you can’t possibly seat all those people around it. Then a bright idea strikes you; you rush frantically up the back stairs (or “Trip lightly” up the front, humming a careless little song, your very manner calculated to show your guests how extremely well at ease you are), seize your sewing table, and, with a carver’s doily, transform it to a miniature of the big one.
There you put your “little china” – coffee cups instead of tea cups (thank fortune, you’ve enough tea cups for the big table), fruit plates instead of dinner plates, “piecing out” whatever you run short of with the odd gift plates you’ve kept before for decoration.
All these things brighten the picnic air of the little table, and set off the more careful arrangement of the big table.
AN ODD CONTRIVANCE
Chairs, next, to suit that little table – you’ve enough for the big without robbing every bedroom, or asking your guests to each bring his own chair from your parlor. But nothing is low enough for the other table – you bring in your shirt-waist boxes, and fling over them a gay slumber blanket, or an afghan. It’s a trifle bizarre, but only adds to the picnic character.
By this time you look at the clock – you’ve only been fifteen minutes getting this much done, and your rapid resolving of chaos into order is an inspiration in itself. On to the kitchen and victory, although you seem to have to wrest it from defeat!
Your heart sinks again – you’ve plenty of cold roast lamb and quantities of bread, but the bread’s none too fresh and they seem to be the most extensive things your larder boasts. But you make a brave beginning, slice the meat daintily, arrange it upon you pretties platter and then study the bread question. While you’re studying it you’re busy whisking together quick biscuits, and by the time you’ve cut out the last one and popped it in the oven you’ve solved your problem, and decided to turn that bread into tomato toast, to be eaten with the cold meat.
You pare the crusts from the slices, toast and dip it in boiling milk, salted. Then pack it in layers in a pudding dish, salt and butter each layer, and pour over it a few spoonfuls of tomato sauce, strained and seasoned with sugar, butter, pepper, salt and a few drops of onion juice. When the dish is full, you turn more sauce over all; cover and set for ten minutes in a quick oven. You should have enough tomato sauce to make the toast very wet.
Then you discover a lot of cheese, and Welsh rabbit flashes in your mind – it will “make” your luncheon, and needn’t keep you from you guess, because it can be made at the table. But grate your cheese, and see that the lamp to your chafing dish is filled before you go to the table, that there may not me the incessant jumping up and down that is the most annoying habit a woman, whose maid is away, can acquire.
MAKE WELSH RABBIT AT THE TABLE
And when you are all seated, put a cupful of milk and one of cream into your saucepan, with a bit of soda the size of a pea. When the boil begins add two cupfuls of soft, mild cheese (American) with a teaspoonful of made mustard, a saltspoonful of paprika, and a well-whipped egg. Pour upon rounds of buttered toast, each of which has been moistened with a teaspoonful of hot cream, or upon crackers.
This is a very simple form of “rabbit,” but perhaps you’re such a master hand at evolving things that you’re ambitious – prefer to make a more elaborate sort, a “buck.”
If you do, see that the bread is toasted, and the milk heated in a double boiler in the kitchen before you announce luncheon, and soak the cracker crumbs in it. At the table, heat together a tablespoonful of butter, a saltspoonful, each, of dry mustard and of salt, with a pinch of cayenne. When well mixed and boiling add a cupful of hot milk (heated with a bit of soda no larger than a pea) in which have been soaked a half cupful of cracker crumbs and a cupful of grated cheese. Cook all together three minutes, or until smoking hot; add two well-beaten eggs, stir one minute – no more – and heap upon rounds of buttered toast.
Then, if you’ve lettuce, get out your prettiest bowl, and arrange the crisp, fresh leaves prettily in it, and make a simple salad dressing at the table, according to directions given last week. You won’t have much time for your own luncheon, but you can congratulate yourself on the appetites of your guests, which seem whetted by your skillful preparing of good things before them.
For dessert, if you’ve oranges and bananas in the house, cut them up together, and serve them in your lemonade glasses, moistening them well with the orange juice, and sprinkling them with powdered sugar. With coffee, and your warm biscuits and butter, you’ve a delicious luncheon, and one sure to be well appreciated.
At the children’s table, for, of course, that was why you took such pains to make it gay, intending to put them (and your own family’s overflow to look after them) there, such things as Welsh rabbit and coffee won’t be allowed.
Cold meat they may have, and the tomato toast, although, if you had time to make the some baked toast, they’ll probably like it much better. If you have time, make it this way: Toast the bread; have ready in a double boiler a quart of hot milk, slightly salted and with a tablespoonful of butter stirred into it. Butter a deep dish, dip each slice of the heated toast in hot milk and pack in the back dish, salting and buttering each layer. When all are in, pour the boiling milk over the toast, cover and bake for ten minutes. Uncover and brown lightly. Serve in the bake-dish.
WHAT THE CHILDREN SHOULD HAVE
Serve the salad to the children, too, and give them something sweet – honey, preferably, or some of the jam or preserves you put up last summer. Have that as a special dish for them, just as the Welsh rabbit is for the grown-ups, and they’re less likely to create a disturbance (if they’re not overly well trained) by asking for things they can’t have.
Give them milk to drink, or, if your milk supply has given out under he generous demands you’ve made on it, give them some of the grape juice you bottled yourself – they’ll feel that they are having a real party. Instead of cutting up their fruit, have a bowl of fruit in the centre of their table – it will save you work and time, and they’d rather have their oranges or bananas – or both – separately.
Your luncheon will have taken you a good while to prepare, yet no one dish will be troublesome and everything will be homely and restful as you could wish. You will have succeeded in “making a mighty lot out of a mighty little,” which is a tribute to your ingenuity, and proves you worthy to rank with a dozen other inventors.
After luncheon shut your mental eyes resolutely to visions of washing dishes and clearing up, and shut your door upon those same dishes. Give yourself over to your guests for the rest of their stay, and, if possible, forget all about the work that must be done later.
And then, when everybody has gone, proceed leisurely to set everything in order again. You’re very tired, and a little bit bewildered, but secretly rather proud of the way you got through, and glad, too, that you gave a hearty welcome instead of the half-hearted one you felt inclined to give at first.
Marion Harland
School for Housewives 