Henrietta Sowle

“Still Beauty must be stealing hearts,

And knavery stealing purses;

Still cooks must live by making tarts

And wits by making verses.”

SOME fine day, perchance, I shall to market go and find there what all housekeepers are “a-sighin’ and a-cryin’ for”—namely a new edible; and be it fish, flesh, or fowl, I shall, with all haste, make you acquainted with its nature, and with the name of the marketman who introduces the boon; and methinks that nothing short of canonization should reward the man, or woman, who finds “something new under the sun.”

But till that blessed day of discovery really arrives I must be content with telling you of ways that may be new and tricks that are worth trying for the serving of viands which have constituted human nature’s daily food since the world began. Unless, however, I can bring to your minds by my suggestions a state of contentment which will enable you to await that hour of revealment with patience almost amounting to indifference, my duty is but half done.

So here goes for a beginning. Don’t you ever feel quite dissatisfied with the ordinary, yes and the extraordinary, sausages of commerce? Of course you do. No need to ask. They are flat, there’s no gainsaying it. But it’s the easiest thing in the world to have home-made sausages seasoned to a point that will make them things of gastronomical joy. There must be equal quantities of lean and fat fresh pork finely minced; then to a pound of this meat add one-quarter of an ounce of salt, more or less, one-eighth of an ounce of good business-like pepper, more or less, and powdered sage ad lib. The use of seasoning, you see, is not bound by any hard and fast rules; in cases of this kind a due regard must be shown the whims and fancies of the palates to be pleased. Once you have added the proper amount of seasoning, add enough well beaten egg to allow of the mixture being moulded to any desired shape, and fried to a nice brown. And there you have a dish fit to put before a king. If the simplicity and homeliness of it somewhat upsets your equilibrium, why call it saucisses grillÉes; they’ll taste just as well. They can be served either upon rounds of toasted bread or upon a foundation of cold boiled potatoes which have been diced and heated in cream.

If you are having them for luncheon then serve them on toast, but with the addition of a tomato purÉe. No need to tell how to make that; it’s an old story.

Another old story, altogether too old, is the way most housekeepers have of frying pork chops. They should never be fried. The only respectable way is to broil them decently and in order over a hot bed of coals. In that way what little juice they contain will be retained. But even then they will be so dry that you must supplement them with something,—say a sauce made of half a pint of good clear stock, highly seasoned, and having in it a tablespoonful of chopped pickled peppers and some sliced gherkins, with the juice of a lemon added.

Or, you can serve with them apple croquettes, made by stewing the apples in a little butter, with a tiny bit of sugar; when quite cold, with the aid of a few bread-crumbs, shape the apple into croquettes, roll them in crumbs and beaten egg and fry. Arrange the croquettes, which must be not more than an inch in diameter, with the chops upon a platter in any fanciful way that suggests itself to you, and the condition of the platter at the end of the meal will tell you whether or not the experiment was worth the trying.

These croquettes will win favor for themselves if you will try serving them some time with a loin of fresh pork, roasted. You will want to serve with them only the simplest kind of clear gravy. But you may prefer to serve the roasted loin of pork on steamed rice garnished with button onions, which have been boiled till fairly tender and then fried in butter to a light brown. If this is your preference, make a sauce by frying in two gills of oil, half a pound of minced onion, a pinch of parsley leaves, a crushed clove of garlic and a bay leaf, with salt and pepper; dilute with a pint of good stock, preferably white; strain and finish by adding the juice of a lemon and an ounce of fresh butter. By the way, when fresh pork is to be roasted, it is an excellent plan to rub salt well into it about twenty-four hours before cooking. If you slice and serve it cold you will readily see the wisdom of giving the salt a chance to work its way through and season the whole loin.

When a ham is to be roasted, and small hams do make excellent roasts, a ham of about five pounds’ weight should be skinned and boiled in enough water to cover it; in this water you will want to put, just for variety’s sake, a carrot, an onion, three bay-leaves, three cloves, one clove of garlic, and six peppercorns. Boil very gently for about one hour; then remove from the fire, drain it well, and coat it with a paste of oil and flour. Be sure that it is well covered with the paste to prevent the escape of the juice, put into the oven and roast for about two hours.

Serve it with a sauce made of a sufficient quantity of the stock, to which you have added half its amount of cider, and there you behold what is commonly known as champagne sauce. But, bless you, it’s very doubtful if champagne is often used, as after it is heated it would be a sensitive palate indeed that could tell whether champagne or cider were employed.

Just a hint right here of what may be done with bits of cold ham, for we may never be on this subject again. Have some thin slices of toasted white bread, spread well with butter and a trifle of mustard, then equal parts of grated cheese and minced ham, and some cayenne pepper. Send to the oven for a few minutes, or until the cheese is dissolved, and serve immediately. Say what you will, it is a delectable dish, this ham toast, and whether you allow for it in a prearranged luncheon or whether it is concocted on the impulse of the moment, when the necessity suddenly arises for a dish of the kind, trust me, whoever partakes of it will vow that it “relishes of wit and invention.”

Perhaps this batch of suggestions would be incomplete with no reference in it to the cooking of pigs’ feet, and yet there’s very little variety in the methods of preparing them. The simplest is the best, it seems to me, and that is dipping them in melted butter, then in bread-crumbs, and broiling over a moderate fire. A piquant sauce is by long odds the sauce par excellence to be served with them. Some chefs de cuisine prepare them elaborately with truffles, to my mind, however, there’s an incongruity in a combination of pork and truffles. But of course it’s only a matter of taste, and it is more than possible that there will be some who read this and deplore my poor taste in devoting so much space to ways and means of cooking pork.

Well, to such I offer the suggestion that they call it a chapter on porcine potentials, and pass on.

By all means let us be economical—truly economical. But let us never make the grievous but common mistake of thinking that the buying of cheap, downright cheap food is economy. To commit such an error in judgment is to lay the cornerstone of more than one kind of unhappiness. But you know that, too. And with so many inexpensive viands as there are to be had, susceptible as they are of so many ways of serving, one can, with the exercise of a little judgment in such matters, have the appearance of “living high” when in reality one is laying up money out of the weekly table allowance, if one has such an institution in one’s family. For myself, I have a great respect for a housekeeper who keeps within her allowance week in and week out, year after year. But for the one who cuts loose occasionally from all allowance limits when there is a “good thing up” I have the sincerest admiration and sympathy. It is with such a one that I always feel tempted to outstay my welcome if I get the shadow of a chance to be so ill bred. Such an ignoring of trammels of the financial sort is an indication of truancy in other matters now and then that rather appeals to me, to be very honest about it. But I don’t recommend it to you or to any one. Perhaps it hasn’t a place here, but since it is written it shall stand, labelled En parenthÈse.

And we will talk of codfish—fresh codfish. This is a species of the gadus family that is eligible for duty in a family of any class—high, low, or middle. It may follow the soup at an unlimited course dinner and not be out of its element or it may form the piÈce de rÉsistance, or in fact the only piece of any kind at a dinner of another sort and still be quite at home.

Now let us get to business. Suppose that some day you have a piping hot oven that is as idle as you would like to be and that you have also a fresh codfish in the house split with the backbone removed for broiling. Let me suggest that you dry it well, put it in a buttered baking pan, skin side down, coat it with melted butter, sprinkle it with salt, pepper, lemon juice, chopped parsley and chopped onion. Then bestrew it with bread crumbs moistened in melted butter and set into the oven to brown. Get it out as gracefully as possible when it is done, flip a little melted butter and lemon juice over it and serve. Or, if you can’t break away from tradition and have sworn to have a broiled fish broiled then I am sure that you do keep within your allowance for the table and will treat the fish this way: You will dry it well with a cloth, then brush it with melted butter, sprinkle salt and a little pepper, put it on the buttered bars of the broiler, and let the fire do the rest. Then after it is dished, sprinkle it with perhaps a few capers, surround it with broiled thin slices of bacon, and be on the alert to catch the first expression that flits over the face of the one who furnishes you with the aforesaid table allowance to see if all is well with the fish and consequently with you. Am I right?

But I would be willing to wager the price of a whole “catch” of codfish that I can tell you of a bran new way to bake one. Read and see for yourself. Have the size that seems to find most favor in your family and fill it with a forcemeat made by mincing to paste a pound of raw codfish. Add to it half a pint of cream that has been just boiled, that’s all, and thickened with two eggs. Season with salt, a chopped onion—chopped so finely that it is of a paste consistency and fill the fish with the mixture. For pepper let me suggest that you use paprika in preference to any other brand. Cook till the fish is done and serve with any rich sauce that appeals to you.

Any or all of the foregoing recipes may be applied to haddock, as you probably suspect—if you know anything at all about fish.

You don’t know, you housekeepers of America what a jolly good reputation you’ve got to live up to unless you happen to have read G.W. Steevens’s clever book, “The Land of the Dollar,” in which he says of our national breakfasts: “First you have fruit—wonderful pears that look like green stones and taste like the Tree of Life. Then mush, so they call oatmeal porridge, or wheatmeal porridge or hominy porridge, a noble food with the nectarous American cream. Then fishes and meats, sausages, and bacon and eggs. Then strange farinaceous foods which you marvel to find yourself swallowing with avid gust—graham bread, soda biscuits, buckwheat or griddle cakes with butter and maple treacle. It is magnificent; but it is indigestion. All the same, I look forward to the day when America shall produce an invention that will let me go across the Atlantic every morning for breakfast. I shall take a season ticket.”

Now let my humble pen chip in two or three things that shall help you to live up to this estimate of you.

Suppose you are having a dish of fried eggs after a manner described later on in this book. Go still further, and see fit to have some croquettes also. Do you know just what they should be? If in doubt let them be of canned sweet corn. Mix with half a can of the corn two-thirds of its quantity of mashed potatoes, salt and a good generous bit of melted butter. Then form into croquettes, dip in beaten egg and crumbs and fry to a fine color in hot fat.

Or, as second choice, you might like hash instead of the eggs fried. Now, look here; you know me well enough by this time, I hope, to believe that when I suggest hash it is none of the commonplace minces that you shun at the table of your very best friend. Of what I have to say in the line of hash you won’t be overdoing the thing if you refer to it for evermore as a “sublimated hash.” See for yourself: Chop an onion and fry it in a good bit of butter till it is tender and likewise brown. Then put into the butter two cupfuls of diced cold mutton, diced not chopped, and one cupful of diced cold boiled potatoes. Pepper and salt to your fancy. Then put in four tablespoonfuls of tomato sauce and have ready some chopped parsley for sprinkling over the dish when it is served.

You might for a flyer try rice muffins with this hash. Have a cup of flour and sifted through it two heaping teaspoonfuls of baking powder. Add to it a tablespoonful of sugar, a saltspoonful of salt, and pass this through a sieve. Have three eggs well beaten in a cup of milk with half a cup of melted butter and stir into the flour. When it is perfectly smooth add to it two cupfuls of cold boiled or steamed rice. Turn into small pans and bake in a hot oven. By grating in a little nutmeg to these muffins you will have a delicious dish for luncheon.

Now, our friend Steevens spoke of griddle cakes and buckwheat cakes. Of these you know all that is necessary for any housekeeper to know. But I’ll wager a good sum that Rhode Island meal is an unknown quantity to you. Make its acquaintance then as soon as possible and set about having Rhode Island johnnycakes often. You will want nothing but the meal, some milk and salt. Have them considerably thinner than ordinary flour griddle cakes and fry in a little fat on a hot griddle so that the edges are crisp and toothsome. If you want to bake them have a cup of meal to a cup and one-half of milk with a pinch of salt, and bake in gem pans till brown. Instead of having butter with either the fried or baked specimens of this johnnycake try some of our “nectarous cream.” Is it a go?

Now and then, throughout this book, the directions for making a salad are brought in incidentally to the main topic of discourse. Nowhere are they treated as the piÈce de rÉsistance, so to speak, of a chapter. And here are not many—only a few that go especially well in cold weather, when to have any variety at all in salads incurs a considerable outlay of rumination. Just a little inventive faculty and a firm purpose to have your table superior, even in details, to that of your dearest enemy, and you can with materials on hand in January have salads that give the eternal chicken and lobster with mayonnaise the go-by,—though, I fear me, the snubbing in the near future will come from the lobster itself. But that’s not to be discussed at just this minute.

Before this you have probably made red cabbage salad with a French dressing and with a spread of mayonnaise over it, so that you think you know it all, but have you tried adding to it some celery? This is the way it is done. All the coarse outside leaves of the cabbage are removed and the inside is finely shredded. Then the best stalks of a head of celery are cut into inch pieces and put into the salad bowl, a layer of celery, then one of the cabbage, and so on, heaping a bit in the centre. Garnish with the fresh green leaves of the celery; pour a dressing, made of a beaten egg, three tablespoonfuls of oil, two of vinegar, a saltspoon of salt, a dash of cayenne, and a suspicion of mustard, over all, and let stand for half an hour in a cool place before serving. For luncheon, when you are having croquettes of left-over ham bits, or of cold tongue scraps, this goes very near to being what would tempt any sane person to ask for a second helping.

Then there is a way to make an onion salad, that sets you to wondering why you never heard of it before. Have the Spanish onions, and soak them four or five hours, after peeling, in cold water, changing the water every hour, or even oftener, if your time isn’t too precious. Then slice and chop them, but not to the mussy stage. Freeze them, not too hard, but so they will be crisp and cold. Meanwhile, prepare a dressing of two-thirds oil to one-third vinegar, with salt and pepper to taste, and pour over them. Serve immediately. But don’t forget the garnish, which naturally suggests itself—parsley, to be sure, and plenty of it. With this salad? Well, we will suppose it is making its dÉbut in your household at an after-theatre snack. So have with it toasted water crackers, a bit of Swiss cheese, a smoked herring or two. And beer, of course.

Now, don’t skip what is going down here about a sardine salad—you will miss it if you do. I know you will say you wouldn’t fancy the oil in which they are preserved in a salad, and I can see that rather superior curl your lip takes on as you say it. But soak them for an hour in vinegar, then remove the skin from them and arrange in a circle on your salad dish. In the centre heap pitted and quartered olives. Make a dressing of the strained juice of a lemon mixed with a tablespoonful of olive oil, a bit of salt and of paprika, and over all a sprinkling of capers. Then, take a taste of it when your turn comes, and be sorry you were inclined to pass by it.

Now and then, you know, we do have a few Brussels sprouts left over from the day before’s dinner, and at the price usually asked we couldn’t throw them away, and yet there weren’t enough to pay for reheating. So, in order to be forehanded, and also to have the “makings” of a delicious salad in the house, get double the quantity you usually have the next time you are getting them, and be glad for every one that is left over, for the next day you will sprinkle a few drops of lemon juice over them, coat them with a mayonnaise, sprinkle with capers and sliced olives, and serve very cold. At a simple little dinner, where you are having “left-overs” daintily fixed up, this salad works in beautifully, or if you are giving a dinner that is as elaborate as anything you ever turn out, count on this salad to be one of the features of your dinner.

A delicious offering to put before your household some night is a salad of oysters. Have a quart of them, say, drain and wipe them well from their own liquor. Boil a cup of vinegar, and season it while boiling with salt and white pepper. Pour it over the oysters, and let them stand for two hours or so. Then drain them pretty dry, and lay on a bed of chopped celery in the salad bowl. If the oysters are very large cut in halves or quarters. Have a layer of chopped celery on top of the oysters, and coat thickly with mayonnaise. Be sure, however, that the oysters are perfectly cold before adding to the celery. Garnish with a few oyster crabs, pickled at the same time the oysters were pickled, and some sliced olives. To be very, very extravagant in making this salad, if you so want to be for the purpose of impressing some one, add to it a few sliced truffles that have been soaked in white wine for an hour or two.

For some occasions, at this season of the year, a nut salad just fills the bill as nothing else can. Choose almost any kind of nuts, but preferably let them be mainly English walnuts. Have them in halves, or in quarters, and squeeze lemon juice over them fifteen minutes before dressing. Then add to them half their quantity of quartered olives, some very tender little celery leaves, and a thin mask of mayonnaise. Really, when you have turned out this salad, for a party supper, say, you need give yourselves very little uneasiness as to how the other viands will set with your guests. Such a salad is calculated to redeem a good many faults in other directions.

Just a word about a sweet salad, and this screed is ended. Oranges. It shall be of oranges—big, luscious, juicy, seedless oranges, that are at their height for the next two months or more. These you slice, after peeling, as you would an apple. Put a layer of them in a bowl, sprinkle with powdered sugar and a few drops of orange curaÇoa. Then another layer of oranges, another of sugar, another fall of curaÇoa, and so on till the dish is full. Then, if there are half a dozen oranges used, pour over them about half a gill of brandy, either the plain brandy or apricot brandy. The latter, I find, is possessed of a mysterious flavor that, when added to an orange salad, just sets people to wondering why it is they have to go away from home to find such delights.