Henrietta Sowle

“Unlike my subject now shall be my song;

It shall be witty, and it shan’t be long.”

IT was with the thought of Hortensia’s garden party weighing somewhat heavily on my mind that I made my customary tour “all on a market day,” for she had beseeched me with tears in her voice to plan for her a list of appetizing dishes to put before her guests which should not be so elaborate as though meant for a grand dinner, nor yet so simple as if intended for the refreshment of a Sunday-school picnic.

Hortensia would, I felt sure, see to it that the piazzas, grounds, and tent-like buffet were so decorated and adorned that one would at once conclude that Flora herself had taken a personal interest in the appointments, and I firmly resolved that, come what would, my part of the programme should be carried out in such a manner that reasonable grounds should be furnished for the supposition that no less a person than Epicurus had had a finger in the pie. Therefore it was with a full appreciation of the responsibility I had assumed that I opened negotiations with the marketman.

As all the world knows, a garden party wouldn’t be much of an affair without game, and fortunately for the hosts and hostesses at such merrymakings, there are in market at this season now fine doe birds, which may be seasoned with a little salt, a suspicion of Madeira, roasted in a quick oven, and depended on to furnish delight, when thoroughly cooled, to the most captious of guests.

Another delightful manner of serving game is in the form of tarts—squab or pigeon tarts; line the tart moulds with paste, and then fill with the breasts only of the birds, adding a few slices of mushrooms and moistening with a liquor made by boiling the bones of the birds in a little water well seasoned with salt, a bit of pepper, and a spoonful or two of sherry. Cover the tarts with the paste, have perfectly cold, and unmould before serving.

Just now one may find tender and toothsome young turkeys in the market stalls, waiting to do duty at any event to which they may be called, and for the particular occasion in which we are interested at this instant there can be no better way of serving them than by boiling till tender and then cutting into small pieces, moulding them with the help of aspic jelly into shapes so attractive that one longs to learn if they can be quite as gratifying to the palate as to the eye. And, by the way, what a godsend aspic jelly is in the preparation of dishes to be served cold!

Another cold dish which is looked upon as being a sort of commonplace stand-by is of boiled tongue, but I have found that it is easily raised to a level bordering on the ideal if prepared in this way: Boil the beef tongue till tender in water which has been highly seasoned with vegetables, herbs, and spice; remove the skin, brush the tongue with beaten egg, strew it thickly with bread-crumbs, and bake for half an hour in a hot oven, basting frequently with port wine. Let it get perfectly cold before slicing and have the slices as thin as possible.

Near to the tongue, as a relish for it, and indeed for all of the foregoing dishes, one’s sense of the fitness of things approves the idea of having crisp, thin slices of toast, sprinkled with the finest little bits of green peppers imaginable, and masked with a thin layer of mayonnaise.

In fact, one, if not the best, way to serve salads at an outdoor festivity, is upon thin slices of toast of white or graham bread, as one chooses. For instance, a lettuce and anchovy salad made by shredding the lettuce and cutting the anchovies in two and dressing with lemon juice and a dash of cayenne, with the yolks of hard-boiled eggs finely minced, seems to call for just such a tiny bit of toast as one gets in this way of serving, to carry out one’s idea of perfection in little things.

And after I had decided that the salads at Hortensia’s garden party should be so served, it was quite natural that the idea of sandwiches should suggest itself to my mind; but before the idea had time to really assume a definite shape I hastily but conclusively rebelled against the prospect of seeing those time-honored edibles set forth for the delectation of Hortensia’s guests in the guise of the common or restaurant variety. And this is the way I overcame what bade fair to be a troublesome difficulty: Rolls, deliciously fresh French rolls, with a circular piece of the top crust removed and kept whole, while all the soft part of the roll was scooped out to make room for a filling of chicken, lobster, or sardines, after which the little cover was put back into place, and the comfort and joy of the partaker was an assured thing.

After the sandwich scheme was fully arranged, it seemed as though the “substantials” were well looked out for, and that I must be giving a thought to the fruits which were to make glad the senses of those bidden to the feast. Not any great amount of deep thinking was required to make a selection, however, for there was an abundance at hand from which to choose; there were plums, juicy and sweet, of richest hues—purple, red, and green, and others of the most tempting golden color imaginable, and certainly no well-furnished table could afford to be without either specimen. Grapes, too, there were in an infinite variety, but for Hortensia’s party I chose only black Hamburgs and Muscats. Of course, I knew she must have peaches, and I spent a weary hour in trying to find some that tasted as well as they looked, but my labor was in vain. As a compensation for this disappointment, however, I found cantaloupes possessing a flavor which can only be expressed by the words “divinely perfect.” And I found, too, delicious little musk melons to be prepared in this way: Slice the melon, removing both rind and seeds, put in a preserving pan with a little sugar, and stew to a marmalade; rub it through a sieve, dissolve in it a sufficient amount of gelatine, and when quite cool mix with it stiffly whipped cream, flavored with a little essence or liqueur, as one likes.

Cakes and ices, of course, are as important to the great and unqualified success of a garden party as are the guests, and of the former I decided that the varieties known as “Madeleines” and “petits fours” would be most acceptable to all concerned, while of the latter there could be no question as to the desirability of moussÉ with peaches, chocolat parfait, and milk sherbet.

Of quite as much importance as either of the articles mentioned in the foregoing paragraph are the bonbons, and the advice which I have bestowed upon Hortensia in regard to them I repeat here for the benefit of any who may care to follow it, namely: “Costly thy bonbons as thy purse can buy.”

For out-of-door feasting plenty of drinks should be provided; “cups,” whether of claret, hock, or champagne, should be made on the spot and not prepared beforehand, as the taste of stale soda water is absolutely objectionable. Cider, if iced, is really delicious, while a drink which the English find highly refreshing is called “moss rose,” and is made of equal quantities of tea, coffee, and “cup,” either of the champagne or claret brand.

I have a story to tell you. It has nothing of mystery in it, neither need it, necessarily, prove harrowing; it is far from being romantic, and there isn’t a glimmer of sentiment in it. It hasn’t a moral; if it had I shouldn’t relate it. No, it is just true; that’s the best of it and it’s the worst of it, too, as you will admit, because it isn’t without a parallel.

It—my story—is of a very charming old farmhouse situated “near to Nature’s heart.”

At this farmhouse was gathered together a small company of people known to the natives of that section of the country as “summer boarders.” To themselves this same company was known as a band of “nature-worshippers.” One day they were all seated in the shade on a little knoll, each one trying to outdo the others in the matter of rhapsodizing the “eternal hills,” the “books to be found in brooks,” etc., when up spake one of their number who had hitherto been silent: “Oh, I would give all the delights that this place possesses for one hour in the company of an ice-chest stocked as it could be with the good things in market now.”

Of course this was philistinism of the rankest sort, and it savored of treason, too. But the offender held her head high and parried well, if the truth must be told, the rebukes of her hearers. The mischief was done, however; the seeds of discontent fell upon fertile ground, made receptive by a long diet of corned beef, curd cheese and “plenty of milk.”

The next morning every conveyance the farmer-landlord could muster was pressed into service to take his guests to the station. Every one of them had received a sudden call to Boston. But none confided to his or her neighbor the exact nature of this post haste summons to the Hub, and when the train pulled into the station they scattered in different directions, hurriedly saying to each other: “See you on the 4.30 train this afternoon; good-by.”

And sure enough they were all aboard the train as agreed, each of them with an armful of bundles. Nobody volunteered any information as to what his or her bundles contained, and nobody asked any questions. They simply ignored the existence of them and talked of how good it would seem to get back to Peaceful Valley once more, with its quietness and vast opportunities for reflection.

That night each of them had a private audience with the landlady and the next day at dinner was seen the result of the trip to Boston and of the said private audience.

First of all was brought in some delicious Spanish mackerel, broiled to a turn. These were furnished by Professor A., author of the celebrated work “Does Angling Produce Insanity?” He said that of all the fish in market these seemed to him just now the most desirable.

With the fish were served some of the finest oyster plants that ever found their way into the Boston market. They were cut in pieces, boiled in salted water till tender, then drained and served with a tablespoonful or so of melted butter and cream enough to cover them, having just a dash of pepper in it. A simple way of preparing them and yet quite good enough for anybody, as you will see upon trying it. My word for it, the Peaceful Valley boarders thought it a dish fit for the gods.

After the mackerel had been discussed and despatched and Professor A. had accepted with a great deal of grace the vote of thanks presented to him, the game was brought in. This course was offered for the delectation of his fellow-boarders by Professor B., author of “Birds I Have Met.”

There were delicious chicken grouse that had cost the professor quite a pretty penny, viz.: two dollars and a half the pair; and plover of various kinds that were to be had for four dollars the dozen.

And this is the way the grouse were cooked: After the feet, necks, and pinions had been removed their bodies were divided into three pieces and put in a stewpan with the pinions and a little chopped bacon; after frying a bit some salt and pepper were introduced. Then were added two tablespoonfuls of white wine for each bird; then the birds were taken off and cooled; after which they were arranged with the wine in a pie dish with hard-boiled eggs cut in quarters amongst them, covered with the best pastry crust that the landlady knew how to make, and it was pretty good, really. In fact the dish turned out a great success, as the result of a good many conferences between the donator of the birds and the cook. The Professor had bought, the day before, the latest and best thing in the way of a cookery book, and after carefully reading it had come to the conclusion that this recipe for cooking grouse would be more easily mastered by the landlady than any other. The beauty of a grouse pie, too, as everybody knows, lies in its being just as good cold as it is hot.

The plovers were dressed, and with a pinch of salt and a bit of pepper put inside of them and the thinnest possible slice of fat salt pork tied over their breasts, were roasted for about twelve minutes in a hot oven.

And with the game was served some of the choicest stalks of celery that it has ever been the lot of mortal to enjoy at this time of year.

As for the fruit that was donated for this special occasion you would consider it a treat to hear the landlady tell of it, and of the sensations she experienced at seeing such a variety when the “apples on the Early Harvest tree on the south side of the orchard wall were only just beginning to get mellow.”

There were plums of almost every color under the sun; there were nectarines, the mere sight of which would make one’s mouth to water; there were delicious Delaware grapes and some little white grapes called the Lady de Coverley, that come from California. They are just as good, too, as one would expect from the name that has been given them. There was a curiosity in the shape of a banana cantaloupe, and there were all sorts of other melons, but the melon par excellence was what is known as the Montreal cantaloupe. They are raised on the banks of the St. Lawrence River, and simply refuse to grow in any other locality. Gardeners in other places have done everything to induce it to become naturalized, but all to no purpose. The particular specimen that found its way to the Peaceful Valley weighed just twenty-one pounds, and cost the purchaser $2.50. But it wasn’t extravagance to buy twenty-one pounds of such deliciousness, even if it had cost twice that sum.

And what do you suppose these nature-worshippers did after partaking of all the good things herein described and set forth? Well, they went out and sat under the trees and began to talk of what Thoreau said about huckleberries!

I came away then.

As a refreshing entr’acte let us dwell on the subject of ices. Let us have something more than just the ordinary way of making every-day routine ice creams. We will say “ices”—they mean unutterable, indescribable things that tickle the palate and cool one’s very existence simultaneously. Though after all it may be well to talk a minute of ice creams—beginning with generalities. The first of these I have found is that the easiest and best ice cream is made by using one-third rich cream to two-thirds milk with sugar as desired. No eggs and no cooking. If it is frozen smoothly it is perfect. This, however, is but the working plan—the flavoring and the moulding are to be arranged to suit yourself.

However, if cream is not available, then eggs and milk in the proportion of eight eggs to one quart of milk may be used. This requires cooking like an ordinary custard. Sugar to your taste, but flour or cornstarch are to be left out, by all means.

If you are using fresh fruits, such as pineapple, peaches, strawberries and the like they should not be cooked but be added to the cream after it is frozen and just before it is packed. Candied fruit, fruit used for frozen puddings and the like, is usually soaked in brandy or rum before adding to the cream. At least, that’s the sort of treatment it gets from me.

Just a word about coffee ice cream. For I don’t think you will find this recipe anywhere else. And it’s a pity you shouldn’t know of it. Have then one pint of very strong coffee, a gill of brandy, one quart of cream and three pints of rich milk. Then freeze and be thankful whenever a hot day makes it possible for you to serve your coffee at dinner in this way.

A great many people have a preference for sherbets and of these I have some charming things to say, for I appreciate a sherbet myself. There’s a milk sherbet that suits me down to the ground. It is made of two quarts of milk, four cups of sugar, and the juice of six lemons. Also the whites whipped well of two or three or more eggs as you feel inclined to use them. Surely the lemons will curdle the milk. But don’t let that disturb you. Put it in the freezer and go ahead. It will come out as right as right can be.

For a strawberry sherbet made in this way I have a fondness that I am not ashamed to acknowledge anywhere: Sprinkle over one quart of strawberries half a pound of sugar; let it stand three hours, then strain through a coarse cloth, squeezing hard. To this juice add three pints of water, as much sugar as it seems to you to need, the juice of a lemon and freeze.

A pineapple sherbet is made in the same way, though not as much sugar will be required probably.

And for a peach sherbet follow the same directions, adding a wineglassful of brandy before freezing.

A currant sherbet is a deliciously refreshing thing to have either in anticipation or in reality on a hot day. Boil a quart of water and a pound of sugar to a syrup. Skim and stir with it a pint of fresh currant juice which has been heated with a little sugar. Let this cool thoroughly, then add the beaten whites of four eggs and freeze. For myself, I am quite through shying when anyone says artificial coloring in food—I have found the vegetable colorings as innocuous as so much water, and worth their weight in gold in cases like the present, namely the coloring of this currant sherbet. The only drawback about which is that of itself it will not be pretty to the eye—therefore hesitate not, but in with a few drops of carmine coloring.

A champagne ice isn’t such a high-roller refreshment as it sounds. To begin with it’s a rank solecism to freeze any but the most inexpensive of champagnes, and then you don’t require many other good things for your ice—the champagne is enough in itself. You just make a very strong and sweet lemonade—a quart of it and half freeze it; then pour in the champagne and wholly freeze the mixture. Get the champagne into the freezer as soon as you can after it is opened before its volatile gas escapes. If you prefer a more hilarious refreshment just keep on with your use of intoxicants by adding after the champagne a wineglassful of brandy. Also, if you like, you may add the beaten whites of eggs, ad libitum.

While we are on the subject of frozen champagne and the entering wedge has done its work let me speak a good word for champagne with strawberries. Freeze together a quart of champagne and a pint of sugar syrup. Just at the last add one pint of strawberries which have been halved and quartered and marinaded in a little brandy and sugar for about fifteen minutes. Cherries used in this way will make you ready to declare that till you tried it you didn’t know how to live.

A claret sherbet is even better than it sounds if you make it in this way: Rub the peel of two oranges off with plenty of loaf sugar and then make a syrup of this sugar and a pint of water. When cool, stir in the juice of three oranges, a quart of claret, a tablespoonful of brandy and the whites of four eggs whipped to a stiff froth and freeze slowly. Sometimes there is used in this recipe the zest of lemon peel instead of oranges and then there is used some orange marmalade, heated and strained of course. Or any jelly which you may fancy goes in very harmoniously with this concoction.

A kirsch sherbet is a delicacy that doesn’t put itself in the way of ordinary mortals every day in the week. That’s why its welcome is a soulful one when it does appear. You have a pint of chablis and a pint of any preferred fruit syrup, which you freeze. Then at the last there is added to it half a pint of kirschenwasser.

By the way, before I forget it, you may treat watermelon with the frozen champagne exactly as prescribed hereinbefore for strawberries and champagne.

All these are but a few of the ices familiar to expert cooks nowadays. But each one herein given is capable of so many variations that I am leaving that part of it to you. Do you know that I am saddened more and more every day as I contemplate the power that lies in suggestion and the stupidity of people who will not avail themselves of it? But this is not perhaps the sort of talk you look for in a book that has to do with the material things of life. Very well, we will cut it off.