Henrietta Sowle

“But the fruit that falls without shaking

Indeed is too mellow for me.”

THERE are persons, as some of us can testify, who appear to be horrified if a Manhattan cocktail is mentioned in the most casual manner, and who are warranted to shy if they but get a whiff of a Martini, but give them a chance to partake of an oyster cocktail and you have added a substantial item to their sum of worldly pleasure.

Almost everybody likes an oyster cocktail when it is judiciously mixed, but folk of the ilk above referred to do seem to have a peculiar fondness for it. Now, is it because a course of total abstinence has rendered their palates extremely sensitive to highly seasoned impressions, or is it that the name has a witchery that beguiles them into thinking that they are tasting a forbidden thing without sacrificing a principle? I don’t know. You tell.

And tell me, too, if this is the way you set about preparing one of these palate-ticklers. Half a dozen little oysters dropped into a glass, with their juice, a little lemon juice, four miserly drops of Tabasco sauce, half a teaspoonful of Worcestershire sauce, a dessertspoonful of tomato ketchup, and several grains of salt. Or do you substitute horse-radish for the Tabasco? They tell me it’s frequently done, but for myself I prefer the Tabasco. It is a vexed question, anyway, this matter of what shall be put on a raw oyster to make it more palatable; the real dyed-in-the-wool epicurean vows that it is nothing short of barbarism to use more than the tiniest pinch of salt, while many a discriminating gourmet declares that the more you do for an oyster the more it does for you. So there you are.

But epicureans and laymen alike are agreed on one point, and that is the way to bake oysters so that they are worthy of a place on any table. Put into a small lined stewpan a quarter of a pound of butter and one teacupful of cream, stirring it well over a quick fire till hot. Add a wineglass of sherry, a tablespoonful of anchovy sauce, and a skimpy sprinkling of cayenne and grated lemon peel. Stir over the fire till it bubbles once. Then pour half of the mixture into a baking dish. Lay the oysters on it, besprinkle them with a scanty covering of bread-crumbs and grated Parmesan cheese, with salt and pepper. Pour the remainder of the cream over all and brown to a good color.

Once one gets in the way of baking oysters as herein prescribed, one’s recipe for scalloped oysters, no matter how true and tried, will be lost sight of.

And the same fate will likely befall one’s rule for making an oyster stew, provided one adopts this suggestion for preparing oysters with cream. In the first place there should be put into a saucepan a pint of cream with a tiny piece of onion and a little mace tied up in a muslin bag. When the cream boils thicken it with a tablespoonful of flour mixed with two tablespoonfuls of cream. Heat a quart of oysters, with their liquor and sufficient salt. Then drain and put them into a dish which is to be sent to table; pour the cream over them, removing the onion and mace. With the dish serve toasted bread or biscuit.

Undoubtedly all your friends are ready to take oath that you do have at your table the very best fried oysters they ever tasted. But the next time that you regale them with the dish, let the oysters be devilled and then fried. Wipe the oysters perfectly dry and lay them on a flat dish. Have a goodly supply of butter at just the melting point, mix with it a little salt, a suspicion of cayenne, and a certainty of lemon juice; pour this over the oysters and leave them in it for at least ten minutes. Then roll them in a paper of cracker crumbs or sifted bread-crumbs; dip them into beaten egg, then into the crumbs again, and fry in boiling lard.

Or you can make a dish of fried oysters even more elaborate if you will chop six ounces of the white meat of any fowl with one ounce of fat salt pork, pound it in a mortar till your stock of patience threatens to strike, then chop a few truffles to the size of peas, and add them with a little white pepper to the chopped meat. Have four dozen oysters wiped dry, and with a sharp knife make an opening in the side of each one; fill the holes with the mixture. Dip the oysters in crumbs, then in egg, again in the crumbs, and fry.

Now see to it that your guests don’t exhaust their pet adjectives on either of these dishes. They will need at least a good round dozen of superlatives after an experience with a celery roast of oysters. And this is the way the story goes: Have ready some dainty slices of bread, toasted, with the crusts removed. Wipe dry and broil some of the smallest oysters you can get; broil till they begin to shrivel all round, then put them on the toast. Sprinkle a little salt over them; cover them with some finely chopped celery. Salt the celery a bit also. Have ready cream heated, but not boiled, and pour it over the whole. Serve it as hot as possible, and rejoice in the fact that you have demonstrated how divine a thing an oyster may be made.

It’s a thousand pities that everybody doesn’t know how to make good puff paste, for without that knowledge it is impossible to make a good oyster pie; but in case you are an adept at puff paste making, just try concocting one some fine day. Line a pie dish with the paste and fill it with uncooked rice; butter the paste that covers the edge of the dish and lay a cover of puff paste over the pie; press the edges together a bit and trim them neatly. Meanwhile prepare a quart of oysters by draining them from their liquor and chopping them fine. Mix a teaspoonful of cornstarch in a very little cold milk, and pour over slowly half a pint of boiling milk or cream; when it is thick and smooth add to it an ounce of butter. Season the oysters with salt and pepper, and stir them into the mixture; simmer for five minutes. When the pie-crust is done remove it from the oven, take off the top crust, turn out all the rice and fill the dish with the oysters; put on the cover again, and set in the oven to get thoroughly hot.

They do say the recollection of an oyster pie so made is one of the sweetest echoes to start when memory plays a tune on the heart, even though one lives to be as old as Methuselah.

And now let me tell you of a way to prepare oysters so that they may come under the head of stand-bys, so dear to every housekeeper. Take two quarts of oysters and put them into a porcelain-lined saucepan with their own liquor strained, half a grated nutmeg, a teaspoonful of salt, a little cayenne, and half a pint of strong vinegar. Then into a muslin bag put half a teaspoonful of cloves, two blades of mace, a teaspoonful of allspice, and two bay leaves; put this in with the oysters. Let them cook very slowly, stirring all the while with a wooden spoon. As soon as they come to a boil pour them into an earthenware jar. When thoroughly cold they are ready to serve; if they are well covered in a cool place they can easily be kept for a week or even longer.

Of late years, when the subject of home-made preserves and pickles has been referred to in my hearing, I have been wont to assume a very superior and quite top-lofty air, and to remark in a know-it-all tone of voice: “Oh, life’s too short for me to bother with anything like that; give me the fruits and vegetables and all other edibles that one can buy preserved in tin or glass the year round; they’re better than home-made nine times out of ten, they cost no more in the end, and there’s slight necessity for guesswork when you are to open a can as to the condition of its contents.” Sometimes, if I had a very tractable audience, this would end all discussion for the time being. At others it would fairly set the advocates of domestic preserving by their ears, and then you may be sure they defended their cause in good earnest. But they never induced me to go in for anything of the sort. Still, I now have on hand a very fair array of jars and bottles and tumblers filled with jellies and jams and pickles, and they are home-made, and they are old-fashioned and I am proud of them. And I’ll tell you how it happened. Out in the country, three weeks or so ago, I was passing a farmhouse where the door opening into the kitchen stood wide open, and through that open door came a fragrant breath that called to mind numberless sweet woodsy smells. There was in it a suggestion of sweet fern, a reminder of bayberry, a hint of sassafras and a distinct likeness of grapevine blossoms. And this divine odor was conjured up, I learned, by the stewing of grapes—wild grapes, of course; the cultivated varieties being quite out of it when it comes to preserving. That settled it. Within twenty-four hours from that time there was issuing from my kitchen an odor of wild grapes a-stewing.

To go into particulars, I was making grape jam. I weighed the grapes, and to every pound I allowed three-quarters of a pound of sugar. Then I squeezed the pulp out of the skins, putting the pulp in one bowl and the skins in another. The sugar with a quarter of its quantity of water was boiled in a preserving kettle till it was quite clear. Then was added to it the pulp of the grapes which were boiled ever so slowly for twenty minutes—when they were rubbed through a hair sieve and put back on the stove, with the skins added to them. Then they were boiled until the skins filled and looked good and plump. And when they were quite cooled I put them into jars covered tightly to keep out the air. Next winter I shall depend upon this jam to help me out at many a luncheon with hot buttered toast or with waffles. And I’ve a strong notion that it won’t play me false.

You know how one word leads to another. Well, I find that one preserve leads to another just as surely. After making the grape jam I was determined to try my hand at quinces—at quince marmalade. And it turned out such a success that I offer the recipe for your use if you like to try it. Peel and cut into thin slices four pounds of quinces, put them into a preserving kettle, with half their quantity of peeled and sliced sweet apples, two quarts of water and the juice of a lemon. Cover the kettle and let the contents boil quickly till softened; then put in three pounds of crushed sugar loaf, and stir over the fire while it boils slowly for twenty minutes. Take the kettle from the fire, pour the marmalade into jars, and when it is cool tie brandied papers over the tops. I shall find many uses for this sweet, I fancy, and some day when I am quite put to it to know what to have for dessert, I shall just have the simplest sort of a bread pudding, and for a sauce some of this quince marmalade.

And having made the marmalade, I find that no reasonable excuse exists for not making quince jelly, because the parings can be used along with more of the fruit. Core the whole fruit and put this with the parings into a stewpan with just as much water as will cover them; stew them gently till they are tender, but not red. Strain the juice from the quinces without pressing them, measure it, and for each cupful allow an equal quantity of crushed loaf sugar. Pour the juice into a preserving pan and boil it for twenty minutes, then add the sugar and boil until reduced to the consistency of jelly, stirring it well all the time. Strain through a jelly bag and pour into small jelly tumblers. And this you know is going to be not only a toothsome bit, but if I put it into a pretty and suitable dish and set it in just the right place on my luncheon or dinner table, it will be a thing of beauty.

I’m feeling rather proud, too, of my success with plum jam. It really strikes me as being delicious, and from the favored few who have been allowed to “taste” it, I have heard very flattering things. So you shall receive this recipe also. Have ready say twelve pounds of large ripe plums peeled and divided into halves; crack their stones, blanch the kernels and pound them in a mortar. Put the parings and cracked stones into a pan with three quarts of water. Boil this until it is reduced one-half, and then strain it through a fine wire sieve. Put the fruit into a preserving pan with the strained liquor and pounded kernels and twelve pounds of crushed loaf sugar. Cook over a slow fire until it is reduced to a stiff jam, then turn it into jars and let it stand till quite cold, sift into each jar a layer of powdered sugar, cover with rounds of paper dipped in brandy, tie securely and put away. Some foggy morning spread a little of this jam on some toasted muffins for breakfast, have some English breakfast tea, and play you are in “Lunnun.”

Really, you know, I shouldn’t feel that I had done the right thing by you if, after recommending that jams be covered by brandied papers I should omit to say something of plums preserved in brandy. They make a dainty tidbit, serve them when you will—morning, noon, or night. You don’t want to use plums that are any more than ripe; in fact, if they’re not much more than half-ripe it will be quite as well. Say you have eight pounds of them; prick them all over and put over the fire in cold water. As soon as the water boils and the fruit rises to the surface take out with a skimmer and lay them in a pan of ice water. Then make a clear syrup of two pounds of loaf sugar and a pint of water. Put in the plums and let them boil up just once; and let them stand in the syrup over night. The next day take them out of the syrup, boil this once, put in the plums and let them boil just once and let them stand over night once more in the syrup. Repeat this operation the next day and the following day, then drain the plums and put them into bottles. Boil the syrup till it will almost candy, and when quite cold add to it three-fourths of its own quantity of the best brandy you feel that you can afford, mix thoroughly with the syrup, strain it and pour over the plums. Cork the bottles securely.

But if it’s peaches that you want to see in brandy, you go about it in this way: Split the peaches in halves and boil them in a syrup such as is used for the plums. Boil them two minutes only, then take them out and remove their skins, put them back in the syrup to simmer for five minutes; take the pan off and leave the peaches in it till the next day. Then drain and arrange them carefully in jars. Boil the syrup down and mix with it an equal quantity of white brandy and when quite cold pour it over the peaches. Cover the jars tightly. And it’s not for me to tell you when to use them,—because the using of brandied peaches soon becomes a fixed habit, and it’s pretty hard to be able to tell when not to use them.

Why is it that housekeepers, the land over, with excellent reputations as “good managers,” see in an apple only three possibilities, to wit: apple pie, apple sauce and baked apples, when by the aid of a vegetable spoon, such as is used for preparing Parisienne potatoes, the apples may be scooped out into balls, cooked in a syrup flavored with vanilla, served hot with a sprinkling of finely chopped pistachios over all, and so served be worthy a place on the table of the veriest gourmet? Hardly a whit more trouble involved, you see, or expense, for that matter, than in the preparation of “apple sauce,” and yet how much more appetizing and wholly satisfactory! Again, if you want to idealize baked apples, have them peeled and cored, then boil in a flavored syrup till tender, but firm, and with sugar and burnt almond scattered over them set in oven to acquire a delicate brown. Garnish when serving with bits of marmalade or jelly.

The frying of apples successfully is a ticklish matter, it must be admitted, but if the fruit is perfectly sound when peeled, cored, and quartered, the fat piping hot, with only a few pieces dropped in at a time, if, as I say, all these conditions prevail and your fried apples be not a success, then rest assured there is some witchcraft at work and you are in no wise to blame. The pity will be none the less, however, for nothing so complements delicious little pork chops for a luncheon dish as apples so prepared. And pork chops, by the way, are quite to be desired these cool autumn days.

Nothing can exceed the joy-giving properties of an apple salad if it be rightly concocted. For myself I prefer that there shall be a judicious mixture of celery with the apple, that the pepper, salt, and oil be added with a sparing hand, and that without fail lemon juice shall be used in place of vinegar. It hardly seems necessary to say, and yet one never knows just what is the proper stopping place in giving advice, that a steel knife must not be allowed to touch the apples, else what might have been and should be a thing of beauty is a damaging blight to an otherwise perfectly appointed table. This kind of salad is in its rightful place when accompanying any variety of black duck, and just now wild ducks are of prime flavor. The marketmen know this, but I find that not many of them know why these birds are to be in their best estate for the next two months, when the reason as explained to me by sportsmen is both sound and plausible, namely, that now the birds are getting their feed where it is the sweetest and best, along the shores of fresh ponds, but later when Jack Frost shall have done his perfect work they must hie them to the salt marshes for sustenance, and very soon thereafter the fact of their changed diet is made manifest to those who dine from them.

One can hardly talk of ways and means for treating apples and leave unsaid one or two directions for serving pears so that they shall be quite good enough to do duty upon any occasion. Have you ever tried peeling them, splitting them in two lengthwise, scooping out the core, cooking till tender in a syrup strongly flavored with vanilla, and then draining them, filling the hollows left by removing the cores with powdered macaroons? If you have, then you know how to complete the pretty task; if not, then I will tell you that after the macaroons have been added the two parts of a pear must be put together, the pears laid on their side alternately with tiny rice croquettes which have been coated with apricot marmalade or any preferred jam. You may take the syrup in which the pears were boiled and adding to it a little whipped cream pour it over the whole. My word for it, if the early part of your feast has consisted of such delicacies as nightingales’ tongues and plovers’ eggs, pears so prepared will seem a fitting dessert, but if, as is more probable, you have dined from a perfectly broiled chicken (and they were never better and less expensive than now), you will find this dish of pears quite the crowning beauty of your dinner that it deserves to be.

And while we are on the subject of cooking pears I will tell you of another way in which I have always seen them find favor. After they are cooked and the core scooped out I fill them with a mixture of several kinds of fruit, finely chopped, laying them on a shallow dish of rice and cream, pouring syrup over them.

Now for another way of cooking pears as they should be, to be “not like other folks’” pears: let me suggest that you get inexpensive, oh very inexpensive claret in which to stew pears the next time you see fit to have them. Stew them till tender, then take them out and add to the claret what sugar you think is needed to have it sweet enough when it is boiled down to about one-half the original quantity. Pour over the pears and let cool before serving. Sublimate this idea, if you see fit, by sprinkling in chopped almonds or chopped pistachios or any other little pleasantry that occurs to your inventive genius,—that is, if you’ve an inventive genius that is to be trusted.

Suppose you find, on one of your trips to market this month, as you probably will, that poultry is very low in price, won’t you give this suggestion a trial? Cut a chicken up as for a ragout, and boil it in as little water as will cover it, seasoning the water with a small onion, salt, white pepper, and a gill of sherry wine. When the chicken is almost tender enough, drain it from the liquor and let it get perfectly cold. Meanwhile have in a stewpan half a gill of olive oil, with a pinch of minced onion and a little salt and pepper. When this is quite hot and the chicken quite cold, cook the chicken in it to a delicate brown. Dish the chicken when it is browned evenly, and pour over it a sauce made by adding a gill of the stock in which it was boiled to the oil in the stewpan, thickening it all with the yolks of two eggs. This makes a most delicious dish and is well worth the trial. The frying in oil gives it its distinctive flavor, and makes it very different from fowl fried in butter, which is in France always called poulet sautÉe, to mark the difference.

And this same dish can be varied a little by using tomatoes with the chicken. After the chicken has been fried in the oil, lay it on fried tomatoes, and then pour the sauce over all. Have the tomatoes as large as possible and not too ripe; slice them, dust them with salt and pepper, and fry very, very slowly in a little oil till they are cooked; but don’t let the slices get out of shape.

If you think you would prefer a roast of poultry, do try ducks to be had now. Roast them in any way that experience has taught you is the best, but when it comes to making the sauce for them, let me have a word to say. Mince two or three slices of bacon and a small onion and fry together for five minutes; add to them the juice of an orange and a wineglassful of port wine, the drippings from the pan in which the ducks were roasted, and a seasoning of salt and pepper. It’s an ideal September dish, that’s what it is. And you might accompany it or follow it with another that is particularly seasonable, namely, broiled devilled tomatoes. First you mash the yolks of three hard-boiled eggs, then you mix with them a saltspoonful of salt, one teaspoonful each of powdered sugar and mustard, and as much cayenne as your taste calls for; then stir in three ounces of melted butter, and when all the ingredients are well blended add three tablespoonfuls of vinegar. At this stage put the mixture over the fire to reach the boiling point, and stir in two well-beaten eggs. When it has thickened a bit stand in hot water on the stove to keep warm while you give a little attention to the tomatoes. These must be ripe and firm. Cut them in half-inch slices, broil over a clear fire, place on a hot dish, pour the sauce over them, and there you are. This makes a really appetizing breakfast dish as well as a savory dinner course. Try it some morning, having with it crisp broiled bacon and some dainty rice muffins, and you will find yourself considerably above par with your household for the rest of that day at least.

And in a day or so follow up the good impression by having at luncheon tomatoes prepared in this way: Cut some round slices of bread and fry them delicately in butter till they are brown. Slice firm, ripe tomatoes to match the sizes of the bread slices; broil the tomatoes just a wee bit, and then lay a slice on each piece of the French bread. Season them with pepper and salt, scatter grated Parmesan cheese over them, spread them with a layer of fine bread-crumbs moistened with melted butter. Brown in a hot oven and serve piping hot. And if the man o’ the house is the right sort you will get a vote of thanks in the shape of a big bunch of the earliest and brightest chrysanthemums to be found in town.

Have you ever made a salad of apples and celery? Use sour apples cut into dice-shaped pieces, and cut the celery into half-inch bits. Arrange in the salad dish in this way: A layer of the apple, then a sprinkling of capers; next a layer of the celery, and over this three or four olives cut in thin slices, and so on till the dish is full. Make a dressing of a saltspoonful of salt, a good dash of cayenne pepper, the juice of a lemon, and six tablespoonfuls of olive oil. Pour this over the apples and celery about ten minutes before serving. Be sure that you let the youngsters have all of this salad that they want, for it will be hard to concoct a more wholesome and healthful one.

And I am going to suggest a variation or two of the apple sauce theme for your approval. Go ahead and get your apples ready as you always have, and when you put them on the stove to cook add to them the peel of an orange. When the apples are quite cooked press them through a sieve, add brown sugar to them to taste, and the juice of one orange to a pint of apple. Put this on the stove to cook for about two minutes, and then put aside to cool before serving. Or, stew your apples till they are tender, press them through a sieve, add to them the amount of sugar they require, and when they are quite cold beat up with them lightly some well-whipped cream—a pint of cream after it is whipped to a quart of apple sauce.

Now, if it comes to pass that neither or both of these ways of making apple sauce finds favor with you, you will certainly give an attentive ear to a hint on the subject of pears. For one of the daintiest and most seasonable of desserts is a pear salad. Know how it is made? Have the pears quite ripe, cut them in thin slices, lay them in a glass dish, sprinkle powdered sugar on them, pour over them a glass of brandy which has in it a dozen drops or so of lemon juice, and let stand on ice for about fifteen minutes before serving. It is a good idea also to have the pears on ice for two or three hours before they are sliced.

Another delectable dessert made from pears is called “stuffed pears.” Cut them in two and scoop out the core with a vegetable spoon. Cook the pears very gently in a little syrup till they are quite tender. Drain them, and have ready any kind of marmalade into which you have stirred chopped almonds. Stuff the pears with this and put them together in their original shape. Have in a dish a thin layer of boiled rice, over which you have spread a little whipped cream. Arrange the pears in a circle on the rice, and fill the centre with the same kind of marmalade as that used for stuffing the pears.

And peaches may be prepared in just the same way; but you may add just a few of the kernels of the peaches to the syrup while you are stewing them, which will give them a delightful flavor. Indeed, I think it is always an improvement to use some of the kernels when cooking peaches for any way of serving. In tarts the kernels should be chopped as finely as possible.

Peach cream makes a dainty and delicious dessert. Have a dozen ripe peaches, peel, remove the stones, and then stew them with half a dozen of the kernels in a syrup made of half a pound of sugar and half a pint of water. When the peaches are quite soft press them through a sieve. Mix with the pulp one pint of cream, whipped, and one ounce of dissolved gelatine. Wet a fancy mould with cold water, pour in the preparation, and leave till firm. Unmould when serving.

To be sure, there’s no way in the world that a peach is so delightful as when eaten from the hand, but it must be the very best sort of a peach to be eaten in this way, and the best sorts just now may be a thought expensive. That is the reason I have suggested ways for cooking them, because one can use an inferior quality and yet get perfectly satisfactory results. And that isn’t possible with most of life’s commodities.