Ten Dollars Enough: Keeping House Well on Ten Dollars a Week / How It Has Been Done; How It May Be Done Again

by Catherine Owen

FOOTNOTE:

[2] An equal weight of almond paste may be used.

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CHAPTER XXVI.
FRIED POTATOES—POLKA SAUCE—CLEARING GRAVY OF FAT—A VARIETY OF CAKES FROM ONE RECIPE.

Molly had intended showing Marta how to fry potatoes, so as to have them crisp. If she gave directions merely, the girl would naturally think, being so much smaller than other things, they would be cooked as soon, and the result would be brown and flabby. She had waited to do this until some other dish needed her in the kitchen till the last minute before dinner, and to-day, as the sauce for the pudding had to be made, she could direct the one while she made the other, and she was anxious, too, to see to the taking up of the beef and making the gravy. She went to the kitchen in good time to attend to this. Half an hour before the meat was to come out, the oven was allowed to get very hot. When the paste was removed from the crock, the savory steam filled the air. The beef was lifted from the crock, put in the dripping-pan and set on the top shelf of the oven, now quite sharp, for half an hour, to brown, while Marta prepared the cabbage. The potatoes, peeled and cut into thin slices, had been lying in ice-water since morning. They were now drained and dried thoroughly, and the kettle of lard was put on the range to heat. Then Molly skimmed the fat from the gravy in the crock and poured it through a strainer into a small saucepan, and she then set Marta to rub as much of the vegetables through as possible.

“Marta, you need not chop the cabbage to-night; for a change you will press all the water you possibly can from it, cut it across pie-fashion when it is in the dish, and make a gill of nice white sauce, using, remember, half a table-spoonful of butter, half one of flour and a gill of milk.”

Molly was draining the cold water from the cabbage as she spoke, and put it into the boiling water; then, as it was too soon to make the sauce, she went to arrange the dining-table—which was something she found quite impossible to teach Marta.

When she returned Marta had rubbed the greater part of the vegetables through. Molly put a cup of boiling water into the crock, stirred it well round the sides, then poured it through the remains of the vegetables in the strainer into the saucepan, and then set it on the range to boil fast; it was still thick with fat.

“Marta, when that boils throw in a little cold water, then skim it; do that three or four times till it is quite clear of fat, then set it where it will boil rapidly, to get rid of the water you have thrown in. When the grease is entirely off it, you can stir in a dessert-spoonful of brown thickening.”

Molly needed for the polka sauce one table-spoonful of butter, well washed to remove salt, two large table-spoonfuls of powdered sugar, and a glass of wine, and the directions were as follows:

“Beat sugar and butter till very light and white, make the sherry quite hot, add it gradually to the butter and sugar, beating all the time, stand it in a saucepan of boiling water, and do not cease beating till all are at the boiling-point.”

Molly had to content herself with beating the sugar and butter to a very light cream and measuring the wine; she must trust Marta to finish it while they were at dinner, as it was evidently a sauce that could not stand.

When Marta had thickened the gravy for the meat, Molly seasoned it with pepper and salt, let it boil fast till very rich, then took it from the range and left it to stand for a few minutes. Marta had the soup on, and the noodles in the bottom of the tureen.

“Now, Marta, try the fat, and put in the potatoes if it is as hot as for your noodles. You must leave them till the fat recovers the heat—it is of course chilled by the cold potatoes going into it. If you were frying for a large family you would only put in part at a time, but for our little dish you may safely put in all.”

In about one minute they were drawn away from the intense heat.

“That is because they take at least eight minutes to cook. They will be tender before, but not crisp, and if they were kept in the hottest part they would be dark in color long before ten minutes. Understand, you must not put them where they will cook slowly, but where they will cook more slowly than right on the fire, and you can safely make your white sauce while they cook. As I am here I’ll take up the meat, but I want you to notice that the gravy has still a little fat which has formed on it like a skin, and can be lifted with a fork. One way of clearing very greasy stock or gravy is to boil it fast, let it stand, then remove the skin that forms, repeating this process several times if necessary. Where there is time, this is really the best way, for there is no need to watch it; simply put it on the fire and remove it as you go about your other work.

“Now those potatoes are done—lift them out with the skimmer, lay them on that brown paper I have put ready, sprinkle salt on them and then turn them into a dish. The beef is brown now—you can take it up, pour part of the gravy round it and put the rest in a sauceboat. Now I’ll leave the rest to you.”

The polka pudding Harry pronounced delicious, and exactly to his taste, but Molly thought she would have preferred it slightly sweetened; but the combination of hot and cold, eccentric as it seemed, was very pleasant.

After dinner Mrs. Lennox came in for a chat, as she occasionally did, leaving Mr. Lennox at home with the children. She wanted to tell Molly that she expected her new maid by the next Inman steamer. Her sister was going to meet her on its arrival and bring her right out.

“Make up your mind to possess yourself in patience for the first few days,” said Molly, “for you will no doubt need it, and then you may have real comfort.”

“Oh yes, I think I am patient. To-morrow I am going to make a cake; can you give me a good recipe? Better than the one I have, I mean.”

“That depends on what it is. Do you want a cup cake?”

“Yes, the one I have is what they call feather cake, and very light and nice, but I would like a change, I confess. The recipe is one table-spoonful of butter, one cup of sugar, one cup and a half of flour, half a cup of milk, one quarter tea-spoonful of soda, half one of cream of tartar, two eggs and a pinch of salt. Then I stir butter, sugar and eggs together, beating them hard, then add flour in which the cream of tartar is mixed and milk by degrees, and I dissolve the soda in the least drop of boiling water, and bake it in a good steady oven. I use the same recipe for jelly cake.”

“I know that cake,” said Molly; “it is an old favorite, and for a quite plain one it is very good indeed, and for children or where it is quickly eaten up I should use it; but I have to make a richer cup cake, using very much more butter or butter and lard, because for one thing I like a cake that is more like pound than sponge, and, for another, I want it to keep fresh. One loaf made with a cup and a half of flour lasts us a fortnight, and by using nearly half as much butter as flour it is better the last day than the first.”

“I thought so much butter would make it heavy.”

“No, if properly made you may use equal quantities of butter and flour as in pound cake, or half a pound of butter to one of flour as in queen cake; but a cake with much butter needs more care in baking, and it takes longer than one with less—pound cake takes from two to three hours.”

“I am fond of pound cake, but I never aspire to make one.”

“It is easy enough to make, but not so easy to bake; While eggs and butter keep fairly cheap, I think I shall make one to keep, so that it will be always on hand, for the minute eggs and butter get more expensive I shall use as few as possible and make only fruit cake.”

“Why don’t you get eggs now while they are cheap? I get eggs from a farmer at twenty-two cents, but he tells me they will be twenty-five by the end of the month.”

“I pay that now at the store, but if I can get a few dozen at twenty-two cents, it will be an economy to take them. I will put them down in lime.”

“That is what I have wanted to do, but I tried once, and put ten dozen down when they were fifteen cents, and they did not keep at all.”

“We’ll do them together if you like; but to return to the cake, I don’t believe you can improve on feather cake for your purpose, but you can vary it ad infinitum. By leaving out a good table-spoonful flour and adding grated chocolate and flavoring with vanilla you have a very nice chocolate cake, or by stirring in it a cup of grated cocoanut or one of walnut meats it is delicious, or even by grating the peel of an orange and part of the juice, or lemon-peel. If you add fruit you need more butter, say two table-spoonfuls, or it will be crumbly and dry.”

“Thank you; I never thought of chocolate cake. I shall try it to-morrow.”

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CHAPTER XXVII.
CANDIED LEMON-PEEL—TO WHIP CREAM SOLID—ICED CREAM COFFEE—MADELEINE CAKE—POTATO BALLS.

The next day not being a very busy one for Marta, Molly proposed to candy the lemon-peels, that had been lying in brine until enough had been collected. There were now the peels of nearly a dozen. These were put on in cold water, and when they had boiled an hour this was thrown away and fresh cold water put on them, the object being simply to freshen them. When they began to get tender Molly tasted them to see if any salt remained in them, but she found them quite fresh; had they not been, she would have changed the water once more. When they were tender enough to run a straw through them, which was when they had boiled nearly three hours, they were poured off, and a pint and a half of water and a pound and a half of sugar were put to boil to syrup, while Molly and Marta cut the peels into chips less than an inch long and a quarter inch wide. To accomplish this quickly Molly told Marta to cut each half lemon-peel into three equal sizes, then to lay one on the other, and cut across all three; the chips were about the right size thus cut.

When the syrup boiled the chips were dropped in; it was allowed to boil again, and to keep boiling slowly till the peels were clear, then more rapidly till there was so little liquid that they were in danger of burning; then they were drawn to the back of the range for the remaining syrup to dry away without burning. When they were at this point Molly sprinkled half a pound of sugar through them and spread them out on plates, telling Marta to put them in the oven with the door open, and let them remain all night to dry.

She explained to Marta, if ever she tried to do them alone, to remember there must be always enough syrup to cover the peels at first, made in the proportion of a pound of sugar to a pint of water.

Of course, although the process was a long one, the only attention required was to prevent the peels burning toward the last.

Molly knew she would be in the kitchen a good deal this week, for she did not expect Marta to be able to do much alone. The day on which she candied lemon-peels she planned to make iced cream coffee, a cake, and show Marta about the dinner.

Mrs. Winfield’s freezer was very small, the cylinder holding only a quart. Molly had not tried it hitherto, but home-made ices were so economical that she was anxious to become familiar with it. After breakfast a cup of black coffee was made by pouring half a pint of water through two table-spoonfuls of finely-ground coffee, in the same way as their usual breakfast coffee was made, only of double strength. To this was added a gill of thick cream and half a pint of boiled milk, and four table-spoonfuls of sugar. This was poured into the cylinder and frozen. Molly had ordered half a pint of cream to be kept for her the day before, so that she would be sure of having it from twenty-four to thirty-six hours old, and the other gill was left in the ice till it was thoroughly chilled. Buying cream in such small quantity she could not afford to have the usual milky residuum, and knew the only way to whip it solid without one tea-spoonful of waste, was to have it at least twenty-four hours old, and thoroughly chilled, then to beat it steadily, without taking the beater out till it was as solid as the white of egg. This usually happens in ten minutes with a pint of cream, but if the kitchen is warm and it does not “come” in that time, it is often an economy of time to set it in the ice, just as it is, to get chilled again; there is no occasion to remove the froth as it rises,—the whip will be finer and firmer without.

Marta made the Madeleine cake, while Molly stood by, recipe in hand.

“This cake, Marta, has no milk, and therefore requires no baking-powder; neither queen cake, sponge cake, pound cake, in fact none of the finer cakes have milk, and they are raised entirely with eggs. But several very good imitations of these cakes are made with baking-powder; the saving is not great, and a cake made without chemicals keeps fresh much longer.

“Madeleine Cake.—For Madeleine cake you must weigh four ounces of butter, half a pound of sugar, half a pound of flour twice sifted; then grate the rind of half a lemon into the sugar, separate the yolks from the whites of three large or four small eggs, put two table-spoonfuls of wine in this cup, and, before you begin to make the cake, butter a small cake-pan. Now beat the whites of the eggs till you can turn the bowl without their slipping, cream the butter well, then beat the yolks of eggs into it, then add the sugar and wine; beat well again, and then add flour and whites of eggs alternately, and when all is well mixed, pour it into the pan, and bake it in a rather slow oven for an hour.

“I am having only half the recipe made, so the cake is not very large; but we are such small cake-eaters that we get tired of a large one. Another time, if you make this cake, you may put rose-water or peach-water instead of the wine, and chopped candied lemon-peel instead of the grated peel. You see the batter is much thicker than for the cup cake you made, but if at any time you use flour that absorbs more moisture, you must add another egg; this is, as it should be, as thick as pound-cake batter,—which means, as thick as can be stirred. It is more a paste than a batter. Will you remember that, when you have a recipe which says ‘thick as pound-cake batter’? Any cake with baking-powder made as thick as this would be spoiled. It would be tough, with great holes here and there, so you must be very careful not to confuse the two rules,—moderately thick batter for plain cakes, with milk and baking-powder; very thick batter for the richer ones, made without. Yet, of course, they must be stirred with a spoon; if too stiff for that, your flour is very absorbent, and you need another egg. Remember there is never any harm in adding an egg; it will never spoil your cake as too much milk would do.

“All cakes without baking-powder or its equivalents, soda and cream of tartar, require a much slower oven than those with them. A slow oven ruins a plain cake, a quick one spoils a rich cake, and you must be especially careful to turn it very gently, and, in taking this or any cake with much butter in it from the oven, to put it on the table very gently. I have known a cake to come from the oven perfect, yet, from being dropped hastily on the table, to collapse with a puff of steam issuing from it. The same thing may happen from taking it from the pan while quite hot, or from its not being quite cooked through; cakes require to ‘soak’ a few minutes even after a broom straw comes out clean. Lack of knowledge on these small points is one of the reasons why many people who make excellent plain cakes—by which I mean all the variety of cakes with baking-powder and little butter—do not succeed with richer ones, and why so many look upon pound cake as so very difficult, while it is really as easy as any other.”

Marta had twice succeeded admirably with the cup cake, which her unfortunate bang of the oven door had spoiled the first time.

Instead of frying the filet de sole for dinner, Molly intended to have what is called by cooks turbans of sole, with béchamel. She put the bones and fins left from boning a flounder (see directions, [Chapter XIX].) into a pint of water, and let them stew slowly at the back of the range; then she rolled up the filets and fastened each with a wooden toothpick, and set them to keep cool until she was ready to cook them.

For the miroton of beef she cut from the braised beef of the night before some very delicate slices and laid them in an oval dish; then she put a large table-spoonful of butter in a small saucepan, and let it get very hot, and poured into it a cup of rice, which had been boiled till just dry and tender, but not broken; this was fried, with frequent stirring, till pale brown, when it was poured over the beef, making a cover. The cold gravy, which was a solid jelly and rather too highly flavored for the purpose, was diluted with an equal quantity of hot water and a pinch of salt; a tea-spoonful of brown thickening was stirred into it, and enough poured over the rice to moisten the whole, but not make it “sloppy;” the dish was then put into the oven to remain for half an hour.

Marta had put on the potatoes early, and when they were boiled she mashed them (keeping them quite hot) with a fork, beating it rapidly back and forth till they were white and light; then Molly took them herself, and told her to strain the bones from the fish broth or stock, to put a salt-spoonful of salt in it, and set it to boil again; then to chop some parsley very fine, to cut a thin slice of blood-red pickled beet, and cut from it with a thimble (in the absence of the proper tube) little disks the size of a dime.

Molly seasoned the potatoes highly, putting to them (there was a scant pint) a dessert-spoonful of butter, salt, pepper, a grate of nutmeg, and a little parsley. Then she beat an egg and added part of it, keeping out only enough to brush over the balls when made. She formed each about the size of a small orange, and brushed them over with the egg. They were placed on a buttered tin and put in the oven to brown.

The turbans of fish were now put in the boiling stock, and boiled till they were milky-white instead of clear—about eight minutes; then Molly took them up with a skimmer, and in a small saucepan stirred a dessert-spoonful of butter and one of flour together, letting them bubble a few seconds, and then poured a gill of the fish stock and half one of milk to it, stirring all the time (in fact, making white sauce, but using part fish stock instead of all milk, which makes béchamel for fish; made with veal or chicken stock it is béchamel for meat). When seasoned with a little pepper, the little rolled filets were placed standing up in a small dish, and the sauce poured all over them to mask them entirely; then Molly took a little parsley on the end of a knife and carefully sprinkled it over the same, which, being thick, allowed it to rest upon it; then a disk of the blood-red beet was laid deftly on the top of each turban, and a very pretty dish was the result.

“Now, Marta, I leave you to bring the dinner in as soon as Mr. Bishop is ready. I have left the iced coffee packed ready; all you have to do is to wipe every spot of ice and salt from the outside, and then fill two cups from it. Pile each cup very high with the whipped cream, and bring in the cake at the same time.”

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CHAPTER XXVIII.
FRICASSEED CHICKEN—LEMON HONEY—FRENCH ICING TO KEEP.

The next day Molly, while showing Marta how to cook the dinner, added two other articles to those she liked to have always ready. Cake, as she said, was so little eaten by Harry and herself that a loaf lasted a week, even with Marta’s help, for she, like most of her countrywomen, lived largely on soups, and salad, and vegetables, and cared little for sweets. She did not care to have the same cake, over and over again, and had she had preserves in the house, would have found it easy to convert it into something more attractive. Had she been keeping house long enough, jams and jellies would have been in her store-room; peaches were now the only available fruit, and by the time Molly was settled enough to think of doing them up, they were both poor and dear, and in the boarding-house they had been rather surfeited with canned peaches, therefore she had let them go. She had lately been unearthing several old recipes of her mother’s and grandmother’s, and some of them she meant to try. There was one called “lemon honey.” It was of more modern date than the others, and as her mother had written under it “nice change from preserves for cake,” she decided to make it. She required for it half a pound of sugar, the rind and juice of a large fresh lemon, the yolks of three eggs and white of one, and three ounces of sweet butter.

She followed directions, which were to put the butter and sugar together in a saucepan. (As the butter was rather salt she took the precaution of washing it first.) While these melted, she beat the eggs thoroughly, grated off the lemon peel into them, taking care to remove all the yellow, which contains the flavor of lemon, yet not to grate deeply enough to remove any of the white, pithy rind, and then mixed all together over the fire until as thick as honey, taking care it did not scorch. When done it was thick, smooth, yellow, and semi-opaque. She poured it into two small jelly-glasses, and put it away.

While she was doing this, Marta had been picking over a scant half pint of black beans for soup, which when washed she put over the fire in a quart of cold water, in which she also put one small onion, two cloves, a tiny pinch of marjoram, one slightly larger of thyme, and two sprigs of parsley. These were to simmer slowly, until the beans could be rubbed through a strainer, and then a pint of strong beef stock, which had been making all morning, was to be added, and all boiled together for an hour.

When the soup was on, Marta prepared a fowl as Molly had shown her, and when it was done she directed her how to cut it into neat joints for fricassee, without mangling it. While Marta was doing this Molly put a pound of sugar and a small cup of water into a small iron saucepan that she assured herself was beautifully clean, and set it over the fire. While the syrup came to the boiling-point she turned her attention to the fricassee, and told Marta to lay the pieces in a saucepan with boiling water to just cover them, to cut an onion and half a medium carrot and put it to them, with a level tea-spoonful of salt and the sixth of one of pepper. These were to simmer very slowly until the fowl was tender,—about two hours,—then the fowl to be taken up, the gravy strained and put to boil very fast, till there was less than half a pint, while in another saucepan, half a pint of thick, white sauce was made (a good table-spoonful of butter and a full one of flour to half a pint of milk). This was added to the chicken gravy; they were stirred smooth together, and the chicken returned to it and allowed to simmer in it a few minutes.

When Molly had seen the fricassee prepared and slowly stewing, she turned to the sugar, which was now boiling fast. She removed a little bluish scum, very carefully, not to stir the syrup. When it had boiled a quarter of an hour, she began to try it, dipping the fork into it, and when all the drops had run off, watching if a long thread remained. At first the drops ran off quickly, and she waited a minute before trying again, when she dipped in the fork. Drops came now slow and thick, and after the last one a short thick end remained, and she knew the point had nearly come. The next dip left a long, floating hair, and Molly took it from the fire and put it to get cool while she prepared the pudding, for which she used the following recipe: Two apples, finely chopped, two ounces of grated bread, two of sugar, two of currants, two eggs and the rind of a lemon, grated with just enough of the juice to give a perceptible acid, about a third of a pinch of salt, and the third of a small nutmeg, grated. Stir all together and pour into a small, buttered bowl that it will just fill.

Molly followed the recipe, tied a cloth over the top (see directions for boiled puddings, [Chapter XIV].) and put it into fast-boiling water to boil continually an hour and a half.

Lemon sauce was prescribed for this pudding, but as she had used eggs freely lately and it required two, she substituted hard sauce.

The boiled sugar was now about blood-warm, and a thin crust like ice had formed over it. This she was vexed to see, but she picked it off. Underneath, it was as thick as very thick molasses. She stirred it with a spoon, which was rather hard work, and in about five minutes it began to look milky; this by continual beating changed to a texture like lard. Now she could use the spoon no longer, and worked it like dough in her hands. When it was a compact, smooth mass she pressed it into a tumbler and covered it with oiled paper.

Marta had been looking on with wondering eyes to see simple sugar change from a crystal-clear syrup to cream, and then to a paste, and now asked what it was for.

“That is for icing cakes, and as it will keep just so for months, it is always ready. I should have called your attention to the boiling, only there was too much on hand, and there are such delicate degrees in boiling sugar that you would need your whole attention; some time you may take sugar and experiment; there can be no waste—unless you burn it, but that will not be likely—for it can be boiled over and over again. When it is perfectly boiled, that thin crust is not upon it, only a jelly-like skin; but when it does form, if you find it is only on the surface, you can take it off and keep it to sweeten other things, but should it be grainy all through, you must put water to it again, and boil it back to the ‘thread’; on the other hand, if you take it from the fire an instant too soon, you will find that, instead of forming a paste that you can handle, it will remain thick cream. This would do for icing, as the cake absorbs some of the moisture, but it would not do to keep, nor could you add much flavoring or coloring, so it is always better to boil it to a higher degree. To-morrow I’ll show you how it is to be used. Now I think you understand the principle of frying well enough to make the potato croquettes if I read the recipe to you. This is it: Two cups of potato, mashed very smooth without milk, a dessert-spoonful of butter, salt to taste, a pinch of white pepper and a very little nutmeg (rub the nutmeg across the grater twice), and the yolk of an egg. Mix all together; and for economy’s sake I am going to use only the white of the egg for crumbing; beat it with two tea-spoonfuls of water. Make the potatoes into the shape of small pears, roll each in the white of egg, then into cracker meal, and fry just as you do the other croquettes, in very hot fat. When they are done, stick the end of a sprig of parsley into the end of each one to simulate the stalk.”

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CHAPTER XXIX.
BOILED CUSTARD—FROZEN BANANAS—USES OF FRENCH ICING—SCALLOPED POTATOES—HOLLANDAISE SAUCE—ROAST OYSTERS—UNEXPECTED VISITORS.

For next day’s dinner Molly bought a piece of cod about three inches thick, and a leg of mutton (the cod weighed three pounds, the mutton six and a half, which she directed the butcher to cut in half), and half a dozen bananas.

As soon as she reached home she made a boiled custard with two eggs and a pint of milk, in the following way: The eggs were whipped while the milk came near to the boiling-point. When that was reached, two heaped table-spoonfuls of sugar were added to the milk, and when dissolved it was poured to the eggs, stirring all the time. Both were then returned to the saucepan—which was set over the fire in a vessel or saucepan containing boiling water—and stirred. When the water in the under saucepan boiled round it, the custard was removed a few seconds, the stirring continuing all the time, and then it was returned. This was repeated till it was like thick cream. The object of removing it was this: The eggs must not boil or they will curdle; they must be cooked or they will not thicken; if left in the boiling water they would boil; by removing every minute for a few seconds, you keep the custard at the boiling-point till it thickens, without running risk of its curdling. Frequently, in the fear of custard’s curdling, it is taken off the fire just at the boiling-point, and it remains thin, unless corn-starch has been first boiled with the milk; in the proportion of two eggs to the pint, corn-starch is not needed for moderately thick custards. When it was done it was set to get cold, and two bananas were cut into small pieces. While the cooking was going on, Molly got out the Madeleine cake, cut side slices from it the third of an inch thick, cut the dark crust off as thin as possible, and spread three of the slices with the lemon paste she had made yesterday. The other three she laid on these, sandwich-fashion.

“Now, Marta, I’ll show you what I am going to do with my fondant icing.” As she spoke she put a table-spoonful of it in a cup which she set in boiling water over the fire. “You see I stir this, because, if I simply left it to melt, it would go back to clear syrup; by stirring, it keeps opaque like cream. I do not let this get too hot, only just warm enough to run easily.” When it had reached the point of being like double cream or molasses, she put the saucepan and cup on the table and added to it a few drops of vanilla and stirred it; then with a tea-spoon she iced each slice, pouring the fondant on and spreading it, allowing it to run over the sides.

“You see this icing cools as you do it, and it may happen in cold weather that it will cool before you finish (and if the candy has been boiled rather high, the same thing may happen any time); then you must dip a knife in boiling water, shake off the drops quickly and smooth with that; then you use the knife. Now if I had cochineal in the house I should have melted only half the quantity in this cup and half in another, and flavored one with rose, and added a very little coloring,—three or four drops,—and used it for half of these cakes; but as it is, I leave them all white.”

Molly worked as she spoke; the three slices were iced, then she held a sharp knife on the range till it was quite warm, wiped it, and cut the cake into neat tablets an inch wide and the width of the cake,—about two inches. Each slice made four, so she had a dozen small fancy cakes.

“You can see, Marta, how easy it is, if your icing is always ready and you have preserves, to have a plate of very pretty cakes in a few minutes. You may make a dozen and a half, or more; then half a dozen may be white with lemon between; half a dozen with red currant jelly, and icing colored with a small piece of unsweetened chocolate melted in a saucer on the stove and then stirred to the icing; and the others with peach, and pink icing flavored very slightly with bitter almond; and for very ornamental purposes, a dozen almonds, blanched and chopped to size of rice and sprinkled over the pink and white while the icing is still warm, make a very pretty change; in fact, very many varieties can be made once you have got the idea, and remember never to mix flavors badly. Vanilla and chocolate always agree; so you can use the same icing for the white and chocolate by doing the white cakes first, then putting the melted chocolate—and just a drop or two of water from the end of your finger or a spoon—to it. Chocolate stiffens so much that you are more likely than not to require a knife dipped in boiling water to spread it. When all are done you may mix your pink and chocolate candy together, if the flavors agree (vanilla and chocolate and rose go exceedingly well, but almond or lemon not), work it together with hand or spoon, and the result will be a lovely ashes-of-roses color. You may put it away so flavored and colored for future use, or you may use it at once for other cake, which is better, as color fades if kept too long; but remember one thing: this icing, having been made hot, will be stiffer than when you began, and to be melted over again will need perhaps a dozen drops of water mixed with it; if it has become sugary and rough, you can’t use it; but if on taking a pinch between your finger and thumb it will spread smoothly like putty or dough, it is as good as ever, which it is almost certain to be if you have worked quickly.

“The only art in this French icing is to have everything ready before you begin coloring and flavoring, to have almonds, if you use them, blanched and chopped,—in short, have to leave off for nothing; then you can work quickly, and the icing is not allowed to cool, and will not need reheating once or twice before you have finished. At first such quickness may not be easy, and if the icing chills, you will find it unmanageable; all you have to do is to return it in the water to the fire, and melt as at first; it will usually stand melting two or three times before getting grainy. Stir, while melting, only enough to mix the melted and unmelted together. Of course it is always easier to melt a quantity of icing in a bowl, and do a number of cakes, than a table-spoonful as I have done, because it holds the heat better, and you have abundance to work from; but I don’t want to destroy the delicacy of what I put away by melting all up. You see I have a little ball left.”

She had gathered the icing from the cups and spoon and worked it between her hands into a little shining ball, simply to show Marta what could be done if more had been left. “This is not worth putting away, but several little marbles like these if dipped into melted chocolate would make chocolate creams. You see how one thing leads to another in cooking.”

The custard was now cold, the bananas were stirred into it and they were put into the freezer, and ice and salt in the proportion of one third salt were packed round it. After it had stood a few minutes, Marta turned it for a quarter of an hour, when it was frozen.

Just as Molly was about to begin to write directions for the scalloped potatoes, concluding she herself would need to make only the Hollandaise sauce, and could leave the dinner to Marta, a hack drove up to the door, and Molly saw Harry’s mother and father in it.

To say she did not tremble would not be correct; for an instant her heart sank; if she had only known they were coming! She wondered if everything was as nice as she would wish it in the little sitting-room. She generally had it, not trim, or oppressively tidy, but with only the pleasant disorder of a room that is lived in; but Marta had a way sometimes of leaving her brush or dustpan—sometimes a kitchen cloth—where it ought not to be. Molly looked at herself, but she was neat, and no one had a right to expect a housewife at eleven in the morning to be ready for company. While Marta went to the door she removed her apron and washed her hands, and when she reëntered the kitchen just waited to say:—

“Marta, make some of your nice noodles at once; leave your up-stairs sweeping till later, and I’ll let you know what to get for lunch.” She passed into the parlor, having in the short interval recovered her composure, and welcomed her unexpected visitors as if their coming were a pleasant surprise, and not an embarrassment.

“Will you come up-stairs and take off your things?” asked Molly, thankful that in consequence of her wanting to show Marta how to make custard and use French icing, the sweeping was not begun and the whole place topsy-turvy and draped in sweeping-sheets.

“Well, I don’t know about staying; we just thought we would run out and see what sort of a place you had here, and take the next train back.”

“Oh, you would not do that?” cried Molly, all her hospitable instincts revolting. “What would Harry say? You must stay till he comes home, and he can perhaps induce you to stay all night.”

“Oh dear, no—no, thank you; Mr. Bishop rarely stays anywhere from home at night.”

“No, no, my dear,” echoed her father-in-law, “I am as old-fogyish as a bachelor, and I like to be at home.”

“Well, at least you must stay the day.”

“Well, if we shall not put you out, we will remain an hour or two.”

“Come up-stairs, then; you will rest better when your cloak is off.”

Molly had never felt as if her house was a bandbox till now. Mr. and Mrs. Bishop seemed literally to fill the parlor, yet they were not very large. Harry was much taller than his father, but they both had a ponderous way with them. Mrs. Bishop’s voice, too, was a deep contralto, which she used in a manner which, had it been affected, would have been haughty, but, natural as it had become, yet seemed to impress people against their will with a sense of her importance.

“And so this is your little cottage? Do you find room in it?”

“Oh, yes,” said Molly, smiling, “plenty;” but as she followed her mother-in-law up the narrow stairs, which had never seemed so narrow till she saw the rich dress and velvet-clad shoulders fill the whole space, she could see how very tiny it might seem to one accustomed to large rooms and broad spaces.

Mrs. Bishop glanced around the pretty bed-room.

“And Harry and you really are contented here?” she asked.

“Indeed, we are more than contented; I’m as happy as the day is long.”

“Well, it’s very strange for Harry; he was always the most fastidious boy; but happiness is everything, I suppose.”

“We think so.”

Molly helped Mrs. Bishop off with her cloak, which was so handsome as to look strangely out of place in that simple cottage room, and then said, “If you will excuse me, I will send you up some hot water and give orders for luncheon.”

“Thank you, thank you; don’t let me keep you; and please don’t make any preparation.”

“No, I will not; I must only see that sufficient for three persons instead of one is on the table.”

She ran down-stairs, took Marta’s rolling-pin out of her hand, told her to take a pitcher of water up-stairs, and rolled the noodle-paste till she returned.

“Marta, directly your noodles are made, go to Mrs. Framley’s and ask her to please telephone to the fishmonger for a quarter of a hundred oysters in the deep shell, to be sent here for one o’clock. Be as quick as you can, and when you come back you will find on the dining-room table full written instructions for what you are to do.”

Molly went to the parlor and found Mr. Bishop reading his paper.

“Go on reading for a minute, please; I will write a line. I know if you have not got through the morning news you will be glad to do it.”

“I just glanced at the money market at breakfast, and I’ve too much respect for my eyes to read in the cars.”

Molly went to the davenport and wrote Marta’s instructions. Her first impulse had been to use her materials for dinner, to have the frozen bananas for dessert; but on second thought she resolved to give just what she meant to have for her own lunch, with oysters to make enough; the bread was fresh and very good; therefore she wrote the following:—

“Make the cold bean soup boiling hot, boil one egg hard and cut it in quarters lengthwise, then across; lay it in the soup-tureen and pour the soup on it. Cut four thin slices of lemon and drop them in as it comes to table. When the oysters come, set them, in their shells, in a dripping-pan; put on each a bit of butter, size of a hazel-nut; pepper them and set them over the fire till the liquor in the shells bubbles; watch till the butter melts, then they are done; take them off the fire immediately. Use a cloth to put them on a hot dish; take care you do not spill the gravy. Serve with hot plates.

“Cut the cold pudding in finger-lengths, make a batter of two table-spoonfuls of flour, a pinch of salt, and milk to make it as thick as thick cream; dip each piece into the batter, and fry in deep fat till brown; sift sugar over it, and serve with hard sauce.”

As Molly wrote the last words she heard Mrs. Bishop coming down-stairs, and wondered much what she could do to entertain her. She had actually never been with her without Harry before, but the matter solved itself, for the elder lady questioned her as to her mode of life, what she did with her time, how Harry and she spent the evenings, and when told as simply as Molly knew how, she laughed, with a sort of good-natured sarcasm.

“Quite idyllic, I declare; so Harry reads aloud while you sew,—or else you both play chess.”

“Yes; of course we are almost strangers in Greenfield. When we are better known no doubt we may go out more, but all our neighbors are very pleasant.”

“Now that is one thing I wanted to caution you about; one of the penalties of living in a place like this is that you must know every one, and are apt to make intimates that you can not shake off easily when you go away.”

“But,” said Molly, with some dignity, “I shall make no intimacies I should ever want to shake off; people good enough to be my friends now will be good enough at all times.”

“My dear, I think when I was your age I had just such ideas, but I found as I grew older I had to do as others do.”

The time did not pass very gayly, and Molly wondered how she would get through the afternoon if they should stay, for she believed that she and her mother-in-law had nothing in common.

When the time came, Molly excused herself and went in to help Marta lay the cloth. The silver and glass were always bright, so there was no hasty rubbing and polishing at the last minute. That morning Harry had brought in from the tiny flower-bed a handful of geranium and coleus, saying: “We have to take them as they are ready; frost may come at any time now.”

And they were now ready for the centre, arranged in a deep glass dish, the rich coleus round the edge, the geraniums in the middle. They gave the little table an air of brightness that nothing but flowers could have done.

Molly did not want to be many minutes from the parlor, as she knew Mrs. Bishop would think great preparations were being made, and she would rather have given them bread and cheese than that, but she thought she would trust Marta to follow her written directions, as the only things, except the oysters, to cook were those she was very familiar with. The result justified her. It is true the soup had the eggs cut in slices instead of as directed, but that mattered little.

When they were seated and Mr. Bishop, who was a gourmet if not a gourmand, exclaimed: “Capital soup! capital! why don’t we have it at home?”—Molly felt a good deal relieved and a little triumphant, for Mrs. Bishop was very proud of her cook.

“Why, my dear George! I did not know you cared for bean soup!”

“I don’t, unless it’s first rate.”

When soup was removed and Marta entered with the large dish of oysters, Molly gave one hasty glance,—would they be shriveled into leather, or flabby and half cooked? But the error had been on the best side; more than half were perfectly cooked, the others barely hot through. Poor Marta had followed instructions, but had not thought to turn the pan. However, Molly was only too thankful to have so little wrong, and helped the best to her visitors. They were still almost boiling in the shell; and after this came a pretty dish of noodles that Marta had arranged round a mound of grated cheese.

After the luncheon Mrs. Bishop said with a tone of approval which Molly was determined not to think patronizing, “I declare, Molly, you keep house very nicely.”

“You must have a remarkable good cook, by Jove!” broke in Mr. Bishop.

“I am glad you think so,” said Molly, smiling.

“Where did you get her?”

“Castle Garden.”

Mrs. Bishop almost screamed when she heard it, and then Molly found the right conversational key was struck, for her mother-in-law had a great deal to say about her own troubles with servants, and the troubles of her friends; and when the “hour of digestion” had passed, she asked if they would like to go out and see some of the beauties of Greenfield.

“Well, that depends on what train we take.”

“I hoped you would stay and see Harry.”

Mrs. Bishop looked inquiringly at her husband, who said:

“Oh, we must stay and see Harry, I suppose.”

Molly smiled inwardly, as she thought that his luncheon had reassured him as to his dinner. They all went out for an hour; there was not much to see but some pretty, well-kept Queen Anne houses, and Mrs. Bishop let drop the remark that she had little expected ever to see a son of hers living in the second-rate neighborhood of a country town, which remark Molly prudently ignored.

When they returned to the house, Mrs. Bishop, at Molly’s suggestion, went to lie down, and her husband stretched himself on the sofa, and Molly slipped from the room, for she could see he too was drowsy. She went to the kitchen, told Marta how well she thought she had managed the lunch, and then gave directions for the dinner in writing, for she wanted to attend to her guests as much as possible. What she wrote was as follows:

“At five o’clock, put the mutton in the oven as usual, and the fish into salt and water. At a quarter past, put white onions on to boil in boiling water; and potatoes. When the potatoes are just done, cut them in slices thick as a dollar. Have ready a pint of white sauce, remembering to use two table-spoonfuls of flour and two of butter to the pint of milk. Chop a dessert-spoonful of parsley very fine, lay the potatoes in a dish, sprinkle a little parsley, pepper and salt among them, pour white sauce over them enough to moisten without making them sloppy, and strew grated bread crumbs over all; put them in the oven to brown. Keep the rest of the white sauce for the onions, which must be boiled very tender, poured dry immediately after they are done, and then put into the white sauce, and allowed to stew a few minutes.

“As soon as you have the potatoes ready for the oven, put the fish, which you have nicely wiped, on a plate, lay that on a napkin and set both in a saucepan of boiling water, with two tea-spoonfuls of salt and two of vinegar. It will take twenty minutes to boil.”

Molly had told Marta to take the peg out of the freezer and let off the water, at luncheon. She now went to see if the frozen banana custard was in good condition, and found it all right; then she took out the paddle, worked the custard down from the sides, and covered it, packing in more salt and ice.

“How glad I am we happened to have cold dessert,” she thought; “it will save Marta so much at the last moment.”

She read over the written instructions, although there was nothing new but the manner of cooking the potatoes, assured herself Marta understood everything, and told her she would come out herself and make the fish sauce.

It was after four o’clock, and she laid the table just as she wanted it, went up-stairs and put on one of her prettiest dresses, and then returned to the parlor. Mrs. Bishop was just rousing as she passed her door, but did not descend for some few minutes, which Molly took to glance over the paper.

All the time she was talking with his mother and father, Molly pictured Harry’s surprise at finding them, and knew it would also be a pleasure. She did not know what to augur from this visit, whether it was simply curiosity, or meant any return of the old parental tenderness for him; Harry would know, for he knew their ways better than she did.

At last she heard his steps on the plank walk; she flew to the door.

“What’s up, little woman? you look like an exclamation point in person.”

The next moment he caught sight of his visitors.

“Mother! father! why, this is a good surprise.”

Molly slipped out of the room while Harry was hearing all about their arrival, whipped on her apron and made the Hollandaise sauce. She put into a little iron saucepan a large table-spoonful of butter, a dessert-spoonful of flour, and let them cook one minute; then she poured to them two thirds of half a pint of boiling water, stirred till smooth, then added, gradually, the yolks of three beaten eggs; when she put the eggs in she stood the saucepan in another of boiling water, and stirred it well; after the eggs had thickened she put two tea-spoonfuls of lemon juice, salt, and as much cayenne as would go on the end of a penknife, and it was done. Marta had taken up the fish, and Molly directed the sauce to be poured entirely over it, herself seeing that there was not a drop of water from the fish in the dish. A sprig or two of parsley was laid at each end of the dish, and lemon in slices round it; then casting her eye round to see that Marta had everything ready but the meat, she told her to bring the fish in when she should hear Mr. Bishop come down.

The dinner was very nice, although, as Molly was glad to think, simpler than they often had when alone, and it was eaten without comment until the ice came on, when Mrs. Bishop expressed surprise at their getting such things in the country.

“Oh, we can, I believe, get excellent ice-creams here, but this is home-made.”

“Indeed!”

After dinner Mr. Bishop declared they must catch the eight o’clock train. Harry urged them in vain to stay, and then it was decided that Molly and Harry would go to the depot with them.

As they parted Mrs. Bishop said: “Harry, you and Molly must come home to spend Christmas, and had better spend a week with us.”

Harry promised to do so if they could.

“Why, of course you can;—why not?”

“Oh,” laughed Harry, “we are family people now, with the responsibility of a house on our shoulders.”

“A house! a match-box, you mean.”

With this shot they parted. Harry’s real hesitation was doubt as to what Molly might feel inclined to do; there was no denying she had been badly treated, snubbed and looked down upon.

“Well, if this isn’t the strangest turn; I don’t think I ever knew my father to leave business for a day before.”

“What does it mean, Harry?” Molly asked anxiously, for it had been a grief to her to feel she was the cause of estrangement.

“It must mean that my father, or mother, or both, are beginning to see they’ve been in fault.”

“Oh Harry, I should be so glad if you were once more all you used to be—to them.”

“I shall never be that, for I shall never go back to the sort of semi-dependence I was in,—but shall we go at Christmas?”

“Oh, certainly.”

“I’m afraid you may not have a very good time.”

“Oh, yes, I shall.”

“Then we accept. I tell you what, little Molly, if my father and mother had not been favorably impressed,—had they found us living as they expected, they would not have said a word about our going there.”

“Oh Harry, I hope so; surely, the less comfortable you were the more you would need them.”

“No, they look on it this way: as I made my bed so I must lie on it. Had the bed been a bad one, they would have said, ‘serve him right;’ as it seems much better than they thought it would be, they are inclined to think themselves wrong.”

Harry loved his parents, but he knew their pride, and that they would not have openly forgiven the blow to it; but he knew, small as the house was, Molly had shown them as refined a home as their own, and they saw that, after all, their daughter-in-law would grace any station Harry might ever attain to.

---

CHAPTER XXX.
HOMINY MUFFINS—FISH BALLS—ROYAL CUSTARD—“CONSOMMÉ À LA ROYALE”—FRICASSEE SWEETBREADS—VANILLA SOUFFLÉ.

The next morning, bright and early, Molly came down-stairs. She was going to help get breakfast, as she always did whenever she had any dish new to Marta. Two or three times a week the breakfast came out of the dinner of the day before, and the stock she generally had on hand made such warmed-over dishes very different from the flavorless ones they too often are. For this reason alone she would have considered it cheap to buy a small soup-bone once a week, even if she had needed no soup, but every little drop—even half a gill—of soup that might be left was saved, and here Marta’s German training came in. Whatever she lacked in other ways, she had none of the disdain of economy, confounding it with stinginess, so common with untrained servants. Every bit of fat was put aside to try out once a week, every tea-spoonful of gravy or soup saved, and all bones put in one crock to be twice a week boiled down.

When there was not likely to be much left from dinner, Molly fell back on kidneys or ham and eggs for breakfast; once a week there was always fish in some form. This morning there was a little mutton on the bone, just enough for mince or fritters; there was, also, quite a piece of fish. She had bought it with that calculation, so the mutton was left for another day. Harry did not like codfish balls of salt cod, but delighted in them from fresh, and, as once boiled, it would keep a week, she had intended to have them twice. Her visitors, however, had changed that programme, but she had more than enough for breakfast. As she herself was in the kitchen, too, she decided to make hominy muffins, there being a cup of cold hominy.

As the frying fat would take half an hour to get hot enough, Marta had been told to put it on the range (covered to keep in the fumes) soon after the fire should be lighted. Molly drew it forward that it might be ready by the time she herself was so. She set Marta to mash the hominy fine with a fork, then to add to one cup of it a cup of corn meal, half a cup of milk, and two tea-spoonfuls of melted butter, two tea-spoonfuls of sugar, one egg, and one tea-spoonful of baking-powder, and when beaten long and hard, to put it into gempans and bake fifteen minutes.

While Marta was doing this, she herself flaked the cold fish quite fine and called Marta’s attention to the fact that she used the remaining sauce to moisten it.

“If I had not this sauce, I should make just enough stiff white sauce to moisten the whole; but this is even better, and as there is egg in it I need use only one more.”

To a cup of flaked fish and sauce, of which there were two good table-spoonfuls, she put one beaten egg; this made it into a stiff batter or mush that would not run, but drop from a spoon. She seasoned it with pepper, a very little salt, and then dipping a table-spoon in flour, dropped large spoonfuls of it in the fat, which was hot enough for croquettes. In two minutes they were round and light as puffs, and beautifully brown. Knowing Marta might have to make them some time without having any sauce, Molly wrote the recipe and gave it to her.

One cup of flaked fish, one table-spoonful of butter, one small one of flour, and one gill of milk; melt butter and flour together, let them cook a few seconds, pour to them a gill of boiling milk, stir well over the fire till the mixture leaves the sides of the saucepan; then it is done. Mix the fish with it, add two well-beaten eggs, and fry in spoonfuls in boiling lard.

Harry called these glorified fish balls. “In fact, Molly, they deserve some much more high-toned name.”

“Yes, but people who like the usual codfish balls, and they are the large majority, would not like these.”

“Another reason for not calling them fish balls, but I am one of the minority who do not like our Columbian dainty in its orthodox form; but even minorities have tastes and some right to have them considered. We’ll dub these ‘minority fish balls’ if you will have no more fanciful name.” (And “minority fish balls” they have become in that family.)

For dinner there was to be clear soup with royal custard, the stock for which had been made for bean soup, and only a pint used. Molly usually made two quarts at a time from a three-pound soup-bone, which served twice for soup and left a pint for gravies, sauce, etc. A pint and a half at each meal was ample, as neither Harry or herself took half a pint, and half usually found its way out to Marta, who straightway made it thick with bread and any vegetables there were; she did not approve of straining it.

To make a change, Molly intended to have in it royal custard, which would make it Consommé à la Royale.

“Marta, we are coming to the end of our eggs. I must have extra ones. Mrs. Lennox’s man comes to-day; you run over and ask her to please send him to me.”

When Marta returned she told her to beat one egg, then mix it with half a gill of the cold stock, and, as as there was no gill measure (something Molly had resolved to get, but had forgotten, though she could have better done without the half-pint), and the quantity must be so exact, she measured half a pint of water, and divided it in four, put the fourth part in a glass and marked it, then threw out the water, and filled up to the mark with stock. It made about four table-spoonfuls. Molly looked about for something smaller than a cup, and found a little Liebig’s “extract of meat” jar; this she buttered. The beaten egg and half gill of soup, with a pinch of salt, were mixed and poured into it, then a piece of paper was tied over it, a small saucepan of water put over the fire, and when it was quite boiling the jar was placed in it, the water reaching to the height of the custard, but without danger of boiling into it. The saucepan was then drawn aside so that the water might only simmer; if it should boil the custard would be spoilt. It was left for twelve minutes, and when taken out was quite firm. When cold the custard was cut into diamonds.

“When you have the soup hot, to-night, throw these diamonds into it, Marta.”

“I don’t suppose,” thought Molly, “any one ever made quite so small a quantity of savory custard before, yet more would be waste; we should not need it.”

At market she found a fine pair of sweetbreads, one of the dainties her butcher was not fashionable enough to charge a fancy price for, and indeed she found thirty cents a pair an outside price in Greenfield; these were twenty-five, however, and had they been as small as they sometimes are, she would not have bought them; but they were large and white.

As soon as they came they were put into salt and water and an hour later into boiling water, and parboiled for fifteen minutes, and cold water poured over them. All gristle and skin was now removed, and one cut into small pieces.

An hour before dinner the remains of the fricasseed fowl were brought out. Less than half had been eaten. There remained a wing, part of the breast, a leg, and the back and side bones. Molly cut the drumstick off, laid it with the side bones for a grill for breakfast,—it would help out the minced mutton; the rest, which were nice joints, she laid, covered with sauce as they were, in a plate, and told Marta to beat an egg, dip them in it, taking care every part was covered; then to lay them in abundance of cracker crumbs, pat them gently, and fry them just like breaded chops.

Meantime she had gathered the sauce from the chicken, which, by her direction, had been poured over it when the dish was changed, and put it into a small saucepan with a gill of stock, then the pieces of sweetbread, and put the saucepan where it would simmer. She then cut circles from slices of stale bread, half an inch thick, each circle cut in half to form canapées; she dipped each in milk, and then laid it in flour, covered it well with flour, and left it so.

“Marta, when you fry the chicken, drop these pieces of bread in the pot. Be sure to shake off all superfluous flour; handle them gently for fear of breaking, and let them fry pale brown. Be careful for the first minute after they are in; they will sputter, as they are wet. Lay them round the sweetbreads when you take them up.”

Marta had already sliced some tomatoes; these were laid in a dish, and bread crumbs, bits of butter, and pepper and salt sprinkled over each layer, on the top more crumbs and tiny bits of butter thickly strewed; then the dish was put to bake for half an hour.

“Marta, a few minutes before taking up the sweetbreads, stir into the gravy a small tea-spoonful of white thickening. I see it will not be thick enough with the fricassee sauce. Now you have potatoes on, tomatoes in the oven, your frying-kettle back of the stove, soup ready to heat up five minutes before dinner, chicken ready crumbed, and I will make a vanilla soufflé.”

Gouffe’s recipe for vanilla soufflé was as follows, Molly using only a third of the original, which calls for a quart of milk:

“One third of a quart of milk (not quite three gills), two table-spoonfuls of flour, two of sugar, a tea-spoonful of vanilla extract, a pinch of salt. Mix the flour with part of milk, set the rest to boil; when it boils, mix both together as you would corn starch; if by chance it is not smooth, strain it, return to fire, stirring well. Take it off when it boils, put to it the yolks of two eggs, and beat very well; then add the whites, beaten till you can turn the dish over without their slipping. The whites must be stirred in with greatest gentleness,—any quick stirring will cause them to liquefy and spoil your soufflé; when the whites are blended, bake in a buttered dish twenty minutes.”

Molly prepared it and told Marta to put it in the oven when she put the soup on to get hot, that they might have about finished dinner when it was done; but it was better for them to wait for the soufflé than the soufflé for them, for waiting means spoiling it. Molly made some hard sauce, which she flavored with wine, and then left the dinner to Marta.

When Harry came home his face showed he had something pleasant to say.

“Well, dear,” he said as soon as he was ready for dinner, “you’ve done it, and no mistake.”

“Done what?” She would have been alarmed if his face had not looked so very happy.

“You’ve captured my father.”

“Oh Harry, what do you mean?”

“He came into my office to-day, and told me he had enjoyed himself out here very much, and he was good enough to add that his opinion of me had not changed in the least, that I had been as wrong-headed as possible, and that if I had chanced to pick up a pearl instead of a pebble, no thanks to my own wisdom. I couldn’t agree, and told him I knew all along you were a jewel, but he had the best of me, for he said,

“‘Rubbish, sir! You didn’t know that she could boil an egg or sew a button on; no boy in love ever asks that! and you might have been a pretty miserable pair!’

“And it’s quite true, Molly. If you could not have mended your own clothes, and I knew it, I should have married you just the same; but I’m glad to have a fortune in my wife, and so I told the dad.”

“Well, is that all he said?” asked Molly, her cheeks flushed with pleasure, her eyes dancing.

“Oh, dear, no, he didn’t begin that way. He began by asking me how I expected to meet my quarter’s bills. I told him there would be none. At first he could not believe me, and I really believe he had come to give me a check to get us out of the need he thought we were likely to be in; but when I told him all, and showed him your first month’s accounts—stop a minute” (Molly made a dart forward to her desk)—“I abstracted that first month’s figuring, my dear, and have it in my pocket, and it will remain there; that is my property, my trophy. Well, when I showed that, and told him that I, with my little income, lived just as well as he did, he was conquered.

“‘How does she do it?’ he asked; and then I had to tell him that you put your time and thought to the little money and doubled its value.”

“Oh, Harry, how could you exaggerate so?” But Molly’s head was turned away and her eyes running over with happy tears. How well was she repaid for the work she had taken such pleasure in! Every tone of her husband’s voice revealed his pride in her, and his appreciation, veiled though it was by his gay, bantering manners, and she was grateful for the training that had made it all so easy to her.

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CHAPTER XXXI.
A SURPRISE—A BOILED DINNER—DRESDEN PATTIES—OYSTERS AND BROWN BUTTER—“OLD ENGLISH” FRITTERS.

When Molly returned from her walk to the dépôt with Harry, she found on the back stoop a barrel and a packing-case that had come by express. The barrel she quickly saw contained apples; the packing-case was as yet a mystery, but it did not long remain so. Molly was not frightened at a hammer, and between her and Marta the top was soon wrenched off; and then she saw it was full of treasures. A dozen pots of raspberry jam, the same of currant jelly, English pickled walnuts and French canned peas and mushrooms, and boned chicken enough to last her the winter, a jar of Canton ginger and one of French plums, met Molly’s wondering eyes. What luxuries for a young housekeeper! Of course they could come only from Harry’s parents.

Had they sent her a present for herself she would have resented it, considering how they had looked down on her, but this gift she could take pleasure in, for it was as much for Harry as for her, and only such things as would be very pleasant and useful, but were not necessaries. Her housewifely mind was already reveling in the thought of a well stocked store-room.

She had found a letter from Mrs. Welles, at the post-office, which she had waited to read till she could do so at home and enjoy it, for her friend was a clever and voluminous correspondent.

“Next Monday, dear Molly, if convenient, I shall leave New York for Greenfield. Mr. Welles says you are doing a rash thing to invite me, that I am primed and double-loaded and warranted to go off at any moment, for he has heard me the last month saying of every new thing (‘thing’ always being ‘dish’ with me), ‘Molly and I will do that together when I get there.’ If you can, imagine how I ache to get away from this hotel and into a house of my own, with a kitchen and a range. Never, never again will I consent to be a homeless hotel waif. However, in two weeks our house will be our own again,” etc., etc.

Molly smiled over her friend’s letter, she knew her so well. How pleasant it would be to have her in her own house!

Charlotte Welles was an English woman five years older than Molly, who had known her long before her marriage to the rich banker, Mr. Welles.

When Molly and her mother were living in London in very economical lodgings at South Kensington, they had become acquainted with Mrs. Morris and her handsome daughter, whom at first they took to be an art-student at South Kensington. Charlotte had laughed merrily at the mistake.

“No, indeed, I’m a cooking-student.”

Then she had told Molly and her mother how it was that being certain she would have to earn her living, and, though generally clever, having no special talent for anything, she had chosen her career. “As for being a governess, I have neither patience nor meekness nor ability enough, and as cooking is just now coming to be a recognized profession for women who are not of the working-class, I decided on that. I don’t find many ladies among the thorough-going students like myself, but I do see that no profession offers greater rewards to a lady,—perhaps for that very reason; so I am qualifying myself to be a teacher.”

Molly’s mother, invalid as she was, had taught her daughter more than most girls know of housekeeping, and her own taste leaned that way, but no doubt her acquaintance with Charlotte Morris confirmed it; she went with her sometimes to the demonstrations and worked with her at home. When the latter left the school a medallist and went to Liverpool to lecture, Molly and her mother had gone to the south of France for the health of the latter, and there they heard of Charlotte’s success, how her grace and culture (and perhaps her beauty) made her much in request at ladies’ colleges and schools, and of the public lectures she gave. But her career was cut short, before it was well begun, by her engagement to an American banker of wealth,—an engagement speedily followed by marriage; and it was through Mrs. Welles that, after her mother’s death, on returning to her native country, Molly found the position as governess she had held up to her marriage with Harry Bishop. Several months before Molly came to Greenfield Mr. and Mrs. Welles had let their house and gone to England for a trip, but returned two months before the tenant’s term was up and had been living at one of the best hotels since.

True to her old instincts, Mrs. Welles attended all the best cooking-lectures in whatever city she might be, and after Molly’s marriage they had gone together to cooking-school and practiced at her house, which had been of incalculable service to Molly. Since her return to America they had not met. It is needless to say she looked forward to her visit with heartfelt pleasure, for she felt that to her acquaintance she owed very much.

And how these good things had come just in time!

To-day they were to have a regular boiled dinner, German soup made from the half leg of mutton boiled, and an egg beaten in it, the same that she had shown Mrs. Lennox how to make, and the mutton with caper sauce, mashed turnips and moulded potatoes, macaroni cheese, and pudding.

This dinner Marta could cook with written instructions, all but the pudding, and Molly, now she had jam, meant this to be an old-fashioned English jam roly-poly.

The written instructions were as follows:

At five o’clock put the half leg of mutton into boiling water, only enough to cover it; put with it one carrot cut, one turnip, one onion, and when it has boiled very slowly half an hour, put in a very scant tea-spoonful of salt. Put some macaroni to boil. Put the turnips, cut into strips, on the fire in boiling water at half-past five, also the potatoes. Let the turnips boil fast, the potatoes slowly.

Make three gills of white sauce instead of half a pint, never forgetting when you increase the milk also to increase butter and flour in same proportion; then when the macaroni is tender put a layer of it in a small dish, pour over it a table-spoonful of white sauce and the same of grated cheese with pepper and salt, then another layer of macaroni, more white sauce, cheese and seasoning, and over all strew bread crumbs and bits of butter, and bake till brown.

The turnips strain when tender and let them stew five minutes in some of the white sauce made for the macaroni, reserving the rest for caper sauce. To make it, add capers in proportion of one good tea-spoonful of capers to the half pint, and just as it goes to table stir in a tea-spoonful of caper vinegar; if it stands after this it will be apt to curdle.

Take up the mutton, put it to keep hot, skim and strain the broth and let it boil down fast till there is enough for dinner and no more; beat an egg, mix a very little of the broth with it, and put both into the tureen, with a tea-spoonful of parsley chopped fine. Let the broth remain off the fire one minute, then pour it to the egg, stirring quickly, then serve it.

Molly had a busy morning arranging her store-room, and making a list of what it contained. This list she nailed behind the door, with a pencil attached, so that when anything was used a mark was made against it. In this way, when any article was nearly out she would be reminded to replace it. It was not so necessary, perhaps, with a girl as careful as Marta, or in her small family as in a larger one, but it had been her mother’s way, and she followed it. She could then keep track of everything at a glance.

One hour and a half before dinner Molly put on a saucepan of water to boil, and then chopped six ounces of beef-kidney suet very fine, which she mixed with half a pound of flour and a pinch of salt. She made a hole in the centre of the mixture, and poured in enough cold water to make a stiff firm paste (not so stiff as to be hard to roll out); it was handled as little as possible, only worked enough to keep it together. It was rolled out once to a sheet half an inch thick, then spread with raspberry jam, which was not allowed to come within an inch of the edge all round; the edge was wetted, the paste rolled up and the ends pinched closely to prevent the jam coming out, as was also the flap along the centre. A pudding-cloth was scalded and floured, the roly-poly laid on one side of it and rolled up; each end was tied close to the paste, and the centre pinned. No string was passed round the centre, as Molly had sometimes seen done, for as the pudding swells the string cuts into it. When finished the cloth was not very loose on the pudding, nor tight, but what may be called an easy fit. When it would leave the water, after an hour and quarter constant boiling, it would be swelled and plump.

Molly saw that the water boiled fast when it was dropped in, and that there was plenty of it.

“Marta, take care that the pudding never ceases to boil, and once in a while look that it floats round, so that it may not stick to the bottom.”

The next day Molly had to make Dresden patties, and some fritters the recipe for which she had unearthed from the old last-century book; it was written in the quaint language and indefinite fashion common to cooking-books of that date. Molly had often thought, in reading them, that housekeepers’ wits must have been much more brilliant in those days, or the books could have done little good.

But she had thought out the matter, and her knowledge of old cook-books told her that a “handful” probably meant a man’s hand full, as the book was written by a man cook; that when you were told to “beat and search your sugar” it was because they had not latter-day improvements and probably no powdered sugar was sold. Reduced to present-day terms and small dimensions, the recipe was as follows:

The yolks of two eggs and a tea-spoonful of flour, and a scant half pint of milk or cream, a pinch of salt, a quarter of a small nutmeg and a table-spoonful of sugar. The flour and yolks of eggs to be well beaten with a little of the milk, the rest to be added warm, and all beaten very well together with the sugar and salt and nutmeg. This will make a custard, to be baked in a shallow round dish till firm, then put to get cold. Make a batter of a gill of milk (half cream, the recipe called for), one whole egg and enough flour to make it thick enough to quite mask the back of a spoon without running off,—two level table-spoonfuls are about enough; beat one of the whites of eggs left from the custard till it will not slip from the dish; put to the batter, which must be quite smooth, the grated rind of half a lemon, a pinch of salt, and then add the beaten white of egg, stirring very slowly after this is in. Cut the custard into six pieces, pie-fashion, and dip each piece into the batter, and drop it into boiling lard.

The recipe sounded very well to Molly, and her mind went over all sorts of improvements in flavoring, from simply adding vanilla to the introduction of chopped citron or crumbled macaroons into the custard; but she would make the recipe as given, or as nearly as she could interpret it, first.

Although the fritters would be much better hot, perhaps, the book gave no clew to that; she knew they must be good warmed over, or even cold, and as she did not want to leave the dinner-table to attend to the frying,—being an experiment,—she felt she must do it herself. She decided to cook them at once; the custard required very careful handling while it was being dipped in the batter, and she found the safest plan to prevent breaking was to pour the batter into a saucer, and take up the fritter, when dipped, on a broad knife. The batter completely hid the custard, and when dropped into the fat, which was very hot, it puffed up outside and doubled the size.

They took two minutes to get pale brown, and then they were laid on paper to drain; and after the sugar was sifted on them they certainly were pretty to look at, and at dinner were found to bear out their good appearance, and Molly added them to her special recipes.

The Dresden patties she wanted Marta to understand making, because they were so easy, so useful, and so pretty. With a view to making them, Molly had kept half a stale loaf that was as light as baker’s bread,—too light, she thought, for the table; from it she cut two slices two inches thick and from them she cut, with a medium sized biscuit-cutter, three rounds; the cutter was simply a circle of tin with a handle over it, so that the cutter went right through the bread; had it had a top to prevent it going through, she would have cut them with a half-pound baking-powder box. On the top of each round of bread she cut a smaller circle as for pastry patties; now she beat an egg, added half a pint of milk with a pinch of salt, and stood the three patties in it, telling Marta to let them stay so at least an hour, turning them about, but being careful not to break them, the idea being to let the egg and milk soak well into them, and to make them as moist as possible without breaking. It will be remembered that one sweetbread only was cooked two days ago; the other was now cut into dice, two tea-spoonfuls of flour and butter and a gill of stock made into béchamel sauce, and the sweetbreads put to it with a table-spoonful of oyster liquor (as she happened to have it). This thinned the sauce sufficiently to let the sweetbreads cook in it without burning. By the time they were done the sauce would be reduced again and very thick (or, if it should not be, the sweetbreads would be taken out, and the sauce boiled fast and stirred till very thick).

Marta had the lard ready, very hot indeed, when Molly came out to show her how to fry the patties. She put them to drain, using a cake-turner, for they would not bear handling.

“At some times these are rolled in flour, at others in egg and crumbs, and I think they are prettier for crumbing; but it is not necessary, and I will save an egg. Now I am going to drop them into the fat, which is as hot as it can be without burning. Stand aside, for it will splutter very much.” Each one was dropped from the end of the cake-turner, and, as Molly said, they “spluttered.”

“I leave them on the very hottest part of the fire, because they are filled with cold custard, which will keep the temperature about right for five minutes; then draw them a little aside if they are brown, and let them remain two minutes.” When taken up they were a bright brown, looking almost like a doughnut that had been shaped like a small Charlotte Russe. The centre was then scooped out, leaving about half an inch of crust all round, which was filled with the fricasseed sweetbreads piled in the centre.

“The beauty of these patties is that they can be made early and heated in the oven, and that they are suitable for dessert with preserves, or are excellent filled with any kind of rich minced meat or oysters.”

Molly had long wanted to make an experiment with oysters; she believed simply panned and served with brown butter they would be delicious. She had never heard of “oysters au beurre noir,” but, knowing they must be good, resolved to try the experiment. She waited, however, till Harry was in the house, for they would spoil by standing.

She made the sauce first, because the oysters must not wait. She put a good table-spoonful of butter into a little saucepan and watched it till it got golden brown, but did not burn; then she put it aside to cool a little, and heated a tea-spoonful of vinegar in a cup, Marta meantime draining the oysters. They were put in a stewpan with pepper and salt, covered tightly and set over the fire and tossed round once or twice, the heated (but not boiled) vinegar was put to the brown butter, they were made very hot together, and when the oysters were plumped in their own steam, they were drained off and turned into a hot dish, with the brown butter over them, and served at once. They were such a success that this became a favorite oyster dish with the Bishop family.

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CHAPTER XXXII.
VEAL AND HAM PIE—BEEFSTEAK PUDDING—TRIFLE.

Molly’s expense-book at the end of the first week of her second month (October) stood as follows:

3 lbs. butter	$0.75
Eggs	.50
Milk	.60
Tea	.40
Fuel	.50
Suet	.08
Soup meat	.20
Beef (flank), 3 lbs	.36
Beets	.05
Bacon	.15
Cream	.10
Flounder	.15
Beans	.04
Fowl	.45
Oysters	.40
Mutton (leg)	.75
Bananas	.25
Codfish	.24
Sweetbread	.25
Corn starch	.02
	$6.34

In addition to the usual week’s supplies, she had bought extra:

Eggs	$0.25
Ice	.10
Milk, 3 pints	.12
	$1.47

The groceries for the month came to $10.02, against $11.22 for last month. The week’s proportion was therefore $2.56, making a total of $9.32.

Molly had not been specially economizing this last week, and had had some little extra expenses. She was rejoiced to see that, even so, she had a margin. Of course, towards the end of October would come an increase in the price of butter and eggs. This she proposed to avoid to some extent by ordering at once a pail of fine October butter at twenty-five cents, which would last for cooking through the winter, even if it should not continue sweet enough for such fastidious butter-eaters as herself and Harry to use at table. Of eggs, too, she had ordered a gross from a farmer at twenty-five cents. This would give one dozen a week for cooking through the twelve weeks when they were dearest, and within this dozen for cooking she meant to keep; as soon as they should be dearer, she would make fewer things that required eggs, and avoid their use whenever she could do without them. And, so far as she could, she would supply herself with everything that would keep during winter and grow dearer as the months passed; but as the margin she now had reassured her against any little accidental expenses, she might safely reckon it would not grow less, unless she knowingly increased her expenditure for any purpose, and she would have always a little reserve to meet contingencies without touching anything outside the ten dollars a week.

On Monday of the second week in October, Mrs. Welles was to arrive. Molly did not lay herself out in great preparations for her, for she knew her friend would be happiest in being allowed to help her, and do exactly as if she were in her own home. She knew she could give her no greater pleasure than by so ordering her table as to be as different as possible from anything that money alone could buy; and simple, old-fashioned dishes, that no hotel would supply in perfection, she would have during her stay. She did want to arrange, however, so that she need not even think of luncheon for a day or two, and would have something in the house. Happily, in doing this, she could gratify Mrs. Welles’s English taste, for she would make one of the veal and ham pies so dear to English palates, so rarely to be found in perfection out of England. Molly had been taught by Mrs. Welles herself to make them.

On Saturday, Molly had ordered two pounds of breast of veal and a pound of very fine ham, cut thin; she would not need much of it, but the rest would be nice for breakfast. The breast of veal was cut up into pieces two inches long and about an inch wide, and put on in boiling water to simmer very gently one hour, the bones with it. The water being just enough to cover the meat, no salt was added, for the meat should retain its juices. When done, the meat was removed from the broth, the bones left in it, and all gristly parts and bones that could not easily be removed when raw cut from it and thrown back into the saucepan; the meat was then put aside, and a salt-spoonful of salt, a quarter one of pepper, and half a bay leaf, with a small pinch of thyme, one of savory, and two sprigs of parsley, were put to the broth and bones, and it was left to cook gently two hours longer; then it was allowed to reduce to half a pint by boiling faster with the cover off, then strained and put away. Molly, at the same time, made some rough puff paste (see recipe, [Chapter VI].), and left it on the ice till Monday.

This morning, therefore, she had nothing to do but put the pie together, which she did in the following way:

The ham she cut in very thin strips, using about a quarter of a pound. These she poured cold water upon, and put where they would come slowly to the boiling-point. Had she had any cold boiled ham, she would have used it in preference; but she could remove any strong taste by this parboiling. While it was doing, she made forcemeat balls thus:

Half a cup of fine bread crumbs, a tea-spoonful of finely chopped parsley, the eighth of a tea-spoonful each of powdered thyme and marjoram, one squeeze of lemon juice; flavor with nutmeg by just rubbing it once across the grater, a suspicion of lemon peel, a scant salt-spoonful of salt, a quarter one of pepper. Chop into this a good table-spoonful of butter (or finely chopped suet, she would sometimes have used); the whole made into a stiff paste, with an egg well beaten with a table-spoonful of water. It did not take all the egg; about a table-spoonful was left, which Molly reserved to glaze the pie. In making the forcemeat into paste, she was careful to handle lightly, not to squeeze or knead it, and when it was well mixed she sprinkled flour on her hands, took a tea-spoonful of forcemeat, and made it into a ball. She used the remainder in the same way.

Then she took a deep oval dish, and put at the bottom a layer of the ham, then one of veal, and four forcemeat balls (one at each corner), a little salt and pepper, and a few more bits of ham, another layer of veal, and half a dozen forcemeat balls. The dish was now full. She piled more meat and a little ham towards the centre till it was dome-shaped, and then filled every crevice with the strong jelly formed from the meat and bones.

Now she rolled out the paste, and cut a long strip the third of an inch thick and an inch wide. She wetted the lip of the dish, laid the paste round, and pressed it close on the inner side, so that the gravy could not boil up under it. Then she moistened the upper surface, laid the sheet of paste over the pie, and with both hands gently pressed the paste into the groove formed between the dome shape of the meat and the dish; then, with a sharp knife, she cut off the overlapping paste, so as not to drag it in the least; and then, with the back of her forefinger, laid on the top of the border, pressed the upper and under paste gently, but closely, together, but was very careful to leave the edges untouched.

She cut a hole in the centre to let out steam, rolled a piece of paste very thin, cut from it four diamonds two inches long from point to point, laid the four, with the points to the centre, round the hole; and, rolling another bit of paste as thin as paper, dusted it with flour, folded it up several times, then turned the four corners of the little many-folded square to form a little ball as large as an olive, and cut a cross deeply, and with a sharp knife, across the top; then turned back the corners as if she were opening a pond-lily bud; and there was a rough imitation of a flower. This she inserted in the hole in the pie, which it was large enough to cover, without closing up too much for the steam to get out. With a feather she now brushed the pie over with the yolk of an egg, not leaving a spot untouched, except the edge, which was not glazed. Molly explained to Marta, who asked the reason for the omission as she passed on her way to the boiler, for she was washing.

“If I washed the edges with egg, the paste could not rise so well; for the leaves would be glued together, as it were. This is the rule in all use of pastry: Leave the edges quite untouched; do not even smooth them with your finger. Smoothing them and pressing them with your thumb, which I have told you not to do, is the reason why your pies, even if I make the paste, are never as handsome as mine. You smooth the life out of the paste and squeeze all the air from between the leaves which one is at such trouble to make; and it is the air that causes the flakes.”

Molly put the pie in the oven, which was about the right heat for bread,—that is to say, she could count twenty-five while her hand was held in it. In an hour, it was pale brown all over. It was taken out of the oven, and left a few minutes on the table till the contents had ceased to boil; and then what remained of the jelly was warmed, the pastry “rose” was lifted gently from the centre, a funnel inserted in the hole, and the jelly, warmed, was poured carefully through it into the pie. Molly watched, while pouring slowly, that the last disappeared before adding more, for fear the pie might overflow; then the “rose” was replaced.

This pie is good hot, but in England is always eaten cold, and cold she knew Mrs. Welles would prefer it. The great thing to be desired in these cold pies is plenty of savory jelly in between the meat, and very light crust.

While the pie was baking, Molly had set the pastry back on the ice, while she made the filling for some cheese cakes.

Properly they should be made of sweet curd, dried and crumbled, hence the name. But Molly had eaten excellent ones in which ground rice, boiled to thick mush, was the foundation; others in which bread crumbs were substituted, the object being to get a body of some plain material other than flour, with which the rich ones could be incorporated; but her own favorite way was to use rolled cracker. She put two heaped table-spoonfuls in a bowl, and three table-spoonfuls of sugar. She beat two table-spoonfuls of butter, from which the salt had been washed, till it creamed, added the yolks of two eggs, and the juice of half a lemon, and the peel of one, grated. Then she blanched and chopped fine as possible two table-spoonfuls of almonds, and added to them a few drops of bitter almond; then all were put together, and a large table-spoonful of wine was added.

Molly tasted to see if the bitter almond was pleasantly perceptible, and then rolled out the paste and lined patty-pans with it, taking care to press only the centre to make it adhere, not the edges; then a large tea-spoonful was put into each (the patty-pans were small), and they were put in the oven and baked a beautiful pale brown. They needed watching closely, as the filling would easily burn.

The dinner was to be a homely English one, which would not necessitate her being in the kitchen at all after her friend arrived, as it would consist of:—

Clear Soup.
Beefsteak Pudding.
Stewed Onions. Fried Potatoes.
Trifle.

The soup, for which the stock was made on Saturday, could be left to Marta; also the vegetables. The pudding required three hours’ constant boiling, and therefore could be made and be cooking before Charlotte arrived. The trifle, also, could be ready.

She had bought in the morning half a dozen small sponge cakes and a dozen macaroons. She now made some very thick custard with the yolks of two eggs, a small tea-spoonful of corn starch and half a pint of milk, and sugar to taste.

The milk was put on to boil, the corn starch mixed with a very little of it, cold, and stirred into the hot milk. Both were boiled together five minutes; then it was allowed to cool very little, and the beaten yolks and sugar added. The object of boiling the corn starch is to cook it, as, after the eggs are in, the custard must not boil, but only be kept at boiling-point till they thicken. (See directions for boiling custard, [Chapter XXIX].)

When the custard was made, it was flavored with almond, set to cool, and Molly laid the sponge cakes in a glass dish, about two inches deep. She poured a glass of wine over them, moistening them thoroughly, and sprinkled them with sugar thickly. Over this she spread a layer of raspberry jam half an inch thick; then the macaroons were laid over it. Then she poured the cold custard on it. While it had been getting cold, she whipped half a pint of cream, sweetened and flavored with vanilla. This was now piled high over the custard, and it was put in the ice-box to get very cold. At the last it was to be decorated with little knobs of red currant jelly and blanched almonds cut in strips.

Now there was the pudding to make. She was getting all done early, because she was going to meet Mrs. Welles; but the pudding would not be injured by standing half an hour before it went into the water, which it should do at three o’clock.

She had a pound and a half of very fine, juicy round steak. This she cut into pieces an inch or so square, rejecting all gristle and skin, but using a very little of the fat. This meat she seasoned highly with pepper and salt, stirring it up among the pieces. Then she made a suet crust (see recipe, [Chapter XIII].) and greased very well a quart bowl. When the crust was rolled to an even half inch thick, she laid the sheet in the bowl, pressing it gently all round. Into this she put the meat, and, when the bowl was full, poured in a half cup of water; then she gathered up the overlapping paste, and pinched it together to form a cover, leaving no cracks through which the gravy could get out. A floured cloth was now put over the pudding, and a string passed twice round the flaring parts and tied securely. The four ends of the cloth were brought over the top and tied. The pudding could be lifted by these knotted ends as if it were a basket or bundle.

Marta had now done washing and cleared up, and was able to attend to Molly’s directions.

“Marta, I shall see this pudding in the pot before I go to the train, and watch it come to the boiling-point quickly again; but you must remember it must never cease boiling, or it will be heavy. When you go to take it up, remove the cloth and string; then run a thin knife round close to the bowl, and turn it out gently on a hot dish, trying not to break the pudding in doing so.”

Molly had the water on in a pot, that it might be ready boiling by three; and, although she had warned Marta to keep it boiling, she did not mean to trust entirely to her for it, but would come herself to look at it every half hour or so.

Early in the morning the eggs had come, and Molly had waiting ready a keg half filled with lime-water, made by dissolving one pound of quicklime in a gallon of water, allowed to stand all day and then poured clear from the sediment. The sediment was rather more than the mere sprinkling it should have been, and she feared it might be too strong, and added more water and again let it settle, when it nearly all dissolved; the rule being to put in as much lime as will just dissolve, leaving only sediment enough to show that this point is reached. She then very carefully put in the eggs, washing every soiled one, and warned Marta never to stir them, and, when taking them out, to be very careful, as one broken or cracked would spoil the whole; if this occurs, fresh lime-water must be used.

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CHAPTER XXXIII.
TOWN VERSUS COUNTRY—THE SERVANT QUESTION.

It was with a heart full of happy content that Molly started to meet Mrs. Welles, and when the train slowed into the depot, she saw a well-known head, with bright chestnut hair, leaning out of the window.

The next moment they were exchanging greetings like two gay school-girls, for they were both warm-hearted, impetuous women, and apt to be rather regardless of bystanders and appearances.

“Dear girl, you look so well,” said her friend, holding her off a minute to look at her. “I see Harry is not killing you with kindness, as I used to predict he would.”

“And you, too, look well, notwithstanding the hotel life you abhor so. Where is your trunk?”

“I had it expressed to your house from the hotel. It saves all bother, and I knew you and I would enjoy the walk home together, as you are so near the station.”

And enjoy it they did, as only women who have known each other in girlhood and made plans and dreamed dreams together can. The village street was as prosy as any other Jersey village; but to these two, who recalled London days, as they went through it, it was poetical enough; and as they left the little stores and faced the country in all its autumn glory of color, and the sweet fall odors of ripening fruit met them, Mrs. Welles drew a deep breath.

“How lovely this is! No wonder you look well. What a waste it is, after all, to live in the city!”

“There is something to say on both sides, Harry thinks. We gain all that nature gives in the country, but we lose art and many things that brighten one’s wits. But people who have a very narrow income can enjoy very few of the advantages of city life, even if they live in it; so, for them, the country is undoubted gain.”

When they reached the house, Mrs. Welles was delighted with it and everything about it, and made Molly tell her all about her housekeeping and how she managed. When she had given her a sketch of her daily life, Mrs. Welles said, thoughtfully:

“That is all very nice, Molly; but it seems to me you must have a good deal to do, or else your Marta is a treasure.”

“Well, I have a good deal to do, and Marta is in one sense a treasure, though, at the same time, I can see that many people would not get along with her. Her good qualities seem to be cleanliness (although she is not tidy), and an ambition to be a good cook; but for general work she needs constant watching and telling. Still, annoying as that is, I do not know that one can expect more in a girl like her than willingness to do the work laid out for her. If I were paying for trained service, I should be dissatisfied; but there are few trained girls who will undertake general work.”

“That seems to me a matter of course. A girl who is anxious to rise is one who will try to learn how to do it, and it would be hard if one expected her to remain always in an inferior position. If we do that, I think we remove the strongest incentive to good work—the ambition to better herself. I think it is the general lack of such ambition among girls, the non-recognition of it as one of the conditions of service by ladies, that makes the great difference between our English servants and those here.”

“I am sure you are right,” said Molly; “and that seems to me the true solution of the servant difficulty. Young girls must learn that high wages and lighter work are to be attained by proficiency; that they can look on first places, where low wages only ought to be expected, as apprenticeships, and every succeeding one to be a step higher toward the comfortable and well-paid position an accomplished servant of any branch ought to be able to command. But this is something that depends on the ladies themselves. So long as they pay the competent and incompetent nearly alike, and do not insist on testimonials, not only as to respectability and temper, but proficiency in duties undertaken, there is not much encouragement to an ambitious girl, or at least she sees she can get along without making special effort, and that, if she does make it, she will meet with the discouraging fact that she is in competition with those who have made no effort.”

“Still, one would think that is a thing that would cure itself. Every one would rather pay competent servants than incompetent.”

“Of course, if they know it. But when two girls come well recommended, how can you or I tell which is the really competent one, if, as is often the case, a good-natured lady has taken her servant’s good qualities, her amiability and willingness, more into account than the efficient discharge of her duties? I have kept my eyes wide open on this subject, and find that a neat-looking, willing girl will nearly always keep a place, even if not competent for its duties, and be well recommended when she leaves; not, as justice demands, recommended for the qualities she actually has, but also for general competence.”

Mrs. Welles looked slyly at Molly.

“And what character would you give Marta?”

“Now, that is hardly fair. I see the evil. I don’t say I can do anything to remedy it; that has to be a general movement. When I am in Rome, I suppose I should do as the Romans do; yet I would try to be very specific. But it would do no good. If Marta leaves me and applies for a place as first-class cook she will get it. Some few ladies will need some more corroboration than her word and my letter, testifying to general good conduct; but many will readily take her, and she will stay a month or two, if not longer, get large wages enough to make it as profitable to wait for another well-paid place if she does not readily find it. A girl recommended as clean and willing will get a place as cook if she has the hardihood to assert her ability; yet who would employ a carpenter simply for his amiability?”

“Then you would have apprenticeship among servants as among artisans?”

“Of course, if it could be, I would; in other countries there is practical apprenticeship without bonds, that ensures, to the painstaking employer who does her best for a girl, not losing her the moment she has learnt the first rudiments of housework, and her apprentice year would be at low wages; she would have the option of advancing her year by year, or of letting her go and taking a fresh ‘prentice’ hand.”

“I pity the woman.”

“So do I, yet it is just what we all do more or less without any distinct benefit. Of course no reasonable person would expect a girl to remain at the low wages when she became worth more.”

“That’s just what I was thinking, Molly. You will make Marta worth a good deal more than $10 a month as wages go.”

“I know it, but I shall be content to give her $12 when she can do my work with only superintendence on my part, and later on I shall expect her to ask me $14; and I shall have to decide to give it, or take some one else; yet, if she does her best till then I shall not feel ill used, things being as they are. We can’t expect a young woman like Marta to be better than her times.”

“Still, this comes back to the same point; you have a good deal to do.”

“Yes, but what better employment can I have? We live about as comfortably as if we kept two servants, because I do much of the lighter work; I have no drudgery. Marta does that. I have very few social duties. I have plenty of time to read and do my little sewing and we live as I like to live; I should not be so happy any other way. When I have children I shall have less time, but I expect Marta will be able to go on pretty well with an hour of my time in the kitchen.”

“But suppose Marta wants to leave?”

“I don’t think she will. She seems to have the European horror of changing and, I think, believes herself part of the family. If I am mistaken I shall be unfortunate, but my altering my policy now would not change matters. I made up my mind to expect very little beyond hand work from one servant; that I have got.”

They chatted till Harry came home, Mrs. Welles unable to make up her mind whether Molly’s ideas were wise or foolish; as ideas they were good, of course, but how would they work in practice? Mrs. Welles was too English to understand why a woman should make up her mind to put up with half service, and she had been too well off since she had been married to have learnt by experience.

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CHAPTER XXXIV.
OX-TAIL SOUP—GRISINI—STEWED LAMB AND PEAS—MÉRINGUES WITH CREAM.

Mrs. Welles’s trunk arrived the next morning and Molly found her friend had come as she said, “prepared and loaded for a kitchen campaign.” Several little things not easily obtained in a country town she had brought, and last of all she handed out a paper package.

“There, Molly, I thought, perhaps, you had none, and I have two or three recipes needing the stuff, so I made sure and brought it with me.”

Molly had meanwhile cut the strings and saw in the paper a thick roll of something wrapped in waxed paper.

“Ah, almond paste! I wished when I was chopping almonds the other day that I had some.”

The almond paste was a substance that looked, in color and appearance, like very heavy bread: it was almonds ground by machinery, and saved infinite time in preparing almonds for macaroons, cake, etc.

“There, Mistress Molly, you see we are going to make goodies while I am here.”

“I shall be glad to do my part and sit at your feet again.”

“Nonsense, Molly, I have nothing to teach you. You were too intelligent not to see, when you had the key to a few things, that the rest was a matter of experiment and practice; but while I was in London I had some recipes given to me, vaguely written, as amateur recipes usually are, but I want to try to get them right.”

Molly, mindful of her guest’s English tastes, had asked her butcher to save her two ox-tails, as they were very cheap things, and she prepared them for soup while Mrs. Welles finished her unpacking.

First, she cut up the tails into joints and each joint of the root of it into three, then put them on the fire, in cold water, let it come to the boiling-point, drained them off and pumped cold water on them. This was the process called “blanching,” so often directed in cooking-books without further explanation. They were then dried in a cloth, dusted with flour, put in a pot with a table-spoonful of butter, and fried a bright brown and frequently stirred round, to color them evenly; then she cut up a carrot, a turnip, and an onion, and put them into it, then added a bay leaf, three sprigs of parsley, half a salt-spoonful of thyme and marjoram, two cloves, a tea-spoonful and a half of salt, and half a salt-spoonful of pepper and two quarts of water. This was to simmer four hours; at the end of the second hour a few of the nicest joints of the tail were taken out to serve in the soup, the others left to boil down with it. Half an hour before dinner the soup was strained and a table-spoonful of brown thickening (recipe in [Chapter XIII].) stirred into it to make it the consistency of very thin cream. As it boiled down it would grow thicker; then it was put to boil fast, without a cover, and every few minutes skimmed. When quite clear of fat, the joints of the tail were put in, a glass of wine added,[3] and the soup was ready to serve.

Mr. and Mrs. Bishop’s turn was near to receive the reading-club, and Molly had thought it would be pleasant to have it the week Charlotte was with her. The lady entertaining could, of course, invite any of her friends, and Molly asked Mr. and Mrs. Lennox. Mrs. Welles was delighted to help, and the afternoon was given to a discussion of what should be provided.

“We are wisely limited as to what is to constitute the refreshment. There must be no oysters or ice cream, only cakes and sandwiches and coffee and tea, or chocolate.”

“No bouillon?”

“Yes, that has been admitted in place of one of the other beverages, as so many can’t take coffee or tea at night.”

“Let’s say coffee and bouillon, then, and sandwiches. Are you limited to one kind?”

“No. Mrs. Framley, last week, had tongue, cheese and chicken.”

“Well, have chicken and lobster then. How many guests shall you expect?”

“About thirty-four.”

I suppose it is not necessary to go further into figures at this day to show that Molly was likely to do all she had undertaken to do on her allowance of ten dollars a week, but as her evening was a great success and cost very little, I will give the details to show how it was done and what the actual cost was. The flavorings formed part of Molly’s stores and the almond paste was given to her, yet I add the price here, for those who may wish to go and do likewise may not be so fortunate. Although the list of articles were ordered, they were not all used.

One dozen eggs	$0.25
One lobster, 3 pounds	.36
One can of boned chicken	.50
One pound of almond paste	.30
One pound of butter	.25
Leg of beef	.50
Half pound of coffee	.15
Milk	.12
Sugar	.24
Bread	.20
	$2.87

The first thing was to make four loaves of nice bread; this Molly did, using two quarts of water and one cake of yeast (see recipe for bread, [Chapter XV].). To save trouble of cutting, Mrs. Welles suggested pipe bread (grisini) to eat with the bouillon, and before the bread was put to rise a piece was broken from the dough of the size of a large orange; to this was added the white of an egg, whipped a little, a tea-spoonful of powdered sugar and a good tea-spoonful of butter softened. When it was all well incorporated, flour, warmed and sifted, was added to bring it to the consistency of stiffish bread-dough. It was kneaded long and well and set to rise. It took longer than the bread, because it was a little stiffer and also the bread and additional flour weakened the yeast. When it had swelled well, however, Mrs. Welles and Molly sat down together to roll it, while Marta attended to the dinner, which was to consist of soup, stewed lamb and peas, stuffed potatoes and méringues, with whipped cream.

The méringues had been made in the morning and the cream whipped. The stewed lamb was something so simple that it could be left to Marta, although in leaving any stewing or boiling to Marta, now or any other time, Molly never omitted an occasional glance to see that it neither left off simmering and that the simmering had not become boiling.

“The rolling out of grisini is a very tedious task,” said Mrs. Welles, “but the compensation is that they keep as well as crackers, once made.”

“You will have to direct me, Charlotte, as I have never made these before.”

“All you have to do is to roll a small piece of dough under your hands on the board, so, till it is no thicker than a pencil. If the dough is too soft—it should be stiffer than bread-dough, yet quite elastic—you can add a very little flour.” As she spoke she laid her two hands over a bit of dough as large as a hickory nut and began rolling, pressing pretty hard as she rolled.

“If they do not roll smooth, wet your palm with milk slightly.”

Molly followed directions. As each pipe was made it was laid on a baking-pan. They were irregular in length, but generally about nine or ten inches long.

It took them half an hour to roll them, for it was difficult at first for Molly to get hers of fairly even thickness all the way down, but practice brought facility. The dough made about three dozen, and they were put in a warm place to swell till as thick as a medium-sized cigar. Then they were to be baked in a cool oven half an hour. They were to be very lightly colored, when done, about like pilot biscuits, and should snap short; hence the slow oven, as they must dry as well as cook.

The bread had not been set till early in the morning, so that it might bake late in the day, for Molly’s reception was to be on Friday—this was Wednesday—and she wanted the bread to be as near as possible two days old, for sandwiches, yet not at all stale. The bouillon and cakes would be made Thursday, and there would be nothing but the sandwiches to cut and coffee to make on the day itself. Molly was anxious to get all done before that, so as to be quite fresh for her friends.

Before leaving the kitchen she went over the recipes she had written for Marta’s guidance, emphasizing all important points. For the stewed lamb there were some lean chops from under the shoulder (see [Chapter III].); these were floured and laid in a stewpan with a little butter and fried brown, an onion cut up and a piece of carrot (half a small one), and enough hot water barely to cover them was poured on them with half a tea-spoonful of salt. They were to stew very slowly for two hours, then taken up and kept hot while the gravy was skimmed and allowed to boil down to half a pint, a large teaspoonful of brown thickening was put into it and a can of peas, and seasoned to taste, then the meat was returned and allowed to stew very gently a quarter of an hour more.

Harry had been told laughingly he was to expect a very plain dinner.

“And is that the result of having two expert cooks in the house? Mrs. Welles, I’ve been petting my digestion for the last month in order to cope with the culinary productions of the pair of you, and this is the result. I’ve heard before that too many cooks spoil the broth, but I didn’t know it extended to the whole dinner.”

Although Molly had made the méringues herself, she had written the recipe, which is as follows:

Beat the white of two eggs as stiff as possible, that is to say, till it will not slip out of the bowl, then stir into it very gently three ounces of powdered sugar, remembering the rule that anything to be mixed with white of egg must be done with a light lifting motion of the spoon, rather than stirring, which may liquefy the eggs. Fill a table-spoon with the mixture and turn on to a sheet of white paper placed on a board which has been made a little damp; the moulds should be oval, like half an egg. Put them in a very cool oven for fifteen or twenty minutes, then open the door and leave them ten minutes longer; the idea is to make the crust as thick as possible, which is done by the long slow drying; if firm enough remove them from the paper, take out the moist centre very carefully, and when cold fill them with cream, flavored, sweetened, and whipped solid (recipe [Chapter XXVIII].), then put two together; they should be over full, and the cream show considerably between the two sides.