Pumpkin Flour.
I remind myself, comically, while jotting down these items of domestic practicalities, of the lucky chicken of the brood, who, not content with having secured her tit-bit of crumb, seed, or worm, noisily calls the attention of all her sisters to the fact. I never secure even a small prize in the housewifely line, but I am seized with the desire to spread the knowledge of the same.
About three months ago, my very courteous and intelligent grocer (I think sometimes, that nobody else was ever blessed with such merchants of almost every article needed for family use, as those with whom I deal) handed me, for inspection, a small box of what looked like yellow tooth-powder, and smelled like vanilla and orris-root. It was pumpkin flour, he explained—the genuine pumpkin, desiccated by the “Alden process,” and ground very fine. I took it home for the sake of the goodly smell, and because it looked “nice.”
The pies made from it were delicious beyond all my former experience in Thanksgiving desserts—a soft, smooth, luscious custard, procured without cost of stewing, straining, etc. And the flavor of them upon the tongue fully justified the promise of the odor that had bewitched me. It is seldom in a lifetime that one finds a thing which looks “nice,” smells nicer, and tastes nicest of all. If you, dearest and patientest of readers, who never quarrel with my digressions, and hearken indulgently to my rhodomontades, doubt now whether I am in very earnest, try my pumpkin flour, and bear witness with me to its excellence.[B]