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.”