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

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.