“I would like, but I am afraid. I have always heard that a servant increases the expenses out of all proportion to what she eats.”
“Of course, if servants are left to themselves in their inexperience, they waste far more than they consume; but you will oversee everything.”
“And then I shall get the reputation of being dreadfully stingy.”
“What matter? You might be wasteful, and still be called so by those who wish to do it; but economy is not stint. I am sure you will never look more keenly after odds and ends than I do.”
Mrs. Lennox looked incredulous.
“It is true. If there is one potato left I have it put away; one spoonful of rice, a fag end of beefsteak. Although I am new to keeping house in this country, I am an old housekeeper; for my mother left everything to me, and, our means being small, and she fastidious (by which I mean only that she could do without anything, better than have it second rate), I had to set my wits to work; and I’ve too often known the time when one potato was just the thing to finish, or make her a little dish, to despise it.”
“But how?”
Molly laughed. “Impossible to say, for one never knows what may happen; but I can tell you what it once did. My mother and I lived alone, and so rarely had joints of meat that we seldom had much more than enough in the house for our needs, in the way of fresh meats, but potted dainties we always had. However, one wet, chilly evening, a visitor arrived unexpectedly, an American traveling, and he had come considerably out of his way to see us for a half an hour. I was at my wits’ end, for our solitary maid had her holiday, and we were about to sit down to a cozy cup of tea and toast, with some anchovy paste and a little fruit. All we had in the house was a few slices of corned beef, not presentable, for they had been cut off for tea the night before. Now I knew our friend expected no dinner; and to give him as good a one as a French cook could send up would be no treat, for he was leading a hotel life. The only thing he would really enjoy would be some real American dish. There was little time, for he had to catch a train in an hour. I flew down-stairs in despair. I must have something hot to set before him. I looked at the safe; there were about a cup of cold mush, a solitary potato of good size, and a few half-dried scraps of corned beef. I took them all into the kitchen, blessing the French charcoal stoves, which are always ready, and, arranging the oven for baking, I chopped my beef, then the potato, not too fine. When done there were a cup of beef and rather less of potato. I put some beef-dripping into a pan, and set it to get hot; and into a saucepan put the beef and potato mixed, and a little salt and pepper, and stirred them round; and then I added a small half cup of thick cream. While this was heating, I cut the mush in slices, floured each, and when the dripping was smoking hot I laid them in; I tasted the hash, and found it just right. There was no time to brown it; but I left it long enough for the cream to dry sufficiently away, while I beat the yolks of four eggs and the whites to a stiff froth, then added to the yolks a little salt and three table-spoonfuls of milk, stirred the whites to them gently, and then took up the hash. The mush, which I had turned, was now pale brown; and I laid it round the dish on which was the hash, then poured the fat from the saucepan, put a bit of butter in it, and when it melted, which, as the pan was already very hot, it did in a moment, I poured in the eggs. Happily, the table was ready, and my mother always made tea on it; so I waited only to split a few pickled gherkins to garnish the hash, and then my omelet being half set I put it, pan and all, in the oven, while I carried my Yankee dish to table. I had been absent only twenty minutes; everything was ready, and, while the traveller’s tea was being poured out, I ran down and doubled my omelet over and turned it out. I am quite sure nothing short of canvas-back ducks, or New England turkey and cranberry sauce, could have been such a success as that hash.”
“‘Dear Mrs. Holmes,’ our friend said to my mother, ‘I assure you I have dreamed of corned-beef hash and fried mush, and longed for them many times when the table has been groaning with every French dainty, and believed I could not hope to eat them on this side of the Atlantic.’
“Since that time I never think anything too small to save; it comes in when least expected; and, had my cooked potato not been there, I could have made no hash.”