Late that night, after the family has retired, pour a pint of cider into a saucepan and heat it—preferably over the glowing logs of a wood fire—until it steams. Then stir in three tablespoons of granulated sugar. Do not be startled by the violence of the foaming and hissing that ensues—this is only Nature at her inscrutable tasks of making life puzzling for dogmatists.
Into the steaming sweetened cider pour as much brandy from the family medicine chest as you think you can spare. If brandy is not obtainable, whiskey will serve. If whiskey is not obtainable, invite some friend who has recently made a transatlantic voyage and ask him to breathe gently upon the saucepan while it is heating.
Serve the beverage hot, and, while drinking, utter any toast or sentiment that is a favourite in your family. Reckon quantities at the rate of not more than one pint per person. Mulled cider is recommended during years of coal shortage, when the house may be chilly; but it is not to be trifled with save by the most hardy.
Before retiring walk three times round the house and try to name all the constellations. If you don’t know the names, give them new ones. This quiets the pulse.
(P. S.—This is an old recipe, swallowed down through several generations, which accounts for some of its anachronisms.)
II. STEWED RHUBARB
Early in the spring buy a rhubarb root on Vesey Street. The root itself, an uncouth, gnarled object, is not beautiful, but it bears small red and yellow shoots that are highly decorative, like little Spanish flags.
This root must be planted in a churchyard, preferably Episcopalian, which gives the rhubarb a pleasantly Athanasian flavour, much esteemed by connoisseurs. We specially recommend St. Paul’s churchyard, partly because the high buildings round about keep the sharp winds of early spring away from the tender sprouts, but also because the pleasant hum of young women reading Keable and Ruby M. Ayres aloud at lunch time on the benches encourages the plant and hastens its growth.
The stalks must not be picked prematurely. Wait until they are a brilliant red. The best way to get this right is to test them with a leather-bound copy of one of Kipling’s books, in that scarlet leather edition. When the stalks are exactly the same colour as Stalky & Co., pick them.
Take them home, wash them, cut them into cylindrical lengths, and have them stewed in the usual manner.