And it is just at jam-making time, too, that my kitchen scales and weights require the ameliorated atmosphere of Mrs. Widow’s cottage; my own kitchen, with the midsummer sun upon it all day, being obviously far too cold and damp for such highly-strung bric-à-brac as one pound and half-pound weights.
A town acquaintance once said to Virginia: “I suppose Miss Klickmann goes down to her cottage for poetic and literary inspiration?”
“Oh, dear, no!” was the reply. “She simply goes down, as a mere matter of feminine curiosity, to see what is left.”
“Where do you keep your tea-towels?” Ursula began, as she prepared to wash up the breakfast things.
“There ought to be a pile in one of the drawers of the kitchen table,” I said. “They are not there? Oh, well, they’ll come back presently!”
While we were speaking, a small girl appeared at the side door, holding in one hand a basket containing a nice chunk of pork (wrapped in one of my tea-towels), and in the other hand my mincing-machine. This was Mrs. Widow’s grandchild.
“If you please, ma’am, father’s killed the pig, and mother thought you might like just a little piece of griskin, and mother’s been taking care of the mincer so’s it shan’t get rusty.”
An exchange of courtesies having been effected by means of a bottle of pear-drops, the small maid departed with her empty basket; the mincer was restored to its proper niche in the pantry, and we were at least one tea-towel to the good.
I might mention that Mrs. Widow’s married daughter had recently acquired considerable local fame by making “faggots,” which were in great demand. You know the dish?—a combination of liver, pork, sage and onions, etc., baked in squares. Other people in the district made faggots, too, but none could rival hers, and orders came to her from many of the big houses.