Gradually all these things were improved, by persistent effort. Our landlord, young Doctor Coles, was our good friend, whom we persuaded to make many improvements. But in the beginning housekeeping was very difficult. Cooks looked upon us with an unfavorable eye, especially as there was no Roman Catholic Church in the town.
My visits to the intelligence office were frequent and plaintive. Our neighbor, Mr. B——, grew desperate over the situation. When he was asked the searching question, “How many in fam’ly, sir?” he replied: “Seven children. But I will make away with some of them if you think that is too many!”
Some of our adventures were very funny—in the retrospect. One green cook was much disturbed in mind about the asparagus. She could not wait for my promised help, but prepared the vegetable by neatly whittling off the tops. Great was the grief of our children, as this was the first asparagus of the season.
Another cook of an ingenious turn of mind saved herself the trouble of going down one flight of stairs to fill her bedroom pitcher by immersing it in the tank in the attic. My husband could not understand why it took comparatively few strokes of the pump to fill the tank—which soon became empty again.
One night our little daughter was disturbed by plaster falling on her face as she lay in bed. A glance at the ceiling revealed the cause. The stalwart foot and leg of the cook protruded from it! In going to dip her pitcher into the tank she had unwarily deviated from the narrow pathway which led to it, putting her foot through the unprotected lath and plaster!
Perhaps the most singular Irish bull was that of the functionary who had been directed to make the sandwiches “half jelly and half mutton.” When we were well started on our travels we tasted the luncheon. It was horribly queer. Suddenly the truth flashed upon me! The literal-minded cook had combined these warring materials in every sandwich!
The mistress made some mistakes as well as the cook. Seeing a material of the color of the gingerbread often made in New England, I unhesitatingly mixed it with the batter. When the supposititious gingerbread came on the table it was very heavy and quite uneatable. Something must have been wrong with the oven! The next time I began to make gingerbread the cook caught my hand. “Oh, Mrs. Hall! Don’t put that in! That’s mustard.” My family were mercilessly merry over this mistake.
I described the misadventure in Demorest’s Magazine, receiving five dollars for the article. Thus every time any one poked fun at me about the mustard gingerbread I countered with the five dollars! Better still, by persistent efforts I learned—from Marion Harland’s excellent receipt-book—to make gingerbread that appeared seraphic to my children.
When my husband once heartlessly observed that our sons could never twit their wives with mother’s cooking, a chorus went around the table, “Oh, but Mamma makes such lovely gingerbread!” And so I was honorably avenged.
Fortunately we had a tower of strength in the children’s faithful nurse, Mary Thompson. When cooks periodically failed us she valiantly walked into the kitchen and did their work, as well as her own.