Beat six egg-yolks very light with two cups of yellow sugar and one of creamed butter, add the soaked crumbs and mix very smooth. Meantime, soak a cup of raisins, seeded and halved, a cup of clean currants, a cup of shredded citron, a cup of nut meats broken small, in a tumbler of sherry, a tumbler of rum, and wineglass of apricot brandy. Add the fruit when well soaked to the eggs and sugar, putting in any surplus liquors. Mix in gradually a teaspoonful of cinnamon, the same of cloves and allspice, half a cup of preserved ginger sliced very thin, and a very tiny dusting of black pepper and paprika. Beat smooth, then fold in the stiffly beaten egg-whites alternately with a cup of browned flour. If too thick to stir handily thin with a little milk or boiling water. Pour into a clean pudding bag, freshly scalded, leaving room for the pudding to swell, put in a deep kettle of boiling water, and boil for five hours, filling up the kettle as needed with boiling water so as not to check the cooking. Make several days beforehand, and boil an extra hour upon Christmas day. Serve in a blaze of brandy, with a very rich sauce, either fruit or wine flavored.
Pudding Sauce: (Mrs. Barbara Clayton.) Beat together until very light, one cup white sugar, one cup creamed butter, and the yolks of three eggs. Beat the egg whites very stiff with another cup of sugar, add to the yolks and butter, beat hard together, then put in double boiler and cook until thick. Put two wineglasses of good whiskey in a bowl, pour the hot sauce upon it, and whip hard until light.
Creole Cookery
Exotics rarely flower in native splendor after transplanting. Milly was the exception, proving the rule. Bred in New Orleans, steeped in its atmosphere, its traditions, a cook of degree, and daughter of a cook to whom, though past middle age, she paid the most reverent homage, she yet kept her magic touch amid the crush and hurly-burly of New York town, albeit she never grew acclimated nor even content. This in spite of a mistress she adored—in virtue of having served her ten years down in the home city. When at last Milly went back to her own, there was wailing amongst all of us, who had eaten her cooking, but the mistress smiled, rather sadly, to be sure, saying: "I could not beg her to stay—she was so unhappy here."
Milly never had quite a free hand—New York markets know not many things familiar to those of the Crescent City. Notwithstanding, she was a liberal education in blended flavors, in the delights, the surprises of the Creole kitchen. Tall and slim, of a golden-brown complexion, neat to the point of austerity, trim and self-contained, sight of her somehow gave an added piquancy to her dishes. She did not make friends readily, but the comradery of cooking induced her to more than tolerate me. "I don't say I kin cook—but my mother can," she often told me—smiling proudly the while, with the buzzing praises of gourmets sounding in her ears. She could never tell you how she made her ambrosial dishes—but if you had my luck to be persona gratis she could and did show you, to the queen's taste.
I shall write only whereof I know—not by any means a compend of Creole cookery. Indeed, a lifetime is hardly enough to eat of all its specially excellent dishes. It seems to me from this scant experience, one general principle runs through all. It is the blending of proportioned flavors, achieved through long and gentle cooking. Milly said she let things "sob," a mistake I dare say, for the old-time "sod," past participle of "seethe." But I by no means speak with authority—my deduction is from the premise of fifty dinners, each it seemed to me uniquely excellent. After this prelude come we to specific recipes.
Court Bouillon: (Pronounced "Coubare.") Milly sighed for Redfish or Red Snapper but made shift with halibut or any other firm fine-grained fish perfectly fresh. Take three pounds of it, wash very clean, and cut in six equal slices with a very sharp knife. There must be no rags and tatters. Melt a heaping tablespoonful of lard in a deep kettle, add to it gradually two tablespoonfuls flour, stirring hard so it shall not burn. Throw into it a dozen pounded alspice, three sprigs each of thyme, parsley, bay leaf and sweet marjoram chopped fine, one small clove of garlic, one large onion also chopped fine, and either six large fresh tomatoes, chopped small, or half a can—those from glass are best. Pour in a large glass of claret, add a quart of boiling water, and bring all to a very brisk boil. Cook for five minutes, then add salt and Cayenne pepper to taste. Boil five minutes longer, then lay in the fish slices one at a time, following them with the strained juice of a lemon. Boil hard twenty minutes longer. Serve hot.
To make Court Bouillon a la Espagnole, stir together as above, lard and flour, taking care to have them smooth, add a large onion, six tomatoes, clove of garlic, sprigs of sweet basil and thyme, all chopped fine, along with two whole bay leaves. Brown all nicely, taking care not to burn, then add a quart of boiling water, bring to a boil and cook two or three minutes. Have six thick slices of fine, firm fresh fish, rub them well over with salt and pepper, lay in a dish and pour over a large cup of white wine boiling hot. Vinegar answers, but wine is better. Lay the fish slices in the pot, handling carefully, add the wine, and simmer until tender—about half an hour commonly. Take up carefully so as not to break, lay in a deepish dish, remove bay leaves from the gravy and pour over the fish. Finish with a garnish of sliced lemon, and serve with either boiled rice or whole boiled potatoes.