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Title: Common Sense in the Household A Manual of Practical Housewifery Author: Marion Harland Release Date: April 27, 2015 [EBook #48804] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK COMMON SENSE IN THE HOUSEHOLD *** Produced by Emmy, Chris Curnow and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive) cover COMMON SENSE IN THE HOUSEHOLD A MANUAL OF PRACTICAL HOUSEWIFERY BY MARION HARLAND. “We go upon the practical mode of teaching, Nickleby. When a boy knows this out of book, he goes and does it. This is our system. What do you think of it?”—Nicholas Nickleby. NEW YORK: [i] CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS 1883. Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by CHARLES SCRIBNER & CO., In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington. —————— COPYRIGHT, 1880, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS. GRANT, FAIRES & RODGERS, ELECTROTYPERS AND PRINTERS, PHILADELPHIA. TO MY FELLOW-HOUSEKEEPERS, NORTH, EAST, SOUTH AND WEST, THIS VOLUME, THE GLEANINGS OF MANY YEARS, IS CORDIALLY DEDICATED. INTRODUCTORY OF REVISED EDITION. It is not yet quite ten years since the publication of “Common Sense in the Household. General Receipts.” In offering the work to the publishers, under whose able management it has prospered so wonderfully, I said: “I have written this because I felt that such a Manual of Practical Housewifery is needed.” That I judged aright, taking my own experience as a housekeeper as the criterion of the wants and perplexities of others, is abundantly proved by the circumstance which calls for this new and revised edition of the book. Through much and constant use—nearly 100,000 copies having been printed from them—the stereotype plates have become so worn that the impressions are faint and sometimes illegible. I gladly avail myself of the opportunity thus offered to re-read and so far to alter the original volume as may, in the light of later improvements in the culinary art and in my understanding of it, make the collection of family receipts more intelligible and available. Nor have I been able to resist the temptation to interpolate a few excellent receipts that have come into my hands at a later period than that of the publication of the last, and in my estimation, perhaps the most valuable of the “Common Sense Series,” viz.: “The Dinner Year-Book.” I am grateful, also, to the courtesy of my publishers for the privilege of thanking those to whom this book was, and is dedicated, “My fellow-housekeepers—North, East, South and West”—for their substantial endorsement of the work I have done in their behalf. A collection of the private letters I have received from those who have used the “General Receipts” would make a volume very nearly as large as this. If I have, as the writers of these testimonials assure me —“done them good,”—they have done me more in letting me know that I have not spent my strength for naught. I acknowledge with pleasure sundry pertinent suggestions and inquiries which have led me, in this revision, to examine warily the phraseology of some receipts and to modify these, I believe, for the better. But, by far, the best “good” done me through this work has been the conscious sisterhood into which I have come with the great body of American housewives. This is a benefit not to be rated by dollars and cents, or measured by time. I hope my fellow-workers will find their old kitchen-companion, in fresh dress, yet more serviceable than before, and that their daughters may, at the close of a second decade, demand new stereotype plates for still another, and, like this, a progressive edition. Marion Harland. October 1, 1880. INDEX OF GENERAL SUBJECTS. PAGE. [ii] [iii] [iv] [v] [vi] [vii] Blanc-mange 414 Bread 256 Brandied fruits 463 Butter 251 Cakes 299 Candy 468 Canned fruits 463 —— vegetables 463 Catsups 179 Clean, to, etc. 511 Company 140 Corn bread 283 Creams 432 Custards 432 Drinks 480 Eggs 239 Familiar talk 1 Fish 38 Fritters 403 Fruit, ripe, for dessert 442 Game 147 Gingerbread 330 Ices 432 Ice-cream 432 Icing 301 Jellies 414 Jellies, fruit 459 Meats 84 Milk 251 Nursery, the 511 Pancakes 403 Pickles 469 Pies 337 Preserves 445 Pork 114 Poultry 69 Puddings 371 Salads 187 Sauces for fish and meat 170 —— for puddings 408 Servants 358 Sick-room, the 492 Shell-fish 57 Soap 528 Soups 15 Sundries 517 Tarts 351 Vegetables 197 Vinegars, flavored 179 FAMILIAR TALK WITH MY FELLOW-HOUSEKEEPER AND READER. A talk as woman to woman, in which each shall say, “I” and “you,” and “my dear,” and “you know,” as freely as she pleases. It would not be a womanly chat if we omitted these forms of expression. An informal preface to what I mean shall be an informal book—bristling with “I’s” all the way through. If said bristles offend the critic’s touch, let him [viii] [1] remember that this work is not prepared for the library, but for readers who trouble themselves little about editorial “we’s” and the circumlocutions of literary modesty. I wish it were in my power to bring you, the prospective owner of this volume, in person, as I do in spirit, to my side on this winter evening, when the bairnies are “folded like the flocks;” the orders for breakfast committed to the keeping of Bridget, or Gretchen, or Chloe, or the plans for the morrow definitely laid in the brain of that ever-busy, but most independent of women, the housekeeper who “does her own work.” I should perhaps summon to our cozy conference a very weary companion—weary of foot, of hand—and I should not deserve to be your confidant, did I not know how often heart-weary with discouragement; with much producing of ways and means; with a certain despondent looking forward to the monotonous grinding of the household machine; to the certainty, proved by past experience, that toilsome as has been this day, the morrow will prove yet more abundant in labors, in trials of strength and nerves and temper. You would tell me what a dreary problem this of “woman’s work that is never done” is to your fainting soul. How, try as you may and as you do to be systematic and diligent, something is always “turning up” in the treadmill to keep you on the strain. How you often say to yourself, in bitterness of spirit, that it is a mistake of Christian civilization to educate girls into a love of science and literature, and then condemn them to the routine of a domestic drudge. You do not see, you say, that years of scholastic training will make you a better cook, a better wife or mother. You have seen the time—nay, many times since assuming your present position—when you would have exchanged your knowledge of ancient and modern languages, belles-lettres, music, and natural science, for the skill of a competent kitchen-maid. The “learning how” is such hard work! Labor, too, uncheered by encouraging words from mature housewives, unsoftened by sympathy even from your husband, or your father or brother, or whoever may be the “one” to whom you “make home lovely.” It may be that, in utter discouragement, you have made up your mind that you have “no talent for these things.” I have before me now the picture of a wife, the mother of four children, who, many years ago, sickened me for all time with that phrase. In a slatternly morning-gown at four in the afternoon, leaning back in the laziest and most ragged of rocking-chairs, dust on the carpet, on the open piano, the mantel, the mirrors, even on her own hair, she rubbed the soft palm of one hand with the grimy fingers of the other, and with a sickly-sweet smile whined out— “Now, I am one of the kind who have no talent for such things! The kitchen and housework and sewing are absolutely hateful to me—utterly uncongenial to my turn of mind. The height of my earthly ambition is to have nothing to do but to paint on velvet all day!” I felt then, in the height of my indignant disgust, that there was propriety as well as wit in the “Spectator’s” suggestion that every young woman should, before fixing the wedding-day, be compelled by law to exhibit to inspectors a prescribed number of useful articles as her outfit—napery, bed-linen, clothing, etc., made by her own hands, and that it would be wise legislation which should add to these proofs of her fitness for her new sphere a practical knowledge of housework and cookery. If you have not what our Yankee grandmothers termed a “faculty” for housewifery—yet are obliged, as is the case with an immense majority of American women, to conduct the affairs of a household, bills of fare included—there is the more reason for earnest application to your profession. If the natural taste be dull, lay to it more strength of will— resolution born of a just sense of the importance of the knowledge and dexterity you would acquire. Do not scoff at the word “profession.” Call not that common and unclean which Providence has designated as your life-work. I speak not now of the labors of the culinary department alone; but, without naming the other duties which you and you only can perform, I do insist that upon method, skill, economy in the kitchen, depends so much of the well-being of the rest of the household, that it may safely be styled the root—the foundation of housewifery. I own it would be pleasanter in most cases, especially to those who have cultivated a taste for intellectual pursuits, to live above the heat and odor of this department. It must be very fine to have an efficient aide-de-camp in the person of a French cook, or a competent sub-manager, or an accomplished head-waiter who receives your orders for the day in your boudoir or library, and executes the same with zeal and discretion that leave you no room for anxiety or regret. Such mistresses do not need cookery-books. The few—and it must be borne in mind that in this country these are very few—born in an estate like this would not comprehend what I am now writing; would not enter into the depths of that compassionate yearning which moves me as I think of what I have known for myself in the earlier years of my wedded life, what I have heard and seen in other households of honest intentions brought to contempt; of ill-directed toil; of mortification, and the heavy, wearing sense of inferiority that puts the novice at such a woful disadvantage in a community of notable managers. There is no use in enlarging upon this point. You and I might compare experiences by the hour without exhausting our store. “And then”—you sigh, with a sense of resentment upon you, however amiable your disposition, for the provocation is dire—“cookery-books and young housekeepers’ assistants, and all that sort of thing, are such humbugs!—Dark lanterns at best—too often Will-o’-the-wisps.” My dear, would you mind handing me the book which lies nearest you on the table there? “Dickens?” Of course. You will usually find something of his in every room in this house—almost as surely as you will a Bible. It rests and refreshes one to pick him up at odd times, and dip in anywhere. Hear the bride, Mrs. John Rokesmith, upon our common grievance. [2] [3] [4] “She was under the constant necessity of referring for advice and support to a sage volume, entitled ‘The Complete British Family Housewife,’ which she would sit consulting, with her elbows upon the table, and her temples in her hands, like some perplexed enchantress poring over the Black Art. This, principally because the Complete British Housewife, however sound a Briton at heart, was by no means an expert Briton at expressing herself with clearness in the British tongue, and sometimes might have issued her directions to equal purpose in the Kamtchatkan language.” Don’t interrupt me, my long-suffering sister! There is more of the same sort to come. “There was likewise a coolness on the part of ‘The Complete British Housewife’ which Mrs. John Rokesmith found highly exasperating. She would say, ‘Take a salamander,’ as if a general should command a private to catch a Tartar. Or, she would casually issue the order, ‘Throw in a handful’ of something entirely unattainable. In these, the housewife’s most glaring moments of unreason, Bella would shut her up and knock her on the table, apostrophizing her with the compliment—‘O you ARE a stupid old donkey! Where am I to get it, do you think?’” When I took possession of my first real home, the prettily furnished cottage to which I came as a bride, more full of hope and courage than if I had been wiser, five good friends presented me with as many cookery-books, each complete, and all by different compilers. One day’s investigation of my ménage convinced me that my lately-hired servants knew no more about cookery than I did, or affected stupidity to develop my capabilities or ignorance. Too proud to let them suspect the truth, or to have it bruited abroad as a topic for pitying or contemptuous gossip, I shut myself up with my “Complete Housewives,” and inclined seriously to the study of the same, comparing one with the other, and seeking to shape a theory which should grow into practice in accordance with the best authority. I don’t like to remember that time! The question of disagreeing doctors, and the predicament of falling between two stools, are trivial perplexities when compared with my strife and failure. Said the would-be studious countryman to whom a mischievous acquaintance lent “Webster’s Unabridged Dictionary” as an entertaining volume,—“I wrastled, and I wrastled, and I wrastled with it, but I couldn’t get up much of an int’rest.” My wrestling begat naught save pitiable confusion, hopeless distress, and a three-days’ sick headache, during which season I am not sure that I did not darkly contemplate suicide as the only sure escape from the meshes that girt me. At the height—or depth—of my despondency a friend, one with a great heart and steady brain, came to my rescue. Her cheerful laugh over my dilemma rings down to me now, through all these years, refreshingly as it then saluted my ears. “Bless your innocent little heart!” she cried, in her fresh, gay voice, “Ninety-nine out of a hundred cookbooks are written by people who never kept house, and the hundredth by a good cook who yet doesn’t know how to express herself to the enlightenment of others. Compile a receipt book for yourself. Make haste slowly. Learn one thing at a time, and when you have mastered it, ‘make a note on it,’ as Captain Cuttle says—never losing sight of the principle that you must do it in order to learn how.” Then she opened to me her own neatly-written “Manual”—the work of years, recommending, as I seized it that I should commence my novitiate with simple dishes. This was the beginning of the hoard of practical receipts I now offer for your inspection. For twenty years, I have steadily pursued this work, gleaning here and sifting there, and levying such remorseless contributions upon my friends, that I fear the sight of my paper and pencil has long since become a bugbear. For the kindness and courtesy which have been my invariable portion in this quest, I hereby return hearty thanks. For the encouraging words and good wishes that have ever answered the hint of my intention to collect what had proved so valuable to me into a printed volume, I declare myself to be yet more a debtor. I do not claim for my compend the proud pre-eminence of the “Complete American Housewife.” It is no boastful system of “Cookery Taught in Twelve Lessons.” And I should write myself down a knave or a fool, were I to assert that a raw cook or ignorant mistress can, by half-a-day’s study of my collection, equal Soyer or Blot, or even approximate the art of a half-taught scullion. We may as well start from the right point, if we hope to continue friends. You must learn the rudiments of the art for yourself. Practice, and practice alone, will teach you certain essentials. The management of the ovens, the requisite thickness of boiling custards, the right shade of brown upon bread and roasted meats—these and dozens of other details are hints which cannot be imparted by written or oral instructions. But, once learned, they are never forgotten, and henceforward your fate is in your own hands. You are mistress of yourself, though servants leave. Have faith in your own abilities. You will be a better cook for the mental training you have received at school and from books. Brains tell everywhere, to say nothing of intelligent observation, just judgment, a faithful memory, and orderly habits. Consider that you have a profession, as I said just now, and resolve to understand it in all its branches. My book is designed to help you. I believe it will, if for no other reason, because it has been a faithful guide to myself—a reference beyond value in seasons of doubt and need. I have brought every receipt to the test of common sense and experience. Those which I have not tried myself were obtained from trustworthy housewives—the best I know. I have enjoyed the task heartily, and from first to last the persuasion has never left me that I was engaged in a good cause. Throughout I have had you, my dear sister, present before me, with the little plait between your brows, the wistful look about eye and mouth that reveal to me, as words could not, your desire to “do your best.” “In a humble home, and in a humble way,” I hear you add, perhaps. You “are not ambitious;” you “only want to help John, and to make him and the children comfortable and happy.” [5] [6] [7] [8] Heaven reward your honest, loyal endeavors! Would you mind if I were to whisper a word in your ear I don’t care to have progressive people hear?—although progress is a grand thing when it takes the right direction. My dear, John and the children, and the humble home, make your sphere for the present, you say. Be sure you fill it—full! before you seek one wider and higher. There is no better receipt between these covers than that. Leave the rest to God. Everybody knows those four lines of George Herbert’s, which ought to be framed and hung up in the work-room of every house:— “A servant, with this clause, Makes drudgery divine; Who sweeps a room as for Thy laws Makes that and th’ action fine.” I wonder if the sainted poet knows—in that land where drudgery is one of the rough places forever overpast, and work is unmingled blessing—to how many sad and striving hearts those words have brought peace? And by way of helping John, not only by saving money and preparing palatable and wholesome dishes for his table, but by sparing the wife he loves many needless steps and much hurtful care, will you heed a homely hint or two relative to the practice of your art? Study method, and economy of time and strength, no less than of materials. I take it for granted that you are too intelligent to share in the vulgar prejudice against labor-saving machines. A raisin-seeder costs a trifle in comparison with the time and patience required to stone the fruit in the old way. A good egg-beater—the Dover, for instance—is a treasure. So with farina-kettles, syllabub churns, apple-corers, potato-peelers and slicers, clothes wringers and sprinklers, and the like. Most of these are made of tin—are therefore cheap and easily kept clean. Let each article have its own place in the closet and kitchen, to which restore it so soon as you have done using it. Before undertaking the preparation of any dish, read over the receipt carefully, unless you are thoroughly familiar with the manufacture of it. Many excellent housewives have a fashion of saying loftily, when asked how such things are made —“I carry all my receipts in my head. I never wrote out one in my life.” And you, if timid and self-distrustful, are smitten with shame, keep your receipt-book out of sight, and cram your memory with ingredients and measures, times and weights, for fear Mrs. Notable should suspect you of rawness and inefficiency. Whereas the truth is, that if you have a mind worthy of the name, its powers are too valuable to be laden with such details. Master the general principles, as I said just now, and for particulars look to your marching-orders. Having refreshed your memory by this reference, pick out from your household stores, and set in convenient order, within reach of your hand, everything you will need in making ready the particular compound under consideration. Then, take your stand in the midst—or sit, if you can. It is common sense—oftentimes a pious duty, to take judicious care of your physical health. I lay it down as a safe and imperative rule for kitchen use—Never stand when you can do your work as well while sitting. If I could have John’s ear for a minute, I would tell him that which would lead him to watch you and exercise wholesome authority in this regard. Next, prepare each ingredient for mixing, that the bread, cake, pudding, soup, or ragoût may not be delayed when half finished because the flour is not sifted, or the “shortening” warmed, the sugar and butter are not creamed, the meat not cut up, or the herbs not minced. Don’t begin until you are ready; then go steadily forward, “without haste, without rest,” and think of what you are doing. “Dickens again?” Why not, since there is no more genial and pertinent philosopher of common life and every-day subjects? To quote, then— “It was a maxim of Captain Swosser’s,” said Mrs. Badger, “speaking in his figurative, naval manner, that when you make pitch hot, you cannot make it too hot, and that if you have only to swab a plank, you should swab it as if Davy Jones were after you. It appears to me that this maxim is applicable to the medical as well as the nautical profession.” “To all professions!” observed Mr. Badger. “It was admirably said by Captain Swosser; beautifully said!” But it will sometimes happen that when you have heated your pitch, or swabbed your deck, or made your pudding according to the lights set before you, the result is a failure. This is especially apt to occur in a maiden effort. You have wasted materials and time, and suffered, moreover, acute demoralization—are enwrapped in a wet blanket of discouragement, instead of the seemly robe of complacency. Yet no part of the culinary education is more useful, if turned to proper account, than this very discipline of failure. It is a stepping-stone to excellence—sharp, it is true, but often sure. You have learned how not to do it right, which is the next thing to success. It is pretty certain that you will avoid, in your second essay, the rock upon which you have split this time. And, after all, there are few failures which are utter and irremediable. Scorched soups and custards, sour bread, biscuit yellow with soda, and cake heavy as lead, come under the head of “hopeless.” They are absolutely unfit to be set before civilized beings and educated stomachs. Should such mishaps occur, lock the memory of the attempt in your own bosom, and do not vex or amuse John and your guests with the narration, still less with visible proof of the calamity. Many a partial failure would pass unobserved but for the clouded brow and earnest apologies of the hostess. Do not apologize except at the last gasp! If there is but one chance in ten that a single person present may not discover the deficiency which has changed all food on the table [9] [10] [11] to dust and gravel-stones to you, trust to the one chance, and carry off the matter bravely. You will be astonished to find, if you keep your wits about you how often even your husband will remain in blissful ignorance that aught has gone wrong, if you do not tell him. You know so well what should have been the product of your labor that you exaggerate the justice of others’ perceptions. Console yourself, furthermore, with the reflection that yours is not the first failure upon record, nor the million-and-first, and that there will be as many to-morrows as there have been yesterdays. Don’t add to a trifling contretemps the real discomfort of a discontented or fretful wife. Say blithely, if John note your misfortune—“I hope to do better another time,” and do not be satisfied until you have redeemed your pledge. Experience and your quick wit will soon teach you how to avert impending evils of this nature, how to snatch your preparations from imminent destruction, and, by ingenious correctives or concealments, to make them presentable. These you will soon learn for yourself if you keep before you the truism I have already written, to wit, that few failures are beyond repair. Never try experiments for the benefit of invited guests nor, when John is at home, risk the success of your meal upon a new dish. Have something which you know he can eat, and introduce experiments as by-play. But do not be too shy of innovations in the shape of untried dishes. Variety is not only pleasant, but healthful. The least pampered palate will weary of stereotyped bills of fare. It is an idea which should have been exploded long ago, that plain roast, boiled, and fried, on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, cod-fish on Friday, with pork-and-beans every Saturday, are means of grace, because economical. And with this should have vanished the prejudice against warmed-over meals—or réchauffés, as our French friends term them. I have tried, in the following pages, to set forth the attractions of these, and their claims to your attention as being savory, economical, nourishing, and often elegant. In preparing these acceptably, everything depends upon your own taste and skill. Season with judgment, cook just enough and not a minute too long, and dish nicely. The recommendation of the eye to the palate is a point no cook can afford to disregard. If you can offer an unexpected visitor nothing better than bread-and-butter and cold ham, he will enjoy the luncheon twice as much if the bread be sliced thinly and evenly, spread smoothly, each slice folded in the middle upon the buttered surface, and piled symmetrically; if the ham be also cut thin, scarcely thicker than a wafer, and garnished with parsley, cresses, or curled lettuce. Set on mustard and pickles; let the table-cloth and napkin be white and glossy; the glass clear, and plate shining clean; and add to these accessories to comfort a bright welcome, and, my word for it, you need fear no dissatisfaction on his part, however epicurean may be his tastes. Should your cupboard be bare of aught more substantial than crackers and cheese, do not yield to dismay; split the crackers (if splittable), toast the inside lightly, and butter while hot. Grate your cheese into a powdery mound, garnishing the edges of the plate. If you have no beverage except water to set before him, let this be cool, and pour it out for him yourself, into an irreproachable glass. A dirty table-cloth, a smeared goblet, or a sticky plate, will spoil the most luxurious feast. A table well set is half- spread. I have not said one-tenth of that which is pressing upon my heart and mind, yet I fear you may think me trite and tedious. One suggestion more, and we will proceed to the details of business. I believe that, so far as care can avail in securing such a result, my receipts are accurate. But in the matter of seasoning and other minor details, consult your judgment and John’s taste. Take this liberty with whatever receipt you think you can improve. If I chance to find in your work-basket, or upon the kitchen dresser, a well-thumbed copy of my beloved “Common Sense,” with copious annotations in the margin, I shall, so far from feeling wounded, be flattered in having so diligent a student, and, with your permission, shall engraft the most happy suggestions upon the next edition. For the speedy issue of which, the petitioner doth humbly pray. Marion Harland. NOTE. In looking over this book the reader will notice certain receipts marked thus—✠. I do not claim for these greater merit than should of right be accorded to many others. I merely wish to call the attention of the novice to them as certainly safe, and for the most part simple. Every one thus marked has been tried by myself; most of them are in frequent, some in daily use, in my own family. My reason for thus singling out comparatively a small number of receipts from the rest, is the recollection of my own perplexities—the loss of time and patience to which I have been subjected in the examination of a new cookery-book, with an eye to immediate use of the directions laid down for various dishes. I have often and vainly wished for a finger-board to guide me in my search for those which were easy and sure, and which would result satisfactorily. This sort of directory I have endeavored to supply, taking care, however, to inform the reader in advance that, so far as I know, there is not an unsafe receipt in the whole work. Of course it was not necessary or expedient to append the above sign to plain “roast and boiled,” which are in common use everywhere. [12] [13] [14] SOUPS. The base of your soup should always be uncooked meat. To this may be added, if you like, cracked bones of cooked game, or of underdone beef or mutton; but for flavor and nourishment, depend upon the juices of the meat which was put in raw. Cut this into small pieces, and beat the bone until it is fractured at every inch of its length. Put them on in cold water, without salt, and heat very slowly. Do not boil fast at any stage of the operation. Keep the pot covered, and do not add the salt until the meat is thoroughly done, as it has a tendency to harden the fibres, and restrain the flow of the juices. Strain—always through a cullender, after which clear soups should be filtered through a hair-sieve or coarse bobbinet lace. The bag should not be squeezed. It is slovenly to leave rags of meat, husks of vegetables and bits of bone in the tureen. Do not uncover until you are ready to ladle out the soup. Do this neatly and quickly, having your soup-plates heated beforehand. Most soups are better the second day than the first, unless they are warmed over too quickly or left too long upon the fire after they are hot. In the one case they are apt to scorch; in the other they become insipid. VEGETABLE SOUPS. Green Pea. (No. 1.) ✠ ✠ 4 lbs. beef—cut into small pieces. ½ peck of green peas. 1 gallon water. ½ cup of rice-flour, salt, pepper and chopped parsley. Boil the empty pods of the peas in the water one hour before putting in the beef. Strain them out, add the beef, and boil slowly for an hour and a half longer. Half an hour before serving, add the shelled peas; and twenty minutes later, the rice-flour, with salt, pepper and parsley. After adding the rice-flour, stir frequently, to prevent scorching. Strain into a hot tureen. Green Pea (No. 2.) 2 qts. of strong veal or beef broth. ½ teaspoonful sugar. 1 tablespoonful butter. 1 qt. shelled peas. Bring the broth to a boil; put in the peas, and boil for twenty minutes. Add the sugar, and a sprig of green mint. Boil a quarter of an hour more, and stir in the butter, with pepper and salt, if the broth be not sufficiently salted already. Strain before serving, and send to table with small squares of toasted bread floating upon the top. Split Pea (dried). ✠ ✠ 1 gallon water. 1 qt. split peas, which have been soaked over night. 1 lb. salt pork, cut into bits an inch square. 1 lb. beef, cut into bits an inch square. Celery and sweet herbs. Fried bread. Put over the fire, and boil slowly for two hours, or until the quantity of liquor does not exceed two quarts. Pour into a cullender, and press the peas through it with a wooden or silver spoon. Return the soup to the pot, adding a small head of celery, chopped up, a little parsley, or, if preferred, summer savory or sweet marjoram. Have ready three or four slices of bread (stale) which have been fried in butter until they are brown; cut into slices and scatter them upon the surface of the soup after it is poured into the tureen. Pea and Tomato. ✠ ✠ This is made according to either of the foregoing receipts, in summer with green—in winter with dried and split peas. Just before straining the soup, add a quart of tomatoes, which have already been stewed soft; let the whole come to a good boil, and strain as above directed. If the stewed tomato be watery, strain off the superfluous liquid before pouring into the pea soup, or it will be too thin. Bean (dried.) ✠ ✠ [15] [16] [17] [18] The beans used for this purpose may be the ordinary kidney, the rice or field bean, or, best of all, the French mock- turtle soup bean. Soak a quart of these over night in soft lukewarm water; put them over the fire next morning, with one gallon of cold water and about two pounds of salt pork. Boil slowly for three hours, keeping the pot well covered; shred into it a head of celery, add pepper—cayenne, if preferred—simmer half an hour longer, strain through a cullender, and serve, with slices of lemon passed to each guest. Mock-turtle beans, treated in this way, yield a very fair substitute for the fine calf’s-head soup known by the same name. Bean and Corn. ✠ ✠ This is a winter soup, and is made of white beans prepared according to the foregoing receipt, but with the addition of a quart of dried or canned corn. If the former is used—and the Shaker sweet corn is nearly, salted corn quite as good for the purpose as the more expensive canned green corn—soak it overnight in warm water—changing this early in the morning, and pouring on more warm water, barely enough to cover the corn, and keeping it in a close vessel until ready to put on the beans. Let all boil together, with pork as in the bean soup proper. Strain out as usual, rubbing hard through the cullender. Some persons have a habit of neglecting the use of the cullender in making bean soup, and serving it like stewed beans which have been imperfectly drained. The practice is both slovenly and unwholesome, since the husks of the cereal are thus imposed upon the digestive organs of the eater, with no additional nutriment. To the beans and corn may be added a pint of stewed tomato, if desired. Asparagus (White soup.) 3 lbs. veal. The knuckle is best. 3 bunches asparagus, as well bleached as you can procure. 1 gallon water. 1 cup milk. 1 tablespoonful rice flour. Pepper and salt. Cut off the hard green stem, and put half of the tender heads of the asparagus into the water with the meat. Boil in closely covered pot for three hours, until the meat is in rags and the asparagus dissolved. Strain the liquor and return to the pot, with the remaining half of the asparagus heads. Let this boil for twenty minutes more, and add, before taking up, a cup of sweet milk (cream is better) in which has been stirred a tablespoonful of rice-flour, arrow-root, or corn-starch. When it has fairly boiled up, serve without further straining, with small squares of toast in the tureen. Season with salt and pepper. Asparagus (Green soup.) 3 lbs. veal—cut into small pieces. ½ lb. salt pork. 3 bunches asparagus. 1 gallon water. Cut the entire stalk of the asparagus into pieces an inch long, and when the meat has boiled one hour, add half of the vegetable to the liquor in the pot. Boil two hours longer and strain, pressing the asparagus pulp very hard to extract all the green coloring. Add the other half of the asparagus—(the heads only, which should be kept in cold water until you are ready for them), and boil twenty minutes more. Then proceed as with the asparagus white soup, omitting the milk, thickening, and salt. The pork will supply the latter seasoning. Tomato (Winter soup.) ✠ ✠ 3 lbs. beef. 1 qt. canned tomatoes. 1 gallon water. A little onion. Pepper and salt. Let the meat and water boil for two hours, until the liquid is reduced to little more than two quarts. Then stir in the tomatoes, and stew all slowly for three-quarters of an hour longer. Season to taste, strain, and serve. Tomato (Summer soup). ✠ ✠ 2½ lbs. veal, or lamb. 1 gallon water. 2 qts. fresh tomatoes, peeled and cut up fine. [19] [20] [21] 1 tablespoonful butter. 1 teaspoonful white sugar. Pepper and salt. Chopped parsley. Boil the meat to shreds and the water down to two quarts. Strain the liquor, put in the tomatoes, stirring them very hard that they may dissolve thoroughly; boil half an hour. Season with parsley or any other green herb you may prefer, pepper, and salt. Strain again, and stir in a tablespoonful of butter, with a teaspoonful of white sugar, before pouring into the tureen. This soup is more palatable still if made with the broth in which chickens were boiled for yesterday’s dinner. Turnip. Knuckle of veal, well cracked. 5 qts. water. Cover closely and stew gently for four hours, the day before the soup is wanted. On the morrow, skim off the fat and warm the stock gradually to a boil. Have ready an onion and six large winter or a dozen small summer turnips, sweet marjoram or thyme minced very finely. Put these into the soup and let them simmer together for an hour. Strain: return to the fire and add a cup of milk—in which has been stirred a tablespoonful of rice-flour or other thickening— and a tablespoonful of butter. Season with salt and pepper, let it boil up once, stirring all the time, as is necessary in all soups where milk is added at last, and remove instantly, or it will scorch. Potato. A dozen large mealy potatoes. 2 onions. 1 lb. salt pork. 3 qts. water. 1 tablespoonful butter. 1 cup milk or cream. 1 well-beaten egg. Chopped onion. Boil the pork in the clear water for an hour and a half, then take it out. Have ready the potatoes, which, after being peeled and sliced, should lie in cold water for half an hour. Throw them into the pot, with the chopped onion. Cover and boil three-quarters of an hour, stirring often. Beat in butter, milk and egg. Add the latter ingredients carefully, a little at a time; stir while it heats to a final boil, and then serve. This is a cheap wholesome dish, and more palatable than one would suppose from reading the receipt. Graham Soup. ✠ ✠ 3 onions. 3 carrots. 4 turnips. 1 small cabbage. 1 bunch celery. 1 pt. stewed tomatoes. Chop all the vegetables, except the tomatoes and cabbage, very finely, and set them over the fire with rather over three quarts of water. They should simmer gently for half an hour, at the end of which time the cabbage must be added, having previously been parboiled and chopped up. In fifteen minutes more put in the tomatoes and a bunch of sweet herbs, and give all a lively boil of twenty minutes. Rub through a cullender, return the soup to the fire, stir in a good tablespoonful of butter, pepper, and salt, half a cup of cream if you have it, thickened with corn-starch; let it boil up, and it is ready for the table. Ochra, or Gumbo. Ochra, or okra, is a vegetable little known except in the far South, where it is cultivated in large quantities and is very popular. A favorite soup is prepared from it in the following manner:— 2 qts. of ochras, sliced thin. 1 qt. of tomatoes, also sliced. 4 tablespoonfuls of butter. 2 lbs. of beef, cut into small pieces. ½ lb. corned ham or pork, also cut up. [22] [23] Put the meat and ochras together in a pot with a quart of cold water—just enough to cover them—and let them stew for an hour. Then add the tomatoes and two quarts of boiling water—more, if the liquid in the pot has boiled away so as to expose the meat and vegetables. Boil three-quarters of an hour longer, skimming often with a silver spoon. When the contents of the vessel are boiled to pieces, put in the butter, with cayenne pepper and salt, if the ham has not seasoned it sufficiently. Strain and send up with squares of light, crisp toast floating upon it. Corn. ✠ ✠ 1 large fowl, cut into eight pieces. 1 doz. ears green corn—cut from the cobs. Boil the chicken with the cobs in a gallon of water until the fowl is tender—if tough, the boiling must be slow and long. Then, put the corn into the pot, and stew an hour longer—still gently. Remove the chicken with a cupful of the liquid, if you wish to make other use of the meat. Set this aside, take out the cobs, season the corn-soup with pepper, salt, and parsley; thicken with rice or wheat flour, boil up once, and serve without straining, if the corn be young and tender. A tolerable fricassee may be made of the chicken, unless it has boiled to rags, by beating up an egg and a tablespoonful of butter, adding this to the cupful of reserved liquor from which the corn must be strained. Boil this for a moment, thicken with flour, throw in a little chopped parsley, pepper, and salt; pour, while scalding, over the chicken, which you have arranged in a dish; garnish with circular slices of hard-boiled eggs and curled parsley. MEAT SOUPS. Beef Soup (à la Julienne). ✠ ✠ 6 lbs. of lean beef. The shin is a good piece for this purpose. Have the bones well cracked, carefully extracting the marrow, every bit of which should be put into the soup. 6 qts. of water. The stock must be prepared the day before the soup is needed. Put the beef, bones and all, with the water in a close vessel, and set it where it will heat gradually. Let it boil very slowly for six hours at least, only uncovering the pot once in a great while to see if there is danger of the water sinking too rapidly. Should this be the case, replenish with boiling water, taking care not to put in too much. During the seventh hour, take off the soup and set it away in a cool place, until next morning. About an hour before dinner, take out the meat, which you can use for mince-meat, if you wish; remove the cake of fat from the surface of the stock, set the soup over the fire, and throw in a little salt to bring up the scum. When this has been skimmed carefully off, put in your vegetables. These should be:— 2 carrots. 3 turnips. Half a head of white cabbage. 1 pt. green corn—or dried Shaker corn, soaked over night. 1 head celery. 1 qt. tomatoes. These should be prepared for the soup by slicing them very small, and stewing them in barely enough water to cover them, until they break to pieces. Cook the cabbage by itself in two waters—throwing the first away. The only exception to the general dissolution, is in the case of a single carrot, which should likewise be cooked alone and whole, until thoroughly done, and set aside to cool, when the rest of the vegetables, with the water in which they were boiled, are added to the soup. Return the pot to the fire with the vegetables and stock, and boil slowly for half an hour from the time ebullition actually begins. Strain without pressing, only shaking and lightly stirring the contents of the cullender. The vegetables having been added with all their juices already cooked, much boiling and squeezing are not needed, and only make the soup cloudy. Cut the reserved carrot into dice and drop into the clear liquor after it is in the tureen,—also, if you like, a handful of vermicelli, or macaroni which has been boiled tender in clear water. The seasoning of this excellent soup is a matter of taste. Some use only salt and white pepper. Others like with this a few blades of mace, and boil in the stock a handful of sweet herbs. And others fancy that, in addition to these, a glass of brown sherry imparts a flavor that renders it peculiarly acceptable to most palates. Send to table very hot, and have the soup-plates likewise heated. Veal Soup with Macaroni. ✠ ✠ 3 lbs. of veal knuckle or scrag, with the bones broken and meat cut up. 3 qts. water. ¼ lb. Italian macaroni. Boil the meat alone in the water for nearly three hours until it is reduced to shreds; and the macaroni until tender, in [24] [25] [26] enough water to cover it, in a vessel by itself. The pieces should not be more than an inch in length. Add a little butter to the macaroni when nearly done. Strain the meat out of the soup, season to your taste, put in the macaroni, and the water in which it was boiled; let it boil up, and serve. You can make macaroni soup of this by boiling a pound, instead of a quarter of a pound, in the second vessel, and adding the above quantity of veal broth. In this case, send on with it a plate of grated cheese, that those who cannot relish macaroni without this accompaniment may put it into their soup. Take care that the macaroni is of uniform length, not too long, and that it does not break while stewing. Add butter in proportion to the increased quantity of macaroni. Beef Soup (brown). 3 lbs. beef cut into strips. 3 onions. 3 qts. water. Put beef and water into the saucepan and boil for one hour. Meanwhile, slice the onions and fry them in butter to a light brown. Drop into the pot with a teaspoonful of cloves, half as much pepper, same quantity of mace as pepper, a pinch of allspice, and a teaspoonful of essence of celery, if you cannot get a head of fresh celery; also half a teaspoonful of powdered savory or sweet marjoram, and a teaspoonful of Worcestershire sauce. Stew all for two hours more, or until the beef has boiled to pieces. Strain the soup and return to the fire. Salt to taste, and just before taking it off, pour in a glass of brown sherry or Madeira wine. Mutton or Lamb Broth. ✠ ✠ 4 lbs. mutton or lamb—lean—cut into small pieces. 1 gallon water. ½ teacupful rice. Boil the unsalted meat for two hours, slowly, in a covered vessel. Soak the rice in enough warm water to cover it, and at the end of this time add it, water and all, to the boiling soup. Cook an hour longer, stirring watchfully from time to time, lest the rice should settle and adhere to the bottom of the pot. Beat an egg to a froth and stir into a cup of cold milk, into which has been rubbed smoothly a tablespoonful rice or wheat flour. Mix with this, a little at a time, some of the scalding liquor, until the egg is so far cooked that there is no danger of curdling in the soup. Pour into the pot, when you have taken out the meat, season with parsley, thyme, pepper, and salt. Boil up fairly, and serve. If allowed to stand on the fire, it is apt to burn. This soup may be made from the liquor in which a leg of mutton has been boiled, provided too much salt was not put in with it. It is especially good when the stock is chicken broth. For the sick it is palatable and nutritious with the rice left in. When strained it makes a nice white table soup, and is usually relished by all. Vermicelli Soup. ✠ ✠ 4 lbs. lamb, from which every particle of fat has been removed. 1 lb. veal. A slice of corned ham. 5 qts. water. Cut up the meat, cover it with a quart of water, and set it back on the range to heat very gradually, keeping it covered closely. At the end of an hour, add four quarts of boiling water, and cook until the meat is in shreds. Season with salt, sweet herbs, a chopped shallot, two teaspoonfuls Worcestershire sauce, and when these have boiled in the soup for ten minutes, strain and return to the fire. Have ready about a third of a pound of vermicelli (or macaroni), which has been boiled tender in clear water. Add this; boil up once, and pour out. Mock-Turtle or Calf’s Head Soup. ✠ ✠ 1 large calf’s head, well cleaned and washed. 4 pig’s feet, well cleaned and washed. This soup should always be prepared the day before it is to be served up. Lay the head and feet in the bottom of a large pot, and cover with a gallon of water. Let it boil three hours, or until the flesh will slip easily from the bones. Take out the head, leaving in the feet, and allow these to boil steadily while you cut the meat from the head. Select with care enough of the fatty portions which lie on the top of the head and the cheeks to fill a teacup, and set them aside to cool. Remove the brains to a saucer and also set aside. Chop the rest of the meat with the tongue very fine, season with salt, pepper, powdered marjoram and thyme, a teaspoonful of cloves, the same of mace, half as much allspice, and a grated nutmeg, and return to the pot. When the flesh falls from the bones of the pig’s feet, take out the latter, leaving in the gelatinous meat. Let all boil together slowly, without removing the cover, for two hours more; take the soup from the fire and set it away until the next day. An hour before dinner, set on the stock to warm. When it boils strain carefully, [27] [28] [29] and drop in the meat you have reserved, which, when cold, should be cut into small squares. Have these all ready as well as the force-meat balls. To prepare these, rub the yolks of five hard-boiled eggs to a paste in a Wedgewood mortar, or in a bowl, with the back of a silver tablespoon, adding gradually the brains to moisten them, also a little butter and salt. Mix with these two eggs beaten very light, flour your hands, and make this paste into balls about the size of a pigeon’s egg. Throw them into the soup five minutes before you take it from the fire; stir in three large tablespoonfuls of browned flour rubbed smooth in three great spoonfuls of melted butter, let it boil up well, and finish the seasoning by the addition of a glass and a half of good wine—Sherry or Madeira—and the juice of a lemon. It should not boil more than half an hour on the second day. Serve with sliced lemon. Some lay the slices upon the top of the soup, but the better plan is...