Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

“The gentleman who sat next me said ‘cro_quay_,’ very plainly, I assure you. But never mind the name. What are they made of? Hominy?”

“Yes,” returned I. “Or rice, or potato, or lobster, crab, salmon, halibut, cod, chicken, turkey, duck, game, veal, lamb, or beef. In short, of all kinds of fish, flesh, fowl, and vegetable. The smaller varieties are familiarly known to readers of cookery-books as ‘olives’ of meat, poultry, or game; the larger as _rissoles_ or _croquettes_, the largest as _cannelons_ or _mirotons_.”

“Good gracious!” uttered my overwhelmed friend. “Before I would bother my brain with such puzzling nonsense, I would set my family down to cold meat three times a day three days in a week!”

I believed she meant what she said. But not the less is it a “good” and a “gracious” thing for the housewife to conjure out of such unconsidered and unsightly trifles as the mutilated cold fowl from which half the breast and both legs are missing, or the few chops “left over,” or “that bone” of lamb or veal, or three square inches of cold fish, a pretty _plat_ for breakfast or luncheon, of golden-brown croquettes, imbedded in parsley, or in a ruby setting of pickled beets, that shall quicken John’s flagging appetite, and call from the little ones the never stale plaudit, “Mamma can always get up something nice.”

“Gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost,” is a text from which the thoughtful house-mother may preach to herself, as well as to her servants. That no opportunity of making home fairer, and even one hour of the day a little brighter, be lost or overlooked. That no possibility of proving her constant, active love for the least of her flock be passed by. These daily cares and hourly assiduities are the rivets in the chain that binds her best beloved ones unto THE FAMILY. Lacking them, the relation, instituted by law and continued by custom, has no stancher securities than habit and convenience—a hay-rope that will shrivel at the first touch of Passion, be rent by one resolute wrench of Expediency.

“A serious view to take of croquettes?” do I hear you say. Then hearken to something positive and practical.

_Unpalatable food is not wholesome._ It may be medicinal. Nothing forced upon an unwilling appetite, and that does not gratify the palate, can impart that freshness of animal spirit and vigor which we call Life—spontaneous vitality. Indifferent fuel—green or sodden wood, or slaty coal—may keep a fire from going out. There is not begotten from these the leaping flame that gladdens, while it warms. And cold meat and bread, dried into sawdusty innutrition, should no more form the staple of John’s meals, even three times a week, than his grate be filled, on December nights, with coke-dust and mica.

CHICKEN CROQUETTES. +

Minced chicken.

About one-quarter as much fine bread-crumbs as you have meat.

1 egg, beaten light, to each cupful of minced meat.

Gravy enough to moisten the crumbs and chicken. Or, if you have no gravy, a little drawn butter.

Pepper and salt, and chopped parsley to taste.

Yolks of two hard-boiled eggs, rubbed fine with the back of a silver spoon, added to the meat.

Mix up into a paste, with as little handling as may be. Nor must the paste be too wet to mould readily. Make, with floured hands, into rolls, or ovate balls, roll in flour until well coated, and fry, a few at a time, lest crowding should injure the shape, in nice dripping, or a mixture, half lard and half butter. As you take them out, lay in a hot cullender, that every drop of fat may be drained off. Serve in a heated dish, and garnish with cresses or parsley.

Turkey, duck, and veal croquettes can be made in the same manner. They are even nicer if dipped in egg and cracker-crumbs before frying.

BEEF CROQUETTES. +

Minced cold roast or boiled beef.

One-quarter as much potato.

Gravy enough to moisten meat and potato, in which an onion has been stewed and strained out. Season also with catsup.

Pepper and salt to taste, and a pinch of marjoram.

Beaten egg to bind the whole, and one or two more beaten in a separate bowl.

Powdered cracker-crumbs.

Mash the potatoes, while hot, very smooth, or, if cold mashed potato be used, be careful that no lumps remain in it. Mix in the meat, gravy, and one raw egg, season, and form into the desired shape. Dip each croquette in beaten egg, then roll in the cracker-crumbs, and fry quickly to a light brown. Drain carefully, and lay upon a hot dish.

VENISON OR MUTTON CROQUETTES.

Some slices of cold roast venison, or roast or boiled mutton—the lean only, if mutton be used—minced.

One-fifth as much stale bread, crumbed fine.

Some good gravy or drawn butter, thickened with browned flour.

Beaten egg for a _liaison_.

A pinch of mace, a very little grated lemon-peel, and chopped parsley to taste.

Some currant jelly, in the proportion of a small teaspoonful to each cup of gravy.

Stir the jelly well into the gravy, season and wet up with this the meat and crumbs, add the beaten egg, make into rolls, and flour these, or dip in egg and cracker-crumbs before frying.

_A Nice Breakfast Dish_

May be made of these by piling them in the centre of a flat dish, within a wall, about two inches high, of mashed potato, moulded to fit the inside of the dish, and browned in the oven. You had best use the platter of a chafing-dish for this purpose, or one of stone china. You can, if you like, brush the “wall” over with beaten egg before setting in the oven. Have ready some good, brown gravy, with a little currant jelly stirred into it; also, a small glass of claret. Thicken with browned flour, boil up once, and pour over the croquettes.

_Or,_

This is still nicer, if you add to the gravy some mushrooms, previously fried in butter, and chopped up. If you use these, you may, if you like, omit the potato wall, garnishing the pile instead, with triangles of fried bread.

FISH CROQUETTES.

Some cold fish—boiled, baked or fried—from which all fat, bones and skin have been removed, chopped fine.

One-third as much mashed potato, rubbed to a cream with a little melted butter.

A little white sauce, made of butter “drawn” in milk and thickened with corn-starch, and a beaten egg.

Chopped parsley, salt, pepper, and anchovy sauce, or walnut catsup, for seasoning.

Mix all well together, make into balls, which may be rolled in flour, or in beaten egg, and then cracker-crumbs before they are fried.

Send around sliced lemon with these, which are not good unless eaten hot.

These are, as will be seen, a modification of the well-known and time-honored “fish-ball,” but, if properly made, will be found much better.

CROQUETTES OF LOBSTER OR CRAB. +

Meat of one fine lobster, or six crabs well boiled.

2 eggs.

2 table-spoonfuls of butter.

½ cup fine bread-crumbs.

1 teaspoonful anchovy sauce.

Yolks of two eggs, boiled hard and rubbed to a powder, then beaten into the butter.

1 good teaspoonful lemon-juice.

Season well with salt and cayenne pepper; also, a pinch of mace and lemon-peel.

Yolks of two raw eggs, beaten very light.

Mince the meat, work in the butter—melted, but not hot; then the seasoning, the raw eggs, and lastly, the bread-crumbs. Make into oblong balls, and fry quickly in sweet lard, dripping, or half lard, half butter. Drain them of every drop of fat by rolling each, for an instant, very lightly upon a hot, clean cloth. Be sure your dish is well heated.

These are very delicious, and should be accompanied by milk or cream crackers, with slices of lemon passed to such guests as would like the additional relish.

CROQUETTES OF GAME. +

Remains of cold grouse, quail, etc.

Giblets of the same, or of poultry, boiled and cold.

Gravy.

One-fourth the quantity of fine bread-crumbs that you have of meat.

Season with pepper and salt.

Raw egg, beaten, for binding the mixture together, also some in a separate vessel for coating the croquettes.

Fine cracker-crumbs.

Mince the meat, and pound the giblets in a Wedgewood mortar, when you have removed skin and cartilage from the gizzards. Moisten with gravy as you pound, until all are smooth. Mix into this the raw egg and seasoning, then the meat, lastly the bread-crumbs. Mould, dip in egg, then in cracker-powder and fry in _boiling_ fat. The dripping from roast poultry may be used for this purpose. _Not_ that from beef or mutton, as it spoils the flavor of the game.

It is easy to reserve giblets for this dish by a little foresight, and in no other shape are they more useful.

VEAL AND HAM CROQUETTES.

Cold roast or stewed veal, the remnants of cutlets or chops, freed from bone, skin and gristle, and minced fine.

Half the quantity of cold boiled ham. A little fat on a slice, now and then, is an improvement.

Gravy or drawn butter thickened with browned flour to moisten the meat.

One-fourth as much fine bread-crumbs as you have meat.

Yolks of one or two eggs, boiled hard and powdered, then beaten into the gravy.

Season with chopped parsley and pepper. The ham usually supplies sufficient salt.

Beaten egg and powdered cracker.

Raw egg for the _liaison_.

Mix veal and ham well together; wet with the gravy and season before putting in the raw egg. Stir up well, but do not beat, and add the crumbs.

Boll in egg and cracker, and fry.

Mem. _The fat in which croquettes are fried must be boiling, yet must not burn._

Try a bit of the mixture before risking the well-being of your whole dish.

HOMINY CROQUETTES. +

2 large cups of fine-grained hominy, boiled and cold.

2 eggs, well beaten.

2 table-spoonfuls melted butter.

Salt to taste.

Work the butter well into the hominy until the latter is smooth and soft, then the eggs, beating hard for two or three minutes with a wooden spoon, season, and make into balls or rolls with floured hands. Roll each in flour, and fry to a yellow-brown in sweet lard.

POTATO CROQUETTES. +

2 cups mashed potato, cold and free from lumps.

2 eggs beaten to a froth.

1 table-spoonful melted butter.

Salt and pepper to taste.

1 egg beaten in a separate vessel.

1 teacupful cracker-crumbs.

Mix as you do hominy croquettes, roll in egg and cracker, and fry in boiling lard. Take up as soon as they are done, and drain perfectly dry.

This is an excellent preparation of potato, and particularly acceptable at breakfast or luncheon.

RICE CROQUETTES. +

2 cups cold boiled rice.

2 table-spoonfuls melted butter.

3 eggs, beaten light.

A little flour.

1 raw egg and half a cup of powdered cracker.

2 table-spoonfuls white sugar.

A large pinch of finely grated lemon-peel, and salt to taste.

Beat eggs and sugar together until light, and work the butter well into the rice. Next, stir up with this the beaten eggs. Season and make into croquettes of whatever shape you may fancy. They are pretty, moulded into the form of pears, with a clove blossom, end outward, at the large end, and the stalk of another projecting from the small, to represent the pear-stem. You may find it advisable to use a little flour in working the rice paste, but be careful not to get it too stiff, in which event the croquette, of whatever composed, ceases to be a delicacy. Roll in flour, then in the beaten egg, lastly in the powdered cracker, and fry, a few at a time, in sweet lard or butter.

Rice croquettes are sometimes eaten, with powdered sugar sprinkled thickly over them, as a dessert, or sweet sauce is served with them. They are delicious when properly mixed and cooked.

* * * * *

CANNELON OF VEAL. +

2 pounds of cold roast or stewed veal. The remains of a stewed and stuffed fillet are good for this purpose, especially if underdone.

1 pound cold boiled ham.

1 large cupful gravy. If you have none left over, make it of the refuse bits of the cold meat, such as fat, skin, etc.

1 small teaspoonful finely minced lemon-peel, the same of mace, and a table-spoonful chopped parsley.

Salt and pepper.

1 cupful bread-crumbs, dry and fine.

Yolks of 3 eggs beaten light, reserving the whites for glazing the cannelon when done.

Chop the meat very well, season it and stir in the beaten yolks; wet with half the gravy, and mix in the bread-crumbs. It should be just soft enough to handle without running into a shapeless mass. Flour your hands and make it into a roll about three times as long as it is broad. Flour the outside well and lay it in a greased baking-pan. Cover and set in the oven until it is smoking hot, when remove the cover and brown quickly. Draw to the oven-door and brush over with white of egg, shut the door for one minute to set this, and transfer the cannelon, by the help of a cake-turner or a wooden paddle, to a hot dish. Lay three-cornered pieces of fried bread close about it, and pour a rich gravy over all.

You can make a really elegant dish of this by adding to the gravy a half-pint of sliced mushrooms, and stewing them in it until they are tender and savory, then pouring them over the _rouleau_ of meat.

A savory and inexpensive dish, and a good _entrée_ at a family dinner. Of course you can vary the size to suit the remnants of meat.

CANNELON OF BEEF

Is made precisely like one of veal, except that mashed potato is substituted for bread-crumbs, and an onion is stewed in the gravy before the latter is strained over the baked roll of meat.

Green pickles or olives are a palatable accompaniment to it.

A PRETTY BREAKFAST DISH

May be made of croquettes of fish, lobster, fowl or meat in the shape of hen’s eggs, heaped upon a dish and surrounded by very thin strips of fried potato, arranged to look as much as possible like straw. If sauce is poured over the croquettes, be careful not to let it deluge the potato that forms the nest.

SWEETBREADS.

IT is usually necessary to bespeak sweetbreads several days in advance, as they are both scarce and popular. But if your butcher be accommodating, and yourself a valued customer, there is seldom much difficulty in procuring enough to make a dish for a family of ordinary size.

Keep sweetbreads in a cold, dry place, and cook as soon as possible after getting them, as they soon spoil. Be careful, moreover, in cooking them, to see that they are thoroughly done.

BROWN FRICASSEE OF SWEETBREADS. (No. 1.) +

4 sweetbreads.

2 cups brown veal gravy, strong and well-seasoned.

4 table-spoonfuls of butter.

Pinch of mace, and twice as much cloves.

Browned flour for thickening.

1 teaspoonful chopped onion, stewed in, and then strained out of the gravy.

Wash the sweetbreads carefully in warm water, removing every bit of skin and gristle. Lay them in a saucepan, and cover with _boiling_ water. Boil them ten minutes hard, turn off the hot water, and plunge them instantly into very cold, in which you have dissolved a little salt. Leave them in this about fifteen minutes, or until they are cool, white and firm. Cut each crosswise into slices nearly half an inch thick. Have ready the butter in the frying-pan, and fry the slices, turning frequently, until they are a good brown, but do not dry them up. Drain off the fat through a cullender, lay the sliced sweetbreads within a saucepan, pour the hot brown gravy, already seasoned, over them, cover closely, and simmer, not boil, fifteen minutes longer.

BROWN FRICASSEE. (No. 2.) +

4 sweetbreads.

2 cups good brown gravy—veal is best. Spice with mace and cloves.

1 onion.

½ cup butter.

1 pint mushrooms.

Prepare the sweetbreads by boiling and blanching as in previous receipt. Slice the onion and mushrooms, and fry quickly to a fine brown in half the butter. Strain the fat from these, and return it to the frying-pan, adding the rest of the butter. When hissing hot, put in the sliced sweetbreads. Turn over and over in the fat for three minutes. Meanwhile, let the fried onions and mushrooms be stewing in the gravy. Pour this gravy, when the sweetbreads are ready, into a jar or tin pail with a closely-fitting top; set it in a pot of boiling water, taking care there is not enough to bubble over the top, put in the sliced sweetbreads, cover, and stew _gently_ at the side of the range for twenty minutes—half an hour, should the sweetbreads be large. Arrange the slices symmetrically upon a hot platter, pour the gravy over them, when you have added a thickening of browned flour, and serve.

There is no more palatable preparation of sweetbreads than this, especially if you add to the gravy a glass of brown sherry. Garnish with triangles of fried bread.

WHITE FRICASSEE OF SWEETBREADS. +

3 fine sweetbreads.

3 eggs.

4 table-spoonfuls of cream.

1 great spoonful of butter.

1 teaspoonful chopped parsley.

A good pinch of nutmeg.

1 cup strong veal or lamb broth—never mutton.

Wash the sweetbreads well. Soak them in very cold or ice-water, slightly salted, for half an hour. Blanch by plunging them for an instant into boiling water, after which lay for five minutes in ice-water. This process makes them white and firm. Put them into a covered saucepan with the broth, which must be well seasoned with pepper and salt, and, if you like, a very slight touch of onion. Sprinkle with nutmeg, cover closely, and stew steadily for an hour, if the sweetbreads are of a fair size, and you mean to serve them whole. If they have been sliced, three-quarters of an hour is sufficient.

Heat the cream in another saucepan until scalding hot, but not boiling. Take it from the fire, and stir carefully, a little at a time, into the beaten eggs. Just before the sweetbreads are taken from the fire, add this mixture slowly, stirring all the time. Leave it in the saucepan just long enough to cook the eggs, but do not let it boil. Stir in the parsley at the same time. Turn out in a hot covered dish.

LARDED SWEETBREADS STEWED.

3 fine sweetbreads.

¼ pound fat salt pork, cut into long narrow strips.

1 cup good veal gravy.

1 small pinch of cayenne pepper.

1 table-spoonful of mushroom catsup.

Juice of half a lemon.

Parboil the sweetbreads for five minutes. The water should be boiling when they are put in. Plunge immediately into very cold salt water. Let them lie in this for five minutes, wipe them dry with a soft, clean cloth, and lay upon a cool dish until perfectly cold. Lard them closely with the strips of salt pork. Stew gently for twenty-five minutes in the gravy, which must be rich and thick. Add lemon-juice, catsup, cayenne, and, if needed, a little salt. Lay the sweetbreads in order on a flat dish, pour the gravy over them, and garnish with sliced lemon laid in the triangular spaces left between three-cornered bits of fried toast.

N.B. A pleasant addition to this dish, as to the brown fricassee of sweetbreads, is force-meat of chopped beef or veal very finely minced and worked to a paste with hard-boiled yolk of egg, a little crumbed bread, a spoonful or two of gravy or butter. Season very highly, work in the beaten yolk of a raw egg to bind the mixture, and make into oval balls a little larger than olives. Flour these, and lay on a floured plate, so as not to touch one another. Set in a quick oven until they are firm and hissing hot, garnish the dish with them instead of the sliced lemon, and pour the hot gravy over them and the triangles of toast as well as the sweetbreads. An outer circle of parsley looks well with these.

LARDED SWEETBREAD—FRIED. +

3 or 4 sweetbreads.

4 or 5 slices very fat salt pork.

A little pepper.

Parboil, blanch and lard, as in preceding receipt. Have ready a clean, hot frying-pan barely greased with a little butter. Put in the sweetbreads, and fry without other fat than that of the pork lardoons which should project half an inch on each side of the sweetbreads. Cook steadily, turning the sweetbreads frequently, until they are of a nice brown. Cut into one with a small sharp knife, to assure yourself that it is done. Remove to a hot, well-buttered dish, and garnish with sprigs of parsley, which have been crisped, but not burned, in a little boiling butter.

BROILED SWEETBREADS. +

Parboil and blanch, as already directed, by putting first into hot water, and keeping it at a fast boil for five minutes, then plunging into ice-cold, a little salted. When the sweetbreads have lain in this ten minutes, wipe them very dry, and with a sharp knife split each in half, lengthwise. Broil over a clear, hot fire, turning every minute as they begin to drip. Have ready upon a deep plate some melted butter, well salted and peppered, mixed with catsup or pungent sauce. When the sweetbreads are done to a fine brown lay them in this, turning them over several times, and set, _covered_, in a warm oven.

Lay rounds of fried bread or toast within a chafing-dish, and a piece of sweetbread on each. Pour the rest of the hot butter, in which they have been lying, over them, and send to table.

ROASTED SWEETBREADS.

3 sweetbreads.

1 cup brown gravy—veal, if you can get it.

2 eggs, beaten light.

2 table-spoonfuls of butter, melted.

Large handful of bread-crumbs.

1 table-spoonful mushroom or tomato catsup.

1 small glass brown sherry.

A very little onion, minced fine, and stewed in the gravy.

Soak the sweetbreads in tepid water for half an hour; then boil in hot water ten minutes, plunging into very cold at the end of this time. Wipe perfectly dry, coat with the beaten egg, then with the bread-crumbs. Repeat this until they are thickly and closely covered. Lay upon a baking-pan, put the butter, a little at a time, over them, that it may soak into the crumbs; set in a moderate oven, turn another pan over them, and bake, covered, three-quarters of an hour, if of fair size, basting from time to time with the veal gravy. Dish them upon toast or fried bread, give the gravy a boil-up when you have added the catsup and wine, and strain it over the sweetbreads.

SWEETBREADS SAUTÉS AU VIN. +

3 sweetbreads.

1 table-spoonful of butter.

1 table-spoonful chopped onion and parsley, mixed.

1 cup brown gravy—veal or fowl.

1 glass brown sherry or fresh champagne.

Salt and pepper to taste.

1 table-spoonful mushroom, or tomato catsup.

Parboil and blanch the sweetbreads, as usual; let them get perfectly cold; cut lengthwise into slices about a quarter of an inch thick. Have the butter hot in a frying-pan, and lay them in. Cook ten minutes, shaking, tossing and turning them all the while; then add the gravy, catsup, onion, parsley and other seasoning previously heated together. Shake all until they have stewed and bubbled at boiling-heat for five minutes, put in the wine, boil up once, and pour into a hot dish.

KIDNEYS,

Although less liked generally, are yet esteemed a _bonne bouche_ by the epicure whose appetite has been educated by what is commonly styled “fancy” cookery. They are cheaper than sweetbreads, and less difficult to keep, if less delicate in flavor.

FRIED KIDNEYS.

3 fine large kidneys—the fresher the better.

3 table-spoonfuls of butter.

½ cup of good brown gravy—veal, mutton or beef.

A teaspoonful of chopped parsley, and half as much minced onion.

Pepper and salt to taste.

Skin the kidneys, and cut crosswise into round slices a quarter of an inch thick. Roll them in flour. Have ready in a frying-pan the butter well seasoned with pepper, a little salt, the parsley and onion. When it begins to simmer over the fire, lay in evenly and carefully the slices of kidney. Fry gently for two minutes, turn, and let them fry as long on the other side, or until they are of a light brown. If cooked too much, or too fast, they become tough and tasteless. Remove instantly from the frying-pan with an egg-beater or perforated skimmer, and arrange in order on a hot dish. Add to the gravy in the pan, a few tablespoonfuls of broth, thicken with browned flour, boil up once, and pour over the kidneys.

_Or,_

You can substitute for the butter in the pan three or four table-spoonfuls of chopped _fat_ salt pork. Let it heat to hissing, put in the seasoning, stir up well and fry the kidneys with the bits of pork. Then, proceed according to the latter part of the foregoing receipt.

TOASTED KIDNEYS.

3 kidneys skinned and split lengthwise, each into 3 pieces.

¼ pound of fat salt pork, cut into slices.

Pepper and salt.

Slices or rounds of toasted bread from which the crust has been pared.

Lay the kidneys upon a _very_ hot plate (a tin one is best) in front of, and on a level with a clear brisk fire. Toast the pork upon a fork, slice by slice, holding it so that the gravy will drip upon the kidneys beneath. When the pork is done, lay it upon another hot plate, and set this in the place just occupied by the kidneys. Toast these in their turn, so that the gravy which falls from them shall drop upon the pork. Turn them frequently, and be careful not to lose a drop of the gravy from kidneys or pork. When the gravy ceases to flow the kidneys are done. Serve upon the toast on a hot dish; cut the pork into strips, and lay along the sides of the dish. Pour the gravy over kidneys and toast. This latter should either be fried previously in butter, or be well buttered if toasted in the usual way. Pepper and salt just before sending to table, as salt hardens and toughens the kidneys.

KIDNEYS STEWED WITH WINE.

3 kidneys.

3 table-spoonfuls of butter.

1 onion, minced.

1 table-spoonful mushroom, or walnut catsup.

3 table-spoonfuls rich brown gravy.

1 glass of claret.

Pepper and salt to taste.

Cut the kidneys into round slices. Heat the butter to a boil in a frying-pan, stir in the chopped onion, then lay in the slices of kidney, and fry two minutes. Have in another vessel the gravy, catsup and wine, ready heated. Take up the kidneys, draining from them every drop of fat, and transfer to this gravy. Cover closely, stew gently for five minutes, or until tender, and serve directly.

BROILED KIDNEYS.

2 kidneys.

2 table-spoonfuls of melted butter.

Pepper and salt, and a little chopped parsley.

Skin the kidneys carefully, but do not slice or split them. Lay for ten minutes in _warm_ (not hot) melted butter, rolling them over and over, that every part may be well basted. Broil on a gridiron over a clear fire, turning them every minute. They should be done in about twelve minutes, unless very large. Sprinkle with salt and pepper, and lay on a hot dish, with a bit of butter upon each. Cover and send up immediately.

STEWED KIDNEYS.

3 kidneys.

3 table-spoonfuls melted butter.

Juice of half a lemon, and a pinch of grated lemon-peel.

A very little mace, and pepper and salt to taste.

1 teaspoonful chopped onion.

1 cup good brown gravy.

Cut each kidney lengthwise into three pieces; wash these well and wipe dry. Warm the butter in a frying-pan; put in the kidneys before this is really hot, with the seasoning and gravy. Simmer all together, closely covered, about ten minutes. Add the lemon-juice; take up the kidneys and lay upon a hot dish, with fried or toasted bread underneath. Thicken the gravy with browned flour, boil up once, pour over all, and serve.

KIDNEYS À LA BROCHETTE.

4 kidneys—those of medium size are preferable to large.

2 great spoonfuls of butter.

1 great spoonful chopped parsley, onion, and very fine bread-crumbs.

Juice of half a lemon.

Pepper and salt to taste.

Split the kidneys lengthwise, but not quite through, leaving enough meat and skin at one side to act as a sort of hinge. Rub them well inside with melted butter, and lay them open, as you would small birds, the back downward, upon a buttered gridiron, over a bright fire. They should be done in about eight minutes. Turn often while broiling. Have ready the stuffing of crumbs, parsley, onion, and butter, well seasoned. Heat in a saucepan, stirring until smoking hot. Add the lemon-juice; dish the kidneys, put some of this mixture inside of each, close the two sides upon it, butter and pepper them, and serve.

A few bits of fat salt pork, minced very fine, gives a good flavor to the stuffing. The pork should have been previously cooked.

HASTE OR WASTE?

“AH! you forget my sedan-chair,” said Madame de Staël, when, at the height of her social and literary fame some one wondered how she found time for writing amid her many and engrossing engagements.

The sedan-chair was the fashionable conveyance for ladies, at that day, in their round of daily calls or evening festivities, and the brilliant Frenchwoman secured within its closed curtains the solitude and silence she needed for composition.

An American authoress who wrote much and with great care—never sending her brain-bantlings into the world _en déshabille_—replied to a similar question: “My happiest thoughts come to me while I am mixing cake. My most serious study-hours are those devoted apparently to darning the family stockings.”

I entered a street-car, not many days ago, and sat down beside a gentleman who did not lift his eyes from a book he was reading, or show, by any token, his consciousness of others’ presence. A side-glance at the volume told me it was Froude’s “History of England,” and I cheerfully forgave his inattention to myself. The conductor notified him when he reached his stopping-place, and, with a readiness that betrayed admirable mental training, he came out of the world through which the fascinating historian was leading him, pocketed his book, recognized me with a pleasant word, and stepped to the pavement in front of his store, the thorough business man.

“That is an affected prig,” said a fellow-passenger, by the time the other had left the car. “He and I take this ride in company every morning and afternoon. It takes him half an hour to go from his house to his store; and, instead of amusing himself with his newspaper, as the rest of us do, he always has some heavy-looking book along—biography, or history, or a scientific treatise. He begins to read by the time he is seated, and never leaves off until he gets out. It is in wretched taste, such a show of pedantic industry.”

After this growl of disapprobation, the speaker buried himself anew in the advertising columns of the _Herald_, and I lapsed into a brown study, which had for its germ the query, “Is it, then, more respectable, even among men, to kill time than to save it?”

I knew the reader of Froude well. He was, as I have intimated, a successful and a busy merchant; and I had often marvelled at his familiarity with English _belles-lettres_, and graver literature, the study of which is usually given up to so-called professional men. That hour a day explained it all. The crowded street-car was his sedan-chair. I also knew his critic; had seen him placed at such a woful disadvantage in the society of educated men and women, that my heart ached and my cheeks burned in sympathy with his mortification; had heard him deplore the deficiencies of his early training, and that the exigencies of his business-cares now made self-improvement impracticable. He would have protested it to be an impossibility that he could find a spare hour a day to devote to the neglected task; six hours a week—a whole day in a month, two weeks in a year. Yet a fortnight of newspaper-reading and idle gossip would be a sorry entry in his year-book. For this lazy murder of time cannot, by any stretch of conscience, be classed as healthful recreation, any more than can the one, two, three, ten hours a week during which Mrs. Neverthink sits with folded hands, discussing fashions and her neighbors’ frailties, the while her work is steadily doubling itself up, snowball-like, before the lever of each idle minute. All work and no play would make Mrs. Neverthink a dull and a diseased woman; but the fact is, she is not playing any more than she is working, as she sits, or stands to parley about trifles. She is only wasting time, making inevitable the haste. Oh! these “few words more,” with which the Neverthink tribe prolong the agony of their would-be-if-they-could industrious sisters, and heap up the burden of their own coming cares! The words which mean nothing, the driblets of a shallow, sluggish stream that meanders into anybody’s meadow, and spreads itself harmfully over the nearest pastures, instead of being directed into a straight, beneficent channel! “I haven’t a bit of system about me!” wails the worried creature, when the ponderous snow-ball has finally to be heaved out of the way by her own hands.

It would be a matter of curious interest could I recount how often I have heard this plaint from those of my own sex who are thus straining and suffering. From some it comes carelessly—a form of words they have fallen into the habit of repeating without much thought of what they mean. With a majority (I wish I were not obliged to say it!) it is rather a boast than a lament. The notable housekeeper who would be ashamed to admit that she does not look narrowly after paper and twine, bits of cold meat and scraps of butter, does not calculate wisely concerning coal, candle-ends and crusts—confesses, without a blush, that she takes no thought of the gold-dust, known among us as minutes and seconds, sifting through her lax fingers. By and by, she is as truly impoverished as if she had thrown away the treasure in nuggets, and then comes the lament, not repentance. She is “run to death with work, but she doesn’t see how it is to be helped. All other housekeepers are the same. She never could economize time; has no genius for arranging her labors to advantage.”

The building of such an one is the heaping together of boulders with crevices between, through which the winds of disappointment whistle sharply. System,—by which we mean a sagacious and economical apportionment of the duty to the hour and the minute; an avoidance of needless waste of time; a courageous putting forth of the hand to the plough, instead of talking over the work to be done while the cool morning moments are flying,—“System,” then, is not a talent! I wish I could write this in terms so strong and striking as to command the attention, enforce the belief of those whom I would reach. It is not a talent. Still less is it genius. It is a duty! and she who shirks it does herself and others wrong. If you cannot order your household according to this rule, the fault is yours, and the misfortune theirs.

“We are living too fast!” is the useless note of alarm sounded from press, and pulpit, and lecture-room; echoed in a thousand homes, in various accents of regret and dismay; most fearfully by the rattling clods upon the coffin-lid, that hides forever the careworn face of wife and mother, who has been trampled to death by the press of iron-footed cares. Is not this haste begotten by waste?

Is there any good reason why, in our homes—yours and mine, my toiling sister—and in those of our neighbors to the right and left of us, should not reign such method as prevails in our husbands’ places of business? Why, instead of meeting the morning with uplifted hands and the already desponding cry, “I have so much to do I cannot decide what to lay hold of first!” we should not behold our path already mapped out by our provident study over-night—its certain duties; its probable stumbling-blocks; recreation, devotion and rest—each in its proper place? Why we should not be ready, “heart within and God o’erhead,” to make the new day an event in our lives, a stepping-stone to higher usefulness to our kind and toward heaven? Why we should not bring to hindrance, as to duty, the resolute, hopeful purpose with which the miner bends over his pickaxe, the gardener over his spade, the book-keeper over his ledger? Why, in short, we should not magnify our office—make of housewifery, and child-tending, and sewing a profession—to be studied as diligently and pursued as steadily as are the avocations of the other sex?

I should not dare ask these questions, were I not already convinced, by years of patient examination of the subject, that it is feasible for a clear-headed, conscientious woman to do all this, and more. Would not “dare,” because I know by what a storm of indignant protest the queries will be met, not only from those who pride themselves upon the amiable foible of “having no system,” but on the part of deep-hearted women who are really anxious to do their share of this world’s great work.

The pale-faced mother over the way will tell me of the clutch of baby-fingers upon her garments whenever she essays to move steadily onward, and how the pressure of the same holds her eyes waking through the night-watches; how the weight of baby-lips upon the breast saps strength and vitality together. Dear and precious cares she esteems these; but they leave little time or energy for anything else. The matron, whose younglings have outgrown childhood, is ready with her story of the toils and distractions of a family of merry girls who are “in society,” and inconsiderate, unpunctual “boys,” who look to “mother” to supply, for the present, the place of the coming wife to each of them. Martha, wedded and middle-aged, but childless, is overpowered by cares, “put upon her by everybody,” she relates, with an ever-renewed sense of injury wearing into her soul, “because it is believed that women without children have nothing to do.”

One and all, they are eloquent upon the subject of unforeseen vexations, the ever-hindering “happenings” that, like the knots tied in wire-grass across the path by mischievous fairies, are continually tripping them up.

“Moreover,” says Mrs. Practical, “there is little use in attempting to be methodical and to save the scraps of time unless other people do. We are liable to have our precious hoard stolen at any moment. If my next-door neighbor persists in ‘dropping in’ whenever she feels lonely, or wants a receipt, or has a morsel of news she cannot keep, and cannot withdraw her unseasonable foot from my house under an hour at each visit, of what avail are my watchfulness and diligence?”

With her accustomed shrewdness, Mrs. Practical has put her finger upon the hardest knot of the tangle. Says that other model of sterling, every-day sense, Miss Betsy Trotwood, touching Mr. Micawber’s difficulties: “If he is going to be continually arrested, his friends have got to be continually bailing him out—that is all!”

The family of Neverthinks (“may their tribe _de_crease!”) act upon the reverse principle. If their acquaintances will be continually working themselves into line with the flying hours, they—the Neverthinks—must be zealous in pulling them to the rear. They are like an army of mice scampering through the tidy cupboards of Mesdames Practical and Notable. They claim, like Death, all seasons for their own. Against such there is no recognized law, and no redress except in the determined will and wise co-operation of their victims.

Dropping the fictitious personages, let us talk of this matter plainly, as face-to-face, dear reader! Why have women, as a class, such an imperfect conception of the value of time to themselves and to others? To Mrs. Trollope belongs, I believe, the credit of bringing into general use a word which, if not elegant, is so expressive that I cannot do without it in this connection. Why do women _dawdle_ away seconds and minutes and hours in playing at work, or affecting to play? A clever young girl was once showing me a set of chairs embroidered by herself. Knowing that she was her mother’s efficient aid in the cares entailed by a large family, I asked her how she had made the time for the achievement.

“O! I did it in the _betweenities_!” she returned, gayly. “Between prayers and breakfast; between the children’s lessons; between the spring and fall sewing; between morning and evening calls, and in a dozen other gaps. I had a piece of it always within reach, and every stitch taken was a gain of one.”

We all need play—recreation, wholesome and hearty diversion. I would guard this point carefully. God-willing, we will talk of it, more at length, some time, but to make the day’s work even and close, our life’s work rich and ample, we must look well after the “betweenities.”

Let me probe a little more deeply yet. Have not the prejudices and gallantries of generations had their effect upon the formation of feminine opinions on this head? begotten in many minds the impression that we are unjustly dealt with in being obliged to take up and carry forward as a life-long duty any business whatsoever? Is not the unspoken thought of such persons one of impatient disappointment at finding that earth is not a vast pleasure-ground and existence one long, bright holiday? If men will speak of and treat women as pretty playthings, they at least should not complain when the dainty toy proves to be an unserviceable domestic machine. A man who acknowledges that he dislikes the business by which he earns his living is looked upon with instant distrust, as silly, indolent, or, at the best, unphilosophical. If his auditor has occasion to avail himself of the services of one of the craft to which the unwilling workman belongs, he will assuredly seek a man who would be likely to do himself and his employer more credit than can be given by his half-hearted labor. But housewives confess freely that they loathe housekeeping and all pertaining thereto. I speak that which I do know when I say that where you find one who works _con amore_ in her profession, there are two who drudge on grumblingly, and consider themselves aggrieved because the morning brings labor and the evening care. The fault begins very far back.

“If girls knew when they were well off, they would never marry.”

“A butterfly before marriage—a grub afterward.”

“Let well enough alone.”

“She who weds may do well. She who remains single certainly does better.”

These are specimens of the choice maxims shouted from the reefs of matrimony to the pleasure-shallops gliding over the summer sea beyond the breakers. By the time the boy begins to walk and talk, the sagacious father studies his tastes and capacity in selecting a trade for him; puts him fairly in training for the same so soon as he is well embarked in his teens; sees for himself that his drill is thorough and his progress satisfactory. Of the lad’s sisters their mother will tell you, with tears in her eyes, that she “cannot bear to tie the dear girls down to regular duties. Let them take their pleasure now, for when they marry, trouble and responsibility must come.”

Not seeing that to the unskilled apprentice the practice of his art must be cruelly hard; that her own loving hands are making tight the lashings of the load which the tender shoulders must bear until death cuts the sharp cords; that in her mistaken indulgence she is putting darkness for light, and light for darkness; bitter for sweet, and sweet for bitter.

MEATS, INCLUDING POULTRY AND GAME.

CALF’S LIVER _à l’Anglaise_. +

2 pounds fresh liver.

¼ pound fat salt pork.

2 table-spoonfuls of butter.

1 small shallot, minced very fine.

1 teaspoonful chopped parsley.

Cut the liver into slices half an inch thick. Lay these smoothly in a saucepan in which the butter has already been melted, but not allowed to get hot. Chop the pork into very small bits, and spread upon the liver. Sprinkle over this the minced parsley and onion, and season to your fancy with salt and pepper. Cover the saucepan closely, and set it where it will heat so moderately that the juices will be drawn out without simmering. Care must be taken to observe this direction exactly, as both the tenderness and flavor of the liver are impaired by stewing. At the end of an hour and a half increase the heat gradually until the contents of the saucepan begin to bubble. Remove from the fire; arrange the liver neatly upon a hot chafing-dish, and keep this covered while you boil up and thicken with a little browned flour the gravy left in the saucepan. Pour over the liver and serve.

This process renders calf’s liver tender and juicy to a degree that would seem incredible to those who know the much-abused edible only through the medium of the usual modes of cookery.

Try it, when you are at a loss for something new, yet not expensive.

CALF’S LIVER _au Domino_.

2 pounds liver.

½ pound fat salt pork.

2 table-spoonfuls of butter.

Seasoning of pepper, parsley and onion.

Cut the liver in pieces less than half an inch thick, and rather more than an inch square. String these evenly upon a slender skewer (an old knitting-needle will do) alternately with bits of fat pork of the same shape and width. When the skewer is full, lay for ten minutes in the melted butter, season with pepper (the pork salting it sufficiently), minced onion, and parsley, then lay in a baking-pan, and cover with a tin plate or shallow pan. Cook slowly in a moderate oven until the pork begins to crisp. Remove to a hot dish, draw out the skewer carefully, so as to leave the liver in the form in which it was cooked; add a little hot water and butter to the gravy, thicken with browned flour, boil up once, and pour over the _dominoes_ of pork and liver.

OLLAPODRIDA OF LAMB. (_Good._)

The sweetbreads, liver, heart, kidneys, and brains of a lamb. (Your butcher can easily procure all with timely notice.)

Handful of bread-crumbs.

1 raw egg, beaten light.

One small, young onion, minced.

1 table-spoonful currant jelly.

Season with salt, pepper, and parsley.

1 cup good broth.

Parboil the sweetbreads for five minutes, then simmer for ten in the gravy. Take them up, and set aside to cool, while you boil the brains in the same broth. When both brains and sweetbreads are cold and firm, slice, dip in the egg, then the crumbs, and fry in good dripping or butter. After the brains are taken from the broth, put in the slices of heart, and stew very gently for at least half an hour. Let them cool, then fry with the minced liver in dripping seasoned with the onion, minced fine. Slice the kidneys, and having strained the useful broth from the liver, return it to the saucepan, and stew the kidneys in it for five minutes. Next, fry these for two minutes—no more—in butter.

Arrange all in a hot dish; add to the fat left in the frying-pan the broth, thicken with browned flour and the jelly, season to taste, and pour over the sweetbreads, etc.

You can make a larger stew—or fry—of calf’s sweetbreads, liver, heart, and brains, and by most people this would be relished more than the lamb ollapodrida.

It is a good plan to stew the various articles the day before you mean to eat them, and have them all cold to your hand, ready for frying.

CALF’S LIVER _sauté_. +

2 pounds calf’s liver, cut into slices half an inch thick.

2 small young onions, minced.

1 small glass of sherry.

1 table-spoonful mushroom or tomato catsup.

Salt, pepper, and parsley, with juice of a lemon.

Good dripping or butter for frying.

Slice the liver, when you have washed and soaked it well, and fry it, turning often, to a light-brown. Drain and lay in a hot chafing-dish. Mix with the dripping or butter the onions, seasoning, lemon-juice, and browned flour for thickening. Boil up, put in the catsup and wine, heat almost to boiling again, and pour over the liver.

FRICASSEE OF CALF’S LIVER. +

2 pounds liver, cut into strips more than half an inch thick, and as long as your finger.

2 young onions, minced.

1 glass wine.

Pepper, salt and parsley.

Butter or dripping for frying.

½ cup good gravy.

Dredge the sliced liver with flour, and fry to a light-brown, quickly, and turning often. Mince the onions and parsley, and heat them in the gravy in a saucepan; put in the fried liver, let all stew together gently for ten minutes, when pour in the wine, and as soon as this is hot, serve—the liver piled neatly and the gravy poured over it.

CALF’S LIVER _à la mode_. +

1 fine liver, as fresh as you can get it.

½ pound fat salt pork, cut into lardoons.

3 table-spoonfuls of butter.

2 young onions.

1 table-spoonful Worcestershire or Harvey’s sauce.

2 table-spoonfuls vinegar and a glass of wine.

½ teaspoonful cloves.

½ teaspoonful allspice.

½ teaspoonful mace.

1 table-spoonful sweet herbs, cut fine.

Pepper and salt to taste—very little of the latter, as the pork should salt it sufficiently.

Wash the liver in two waters and soak ten minutes in cold water, slightly salted. Wipe dry, make incisions in it about half an inch apart, and insert the lardoons, allowing them to project slightly on each side. Have ready in a frying-pan the sliced onion, butter, sweet herbs and spice. Put in the liver and fry to a good brown. Turn all into a saucepan, add the vinegar and just enough water to cover the liver. Cover closely, and simmer slowly an hour and a half. Take out the liver and lay on a hot dish, add the wine and sauce to the gravy, thicken with browned flour; let it boil up once, pour about the liver, and send up the surplus in a boat.

This is good cold as well as hot, cut in thin slices.

RAGOÛT OF CALF’S HEAD, OR IMITATION TURTLE. +

Half of a cold boiled calf’s head.

1 cup good gravy.

4 hard-boiled eggs.

About a dozen force-meat balls made of minced veal with bread-crumbs and bound with beaten egg, then rolled in flour.

1 teaspoonful sweet herbs, chopped fine.

A very little minced onion.

Browned flour for thickening; pepper and salt for seasoning.

1 glass brown sherry.

Cut the meat of the calf’s head evenly into slices of uniform size. Heat the gravy almost to a boil, with the seasoning, herbs and onion. Put in the meat, simmer, closely covered, for fifteen minutes; add the force-meat balls, wine and the eggs sliced. Let all become smoking hot; take up the meat; pile neatly on a hot dish, lay the eggs on it; the force-meat balls at the base of the heap, and pour a cupful of gravy over all, sending up the rest in a boat.

This ragoût is very nice, and easily provided for by setting aside enough meat for it, on the day you have calf’s head soup, if the head be large.

It is also a cheap dish, as even a large head seldom costs more than a dollar, and half will make a good ragoût.

RAGOÛT OF CALF’S HEAD AND MUSHROOMS. +

Half a cold boiled calf’s head, sliced and free from bones, also the tongue cut in round slices.

1 can French mushrooms (_champignons_).

1 onion sliced.

1 cup strong gravy—beef, veal, game or fowl.

Season with pepper, salt and sweet herbs.

Browned flour for thickening.

½ teaspoonful mixed allspice and mace.

Juice of a lemon.

1 glass wine—claret or sherry.

3 table-spoonfuls butter for frying, unless you have very nice dripping.

Drain the liquor from the mushrooms and slice them. Fry the slices of meat five minutes in the hot butter or dripping. Take them out and put into a tin pail or inner compartment of a farina kettle. Pour warm, not boiling, water into the outer vessel, cover the inner and set over the fire while you fry the mushrooms, then, the onion, in the fat left in the frying-pan. Drain them and lay upon the meat in the inner sauce-pan. Have ready in another the broth, spiced and seasoned, and now pour this hot upon the meat and mushrooms. Cover closely and _simmer_ for fifteen minutes. Strain off the gravy into a saucepan, thicken; let it boil up once; add wine and lemon-juice, and when it is again smoking hot, pour over the meat and mushrooms in a deep dish.