Chapter XI: A Rice Pudding

"You don't know how to make a rice pudding. No, I shouldn't wonder if you don't," said Mrs. Simmons.

Janet Humphrey intimated that this was a mistake. She knew quite well how to make a rice pudding.

"O yes—you make a pudding of a sort, I don't doubt," said Mrs. Simmons. "Put a lot of rice into some milk, and boil it for half an hour into a sort of pap, fit to turn the stomach of anybody as looks at it; or maybe you have a grand concern, with sugar and butter and eggs in it. I dare say that's good to the taste,—and it had ought to be. But it isn't cheap, and folks have to give a thought to cheapness once in a while. What do you have mostly in the way of puddings?"

"Well, my husband likes a good custard pudding as much as anything," said Janet.

"Shouldn't wonder if he does. Maybe he'd like a turkey supper, and salmon for breakfast, as much as anything, too," said Mrs. Simmons.

Janet did not perceive the satire. "I haven't got him salmon for a good while past," she said. "It seems to cost a lot."

"There's a good many gentlefolk who don't touch salmon from year's end to year's end, without they come across it in a friend's house," said Mrs. Simmons. "And there's a good many more who are mighty sparing of eggs in puddings, because of the expense. Why, dear me, when I was cook in Mrs. Mason's family,—and a real out-and-out lady was Mrs. Mason, though she wasn't rich,—if I says to her, 'Why shouldn't we have a baked custard pudding, mum, for a change?' knowing she liked it uncommon; 'Why, Simmons,' says she, 'that'll take three or four eggs to make it big enough for us all, and you don't think I can afford four eggs to one pudding, do you?' says she. She was wonderful careful about her expenses always, and that's how it was her husband got along as well as he did, I make no doubt."

"Well, I never thought gentlefolks had to count the price of eggs in a pudding," said Janet.

"There's often a deal more calculating of expenses in a gentleman's kitchen than there is in a cottage kitchen," said Mrs. Simmons. "And I'll tell you the reason why, if you like. The reason why is because a gentleman commonly counts himself called upon to lay by for a rainy day, and to provide for his children after he's dead, and a working man too often don't count himself called upon to do anything of the sort. There'd be a deal less poverty and distress in the country, if once our men could be got to look ahead, and if their wives could be got to see that saving is a twin-duty to spending."

"I never thought about that," said Janet. "Jem works steady, and he mostly brings home enough."

"And how if he was to be taken ill, or if he was to fall and break his leg, or if work was to stop?" asked Mrs. Simmons.

"Well, I don't know. I suppose things would come right somehow," said Janet.

"I shouldn't wonder if they were to go a good way wrong first," said Mrs. Simmons.

"It's no good looking forward and expecting troubles," said Janet.

"No, it isn't," said Mrs. Simmons. "But looking forward and expecting troubles, is a different sort of thing altogether from doing what lies in your power to keep off trouble. Why, when bees and ants lay by food against the winter, you wouldn't blame them and say they were expecting to be starved, would you? The starvation would come, sure enough, if they didn't lay by."

"Well, I know Mr. Roper is always telling us in his preaching that we've got to trust," said Janet in self-defence.

"That's true enough. He tells you to trust what, Mrs. Humphrey?"

Janet seemed rather at a loss. "I've heard him say many times we had to trust," she repeated.

"You'd best listen with both your ears next time," said Mrs. Simmons, "seeing you've only managed to lay hold on half the sense of what he said. You've got to trust GOD, Mrs. Humphrey. That means that if you are God's faithful servant and child, you needn't worry and fret for your future, but while you do the little you can do, you may trust Him to do all that you can't do, and to care for you in need. But I can tell you it don't mean that you are to live a life of self-indulgence and pleasure, and trust God to do for you what He has given you the power to do for yourself, just to save you a bit of trouble and thought."

"I'm sure it isn't much pleasure I ever have in my life," said Janet, almost in tears. "I'm always working and slaving for somebody."

"You wouldn't be one grain the happier for having no work," said Mrs. Simmons calmly. Then she suddenly put a direct question: "Your husband gets good wages, Mrs. Humphrey, and he brings them pretty near all to you, for you've told me so. Now how much of them wages have gone this year into the Savings Bank?"

"There don't seem much to spare," faltered Janet. "The children are always wanting something new,—and food costs such a lot."

"Then I'd make the children wait a bit longer, and I'd have food that costs less," said Mrs. Simmons gravely. "I tell you, Mrs. Humphrey, it's a sin and a shame to go on month after month, spending every penny you get, and never making provision for the changes that's sure to come sooner or later. It's a sin and a shame. You don't suppose you and your husband will keep health for ever, do you? Why, either one of you might die to-morrow. What would become of those poor little ones of yours, if your husband and you were both taken?"

"I wish you wouldn't talk like that," said Janet, with a shiver.

"Then I won't, if you don't like; but it's truth," said Mrs. Simmons. "It's truth, and it has got to be faced. You go and do your best, and then you may trust God; but if you don't do the little you can, I don't see what call you have to trust."

"But what am I to do?" asked Janet helplessly.

"Begin to lay by at once. Don't wait till next month or next year. There's the Post Office Savings Bank, which is perfectly safe, and it'll hold as small sums as you like. I'd keep a locked box by me, with a hole in the top, and I'd slip in every penny I could spare. It'll grow wonderfully quick, I can tell you. I'm not advising you to become a miser, like poor old Mr. Meads, loving the money more than your own flesh and blood. But I do say it's your duty to provide all you can against a rainy day, and to teach your children to help you. I shouldn't wonder but there's many a penny goes in goodies, which don't do nobody any good."

"Why, they get the goodies at your shop," said Janet.

"That don't make no difference. My goodies are wholesome and won't hurt the children. But if they're properly fed, they don't need a lot of goodies between meals. It's a bad habit, and a wasteful one. You might save many a penny that way."

"Well, I'll think about it," said Janet.

"And now about the rice pudding," said Mrs. Simmons.

Janet looked relieved, and her face cleared.

"About the rice pudding," said Mrs. Simmons again. "When I was cook at Mrs. Mason's, there wasn't any pudding we had oftener. Mr. Mason scarce counted he'd dined without one. But I didn't make it like you make yours, though I'd been used to your way before I went to Mrs. Mason. I had to learn their way, and a good way I found it,—cheap and nourishing too."

"How was it?" asked Janet.

"There was no butter in the pudding, and no eggs, and no sugar," said Betsy Simmons.

"No sugar!" repeated Janet.

"Not a grain," said Mrs. Simmons. "A little sugar was eaten with the pudding after it was made, most commonly, though I don't care even for that. The pudding was made in a deepish dish, and it was nothing but milk and rice,—good Carolina rice. Mr. Mason liked it milky, and I used to put a good wine-glassful of rice into two quarts of milk, and that made a big enough pudding for his whole party. Same way it would have been half a wine-glassful to one quart of milk. But most people like it just a little more substantial, and maybe you'd come to putting an extra quantity of rice, according to taste. That's as may be."

"It don't sound nice," said Janet.

"I dare say it don't," said Mrs. Simmons. "Wait till you have tried. The secret of that pudding, and the secret of ever so much cooking beside, is SLOW DOING. We used to dine at half-past one, and by half-past nine I used to have my pudding ready,—the rice measured and put into the dish, and the milk poured in over. Then I used to put it into the oven and bake it slowly from three and a half to four hours. And of course it took some trouble and attention; for if the oven was too hot, the pudding got dried up and burnt; and if the oven was too cold, the pudding came out pale and sickly-looking and only half done; and if I moved it about too much in the oven, the milk would sometimes curdle. But I got into the way of it after a while, and I used to send up beautiful puddings, just nicely browned, with the milk thickened till it looked almost like cream, and the rice-grains quite tender, yet each one whole and separate from the rest."

"It sounds a deal of trouble," said Janet.

"It's worth the trouble," said Mrs. Simmons. "Cheap and wholesome food pretty nearly always gives trouble, but it's worth while. If you wanted to sit in an arm-chair, Mrs. Humphrey, with your hands before you, you had no business to marry a working man."

"O no,—I don't want that," said Janet. "I'll try to make the pudding as you say."

"You'd better. You won't be sorry after," said Mrs. Simmons. "And if you're inclined for a change, there's tapioca and sago can be made into puddings in pretty much the same way, only I'd put some sugar into them, and I'd use more of the tapioca or sago than of the rice. But you'll find there's nothing the children will take to like the plain rice pudding, if only you do it carefully and give it to them nice and hot."