7 May 1881 - 'Soups, and How to Make Them' by Phillis Browne - Part One

It is astonishing what a prejudice roughish people have against soup. The objection is not so universal as it was a few years ago, but still it exists. I cannot but think that one reason of this is that the housekeepers who scorn it do not understand what soup really is. A friend of mine once told me that none of her girls would touch soup; they did not care for it at all. I was not astonished at this when I discovered that her only idea of making soup was to thicken the liquor in which meat had been boiled with prepared pea meal. Another lady, who sympathised with the first one in her want of appreciation of culinary delicacies, used to make it by thickening the liquor with oatmeal. On one occasion I was privileged to taste the latter preparation. I expected it would be insipid, but it was not; it was particularly tasty, for it was burnt. I sympathised with the young ladies who did not like it at all, for I decided that I could not have eaten much of that soup if I had been paid for it.

One erroneous idea concerning soup is that it is expensive, and that in order to make it good pounds upon pounds of meat must be obtained for it. If these are dispensed with the soup will not be worth drinking. Really, however, soup is an economy. It is a mistake to make it very rich and very strong. When, as is generally the case, it is succeeded by other dishes, it should be light and pleasantly flavoured, but not strong or nourishing enough to furnish a dinner in itself. People usually sit down to dinner tired, hungry and weary, and it is rather too much of a good thing to put a slice of roast beef or boiled mutton before them straight away. It is giving their digestive organs too much to do; they need to be set gently to work. To have light employment given them at first, and to be allowed to go on gradually to the heavy business.  Sir Henry Thompson, I think it was, pointed out a little while ago, in some papers he published on food, that light liquid food was most valuable as a restorative. Those who have been accustomed to take soup, and have noticed how quickly it takes away the feeling of exhaustion, and prepares the way for the enjoyment of dinner, would be very sorry to do without it. At the same time, they would be equally sorry to make it very strong and rich, unless they intended the family to dine upon it entirely.

When I said soup was an economy, I meant that it might be made the means of preventing waste; also that when used regularly it saves the joint, and partially satisfies the appetite before the most expensive part of the dinner is touched. I daresay you have heard of the housekeeper who said to her friend, "We never have soup; we cannot afford it;" to which the other replied, "Indeed, we always have soup; we cannot afford to do without it." I certainly think the second housekeeper was the more economical of the two.

However, it is not my business now to sing the praises of soup. But I may say that I believe it would be seen on our tables more frequently than it is if the girls in a house were able and willing to make it. The secret of our not having soup is that it takes time and trouble, which servants do not always care to give. But in the good time coming, when all the girls in our homes understand and practice cookery, when our daughters would rather prepare with their own hands a good dinner for their fathers than tire their eyes in making so many useless mats and antimacassars, things will be quite different; we shall enter upon a delightful period, and we shall all live twice as well as we do now, at half the present cost.

There are three varieties of soup – clear soup, thick soup, and purees. For all these stock is required, and therefore the first thing we have to do is to learn how to make stock. For very nourishing, superior soup, and for clear soup, fresh meat is required; although it is quite true that clear soup may be made of weak bone stock, it is scarcely worth while to do so unless there was plenty of fresh meat left o bones, and to buy bones roughly trimmed would cost as much as to buy fresh meat. Ordinary stock, however, that will make excellent soup for daily use may be made of the trimmings of joints, the liquor in which meat and vegetables and fish have been boiled, and even of the bones, skin, and trimmings left after a joint has been served. For nothing of this kind should be thrown away until it has been stewed until every particle of goodness has been extracted from it.
I am quite prepared to hear that girls who tried to prevent waste in this way, and to make the most of things by stewing bones and trimmings for stock, would be laughed and sneered at by certain people. Let them never mind this. When we are doing right we can bear to be laughed at, and certainly we who try to be economical are in the right. It is wicked to waste good food while so many thousands are needing it. If we have more than re require let us give to those who want, not throw away. It is a great disgrace to English cooks that they act as though extravagance meant cleverness, and thrift meant incompetency. I have noticed again and again that as soon as ever a cook acquires skill she loses her respect for quantities and prices. We will not do this in our cookery class, for we all look upon waste as sin.

Therefore let us resolve that nothing containing nourishment shall be thrown away until it has been well stewed. We will put on one side all the trimmings, skin, bone, and fat that we can collect, and as soon as we have an opportunity we will render down the fat for frying and will stew the rest for stock.

Sometimes economical cooks advise that a stock-pot should be kept by the side of the fire, and that trimmings, pieces, and scraps should be thrown into it from time to time as they come to hand ; that water should be added when necessary, and thus a constant supply of stock should be provided. This plan I do not recommend. In the first place it leads to the ingredients being unequally cooked. Scraps which are thrown into the pot when the cooking is half through are not so thoroughly stewed as those which were in at the beginning. In the second place over-long simmering will spoil the flavour of our stock and make it taste unpleasantly of the pan. Whatever we have to stew should be put on freshly into a clean pan every morning; when the simmering has been continued five hours the contents of the pan should be turned into an earthen vessel and carried into a cool larder and left uncovered till wanted.

We will suppose that we have a quantity of bones and trimming, say, for instance, the bones left from a cooked joint which weighed eight or ten pounds before it was cut. Perhaps also we should have the bones of poultry or game, and two or three bacon bones; if so, we should of course make use of them, although we should do very well without them. How should we proceed in making stock?

We should look carefully over our ingredients, and trim away anything that was unsuited to our purpose. If it should happen that there was anything not quite pure and sweet we should put that aside at once. "Cleanliness is the soul of cookery," and it is particularly called for in economical cookery. We wish to avoid waste, but we are not willing to use everything. Having satisfied ourselves on this point, however, we put the bones into a perfectly clean saucepan and pour over them cold water, in the proportion of a quart of water to a pound of bones. I daresay it will be remembered that when we were speaking of boiling meat we said that when we wanted to keep the goodness in the meat we placed it in boiling water; when we wished to draw the goodness out we put it in cold water. On this occasion we wish to draw the goodness out, we therefore use cold water.

We now put the saucepan on the fire, and bring the liquid slowly to a boil. In a little while it will begin to simmer, and then we throw in a small quantity of salt, not as much as will be needed to season the soup, but a little to help the scum to rise. It is well to leave the seasoning until the stock is made, because we intend to boil the liquid down to about half its quantity, and if we add as much salt as is wanted now we shall find that our stock is too salt by the time the boiling is over, for salt will not fly away in steam, though water may. But salt will help to make the scum rise, and we particularly wish to remove the scum as soon as it appears, before it has time to boil down into the stock again. Therefore we throw a little salt in, and  for the same purpose we add a cupful of cold water two or three times after skimming, and after each addition heat again and skim once more.

When we have cleared away as much scum as possible, we draw the saucepan back, put on the lid, and let the liquor simmer very gently for five hours. If we wish to use it quickly, or if the weather is cold, we may at the end of three hours put in the flavouring ingredients, a carrot, a leek or an onion, a clove, a little celery, a bay leaf, a bunch of parsley, a sprig of thyme, six peppercorns, and half a blade of mace for each quart of liquid. We must remember, however, that if the weather is warm stock will keep better if vegetables have not been boiled in it, and that even if they are so boiled additional vegetables will have to be added when the stock is used in order to "revive the flavour;" otherwise our soup will not taste fresh.

Bone stock boiled without either vegetables or seasoning will not taste at all good when the five hours are over, and it is poured out, and carried into the larder. Nevertheless, it will contain goodness, and we can make excellent soup of it when the time arrives for us to do so.

Perhaps the bones do not appear to be sufficiently stewed after the liquor is strained from them. They ought to look quite clear and clean, and in such a condition that when dry we should have no objection to put them in our pockets If this be so, we may stew them again next day with a small quantity of fresh cold water, but we must on no account be persuaded to leave them in the saucepan all night.

When we want to make superior stock we take fresh meat. If we wanted three pints of stock we should need three pounds of meat – shin of beef for brown stock, knuckle of veal for white stock – and we must allow a point of water to a pound of meat and one pint of water over. The meat is to be cut into small pieces, the smaller the better, and covered with the cold water, then salted, boiled up, skimmed and simmered, exactly as recommended for bone soup. The vegetables, a carrot, half a turnip, a leek, a bunch of parsley, a sprig of thyme, a bay leaf, three or four sticks of celery, and twenty peppercorns, will be sufficient for three pints of stock.

In both these instances the liquor in which meat had been boiled, and especially the liquor in which "rabbit" or "chicken" or even rabbit bones or chicken bones had been stewed, would be much to be preferred to water if it could be had. If fresh meat were used any trimmings of meat or poultry that there might be should be thrown into the pan and stewed with the meat; they would make the stock stronger.

There is still another kind of stock which may be needed, and that is fish stock for fish soup. It may be made with the liquor in which fish has been boiled, and the bones and skin of the fish with an anchovy, an onion, and one or two cloves may be stewed in it afterwards. Fish soup should be very carefully skimmed, and it must be remembered that it will not keep as well as meat stock.

We now have our stock, which is the basis of soup, ready. The process of converting it into soup must be reserved for another lesson.

26 June 1880 - 'How to Make the Most of Cold Meat' by Phillis Browne

I am not one of those people who have a strong dislike to cold meat served cold. I think there are times and seasons when cold meat is very much to be preferred to hot meat. In the middle of summer, for instance, what can be more appetising than a well-cooked joint of cold lamb, served with a good salad, or a little mint sauce or sliced cucumber. Any girl who busied herself in "warming up" cold meat in sultry weather would make a great mistake. She would do far better if she devoted her energies to making the salad thoroughly dry, so that the dressing would mix with it properly, and also to making the cold joint look as tempting as possible by garnishing it prettily.

In England, however, the weather is rarely sultry, and the occasions are many when cold meat would be most unwelcome. What shall we do then? I will tell you what I should advise.

The first thing to be done is to cut all the meat off the bone It should be taken as far as possible in neat slices of fat and lean together, afterwards in broken fragments. If we spend a little time over the business and cut close to the bone, we shall be astonished to find how much meat there is, ever so much more than we imagined at the beginning. Indeed it is quite likely that, with the majority of joints, there will be more fat than we require. If this is so, we must cut it off and render it down in the way I described in the article on frying.

When all is done we may divide our cold meat into three portions - the neat, handsome pieces, the broken remnants, and the bone. Now, I propose that we make either curry or meat fritters of the pieces, and shepherd's pie of the scraps.

I do not mention the time-honoured or scorned hash, that we all know so well, simply because the method of making it has been so often and so clearly described, that I do not think it will be particularly useful. I may say, however, that the reason why hash is held in such general disfavour is, that people forget that if the meat boil in the gravy it will be hard - it should only simmer; and also that it is better to have a little good gravy than an abundance of poor gravy.

Whatever we determine to do with the meat, we must first stew the bone and the scraps we cannot use otherwise for gravy. We chop the bone into small pieces, and put these into a saucepan with a carrot - washed, scraped and cut up small; an onion, peeled, and divided into quarters; a small piece of turnip, a bunch of well-washed parsley, a sprig of marjoram, another of thyme, and a bay leaf. The four last-named ingredients may be neatly tied together with twine, thus making what cooks call a faggot or bouquet garni. The advantage of tying them together is that they can be lifted out together when the gravy is made.

We now pour into the saucepan as much cold water as will cover all the ingredients; bring the water to a boil, throw in salt and pepper to season it pleasantly, skim it well, then put the lid on the pan, draw it back, and let the gravy simmer very gently for from an hour and a half to two hours. We might,  for the sake of varying the flavour, rub the inside of the saucepan quickly with garlic before putting in the bones; or we might add a spoonful of sherry or Worcester sauce to the gravy just before using it.

Gravy is a most sure to be wanted in whatever way we dress the meat, and the liquor thus produced by stewing the bone will give excellent gravy. For hash or minced meat, or croquettes or rissoles, it would be better that the gravy should be thickened and browned by boiling a little brown thickening with it. If this were not in the house, the gravy might be thickened by mixing a little cornflour or arrowroot to a smooth paste with cold water, and stirring this gradually into the liquor; and it might be browned by adding liquid browning, or by frying a sliced onion in fat till it was brightly coloured, and stewing this in the stock. It must be remembered, however, that gravy should be boiled and stirred for a few minutes after it is thickened, or it may taste pappy, and that it should be freed from fat; also that a very small quantity only should be put into the dish with the meat. The remainder should be served in a hot tureen.

The first dish we proposed to make of the cold meat was curry. There is no dish that is so frequently spoilt in the cooking as this, and the reason is that most people have an idea that curry is nothing but an ordinary stew thickened with curry powder. This is a mistake. I think, however, if you will follow exactly the following recipe, you will have an excellent curry -

Cut a pound of meat, fat and lean together, into neat pieces, free from skin and gristle, and about an inch square. Peel and chop four good-sized onions, fry them in a little dripping, and shake the pan to keep them from burning. When brown take them up with a slice, and fry the meat in the same dripping. When this also is brown take it up and sprinkle a large teaspoonful of curry powder over it. Have ready a sour apple, peeled and chopped small. Fry it in the fat, and when it is cooked put it with the onions and rub both through a fine sieve. Mix with the pulp a tablespoonful of curry paste and a dessertspoonful of ground rice, and add gradually the stock made from the bone. Return the thickened gravy to the saucepan, and stir it over the fire till it boils. It should be thick. Taste it, and, if required, add a pinch of salt to it; also, if it is not sufficiently acid, put in two or three drops of lemon juice.

Now, when the sauce is all ready, put in the meat; draw it to the side of the fire and let it simmer for half an hour or more. On no account let it boil and stir it frequently to keep it from burning. When it is quite tender it is ready to serve.

Curry should have a wall of rice, about an inch and a half deep, put round it, which rice can be eaten with it instead of vegetable. Now it is evident that if the gravy is thin it will run into the rice and make the dish look messy and disagreeable. Therefore the curry should be thick. The gravy should coat the meat, as it were, instead of running into the rice and the meat should be so tender that it could be eaten with a fork and spoon, instead of being cut with a knife.

One word must be said about the method of boiling rice for curry. The great object is to keep every grain separate, not to have it in a pulpy mass as it is usually seen. The small Patna rice is generally preferred for this purpose. Wash it well in two or three waters, to take away its raw taste, pick out any dark grains there may be; throw it into plenty of fast boiling water and boil it quickly for about a quarter of an hour, or until a grain taken between the finger and thumb feels quite soft. Skim the water every now and then, and in order to make the scum rise throw a little slat into it. We want the rice to look pure white, and therefore we must not let the impurities, which  will rise from it in the shape of scum, sink and fall upon it again. Drain the boiled rice in a colander, pour cold water upon it to separate the grains; then put it into a dry saucepan, putting the lid half on, and set it on the side of the fire, to make it dry and hot, stirring it occasionally with a fork to keep it from burning. Thus boiled, the rice will be tender and white, and every grain will be separate.

Cold meat fried in batter, or meat fritters, is an excellent dish; indeed, according to my idea, it is one of the best methods of preparing cold meat. The meat should be cut into thin slices, and all gristle and skin should be trimmed from it. The batter should be made an hour or two before it is wanted. To make the frying batter put a quarter of a pound of flour and a pinch of salt in a basin and mix with it two tablespoonfuls of salad oil, and, gradually, a gill of lukewarm water. Beat the batter till it is quite smooth, and let it remain in a cool place till ten minutes before it is wanted. Then take the whites only of two eggs that have been whisked to a firm froth, and dash these lightly into the batter; its excellence depends to a great extent upon this being done properly.

Perhaps I may be allowed to say a word here about whisking eggs. White of egg is sufficiently whisked when it can be cut clean through with a knife. Some people say it should be whisked until it will bear the weight of an egg, but I feel quite satisfied if it can be cut clean with a knife, and I think you may be. Very good patent whisks may be now bought at a cheap rate, which save a great deal of time and trouble. If you can obtain one of these you can have the egg white firm very quickly. If you have not one, put the white of egg, quite free from the least particle of yellow, upon a plate, beat it from the wrist, not from the elbow, with a knife held as flat as possible, and try not to touch the bottom of the plate in doing so. Also stand in a cold place while you are whisking, and sprinkle a very small pinch of salt over the egg, as that will help to make it firm.

Perhaps you think "there is no need to tell us how an egg should be beaten; any one can do that," I once heard a young girl remark. "Some people say, do it this way; and other people say, do it that way; but I always do it as it feels most convenient to myself at the time, and I think that is best." Now I hope the girls of our cookery class will never be content to do their work in that way. Do everything right, and in the course of your life you will save many a precious minute.

We shall need a stewpan, half full of boiling fat,  for the meat fritters, and the fat must be hot, that is, is that must be still, and a blue steam must rise from it. Unless the fat were hot the batter would come off in frying. When all is ready we take the slices of meat, dip them one at a time into the hot fat, and let them remain till they are brightly browned on both sides; and, of course, it would be necessary to turn them over when they were half done to cook them equally. They will be done in less than a minute, but it would not do to put more than one or two in at once, because the fritters should not touch each other in the pan. As the fritters are taken out of the fat they should, in order to free them from grease, be laid on a dish covered with kitchen paper. After this they can be dished, and, if properly made, will be sure to be liked.

If the meat, instead of being cut into slices, were finely minced, seasoned, pleasantly, moistened either with strong gravy that would jelly when cold, or with a sort of thick white sauce called panada, then rolled in very thin slices of fat bacon before being covered with the frying batter, we should have kromeskies. Or, if the minced meat, prepared in the same way, were folded in pastry, then fried in fat, we should have rissoles. If it were made into balls, dipped in beaten egg and covered with bread crumbs, and fried in hot fat, we should have croquettes. If the mince were pressed into a shape and steamed, we should have meat gateau. If the meat were mixed with potatoes or with turnips, then folded in pastry and baked, we should have Cornish pasties. If it were chopped small, seasoned well, then pounded to pulp, with butter, pressed into small jars and covered with clarified butter, we should have potted meat. I cannot, for want of space, give the details of these various dishes; but I should imagine that any one who gets to understand the method of one or two can form an idea of the rest, and prepare them without much difficulty.

Cold potatoes, as well as cold meat, may be used in making shepherd's pie; though, of course, if there were no cold potatoes, fresh ones would have to be taken  for the purpose. Beat the cooked potatoes in a saucepan over the fire with a little boiling milk and a slice of butter. Cut the meat, fat and lean together, into neat pieces, and season them with pepper and salt. If liked, a very little finely chopped onion can be added also.

Fill a pie dish with the seasoned meat, and arrange it so that the meat shall be highest in the middle, for that will make it a good shape. Half fill the dish with gravy, and spread the mashed potatoes over the top, first making it smooth, and afterwards roughing it over with a fork. Put it in the oven or before the fire, and let it remain until it is hot through and the top is brightly browned. Send a little good gravy to the table with it, and I believe everyone who tastes it will say that it is good, and they should like to have it again.

If pork be the meat that we wish to serve a second time, we might,  for the sake of variety, make a pork and apple dumpling of it. This is a very old-fashioned and rather peculiar dish, and perhaps would not suit every one; it is well known and appreciated in the county of Norfolk. Cut the meat from the pork into thin slices, and then into dice, and season with salt and pepper. Pare and cut up in the same way good baking apples, and have equal quantities of apples and pork. Line a pudding basin with good suet crust, fill it with the apples and meat, add a little good gravy; if a little were left from the meat, it will be the best  for the purpose. Cover the pudding with pastry, tie it in a cloth wrung out of hot water and floured, plunge it into boiling water and let it boil from an hour and a half to two hours, according to its size.

3 April 1880 - 'Our Cookery Class' by Phillis Browne - 'The Frying Pan'

I always look upon a frying-pan as the pet utensil of an incompetent cook. Those who scramble through the preparation of food instead of cooking it intelligently generally rely upon a frying-pan to save them from the difficulties into which their want of punctuality and forethought lead them. The result is that food from their hands is usually presented either burnt, greasy, or hard, very often all three, and it is nearly always indigestible.

There is no method of cookery that is so popular amongst a certain class of cooks as what they call frying, and there is no process that is so little understood by them as real frying. I am going to try to explain very clearly what true frying really is, and the difference between it and half frying.

You will remember that when we were talking about boiling I said that if meat were plunged into boiling water and boiled for about five minutes the albumen would coagulate on the surface, and make a sort of case that would keep in the goodness of the meat.

Now, frying is boiling in fat, and the cause of the difference between boiling in water and boiling in fat is that fat can be made so very much hotter than water that the work can be done much more quickly, while at the same time a peculiar brown appearance and tasty flavour is given to the article fried. If we had a thermometer we should find that when water is boiling it reaches 212 degrees. WE might make a fire large enough to roast an ox, but we should never get water hotter than that. Fat, however, can be made more than twice as hot as water, and therefore it conveys heat much more quickly. We have, I dare say, all felt what it is to be scalded with boiling water and that is bad enough; but the pain is trifling compared to that which we suffer when we are burned with boiling fat. And that is because hot fat is so very, very hot.

If we were going to boil anything in water we should never think of pouring a little drop of water into the bottom of a pan and laying the meat upon it, then leaving it till it was sufficiently cooked. In the same way, when we are going to fry anything, we should not be content to put a little fat in a frying-pan and cook the meat in this. And yet how many people there are who think a spoonful or two of fat is quite sufficient for frying! They would be quite horrified if we said that we must cover the article to be fried with fat before we could fry it perfectly. "Where are we to get such a quantity of fat from?" I can imagine them saying. "It would take a couple of pounds or more of fat to fry in that way. How extravagant to use a couple of pounds of fat to fry one dish!" Ah! I don't feel that the charges of extravagance can be fairly laid against me. Where, I would ask, is all the fat that these friends of ours have used for frying during the last three or four weeks? Is it not true that most of it was burnt away, and that the remainder was thrown out as soon as it was done with? If it could be collected and brought here there would be quite enough for our purpose.

The fact is, it is not wasteful to use a quantity of fat at a time. Fat lasts heated in quantities, and if properly treated can be used again and again; indeed, I do not hesitate to say that with care it could be used thirty or forty times over.

Before we can fry perfectly, however, there are one or two more points to be considered besides the quantity of the fat. One of these is its temperature. Fat used in frying should be hot, so hot that it is still. This sounds strange, I dare say, but it is quite true. If we put a saucepan half-filled with water on the fire it would at first be still, and as it became hot it would move about, and when it reached the boiling point it would bubble away in the most lively manner. Fat, on the contrary, would very quickly begin bubbling; then, as it grew hot, it would, if properly clarified, become quite still, and a light blue vapour would be seen rising from it This stillness and the appearance of the vapour is the sign that it is at the proper heat for frying. It would not do to wait until the vapour became smoke, however, for that would mean that the fat was beginning to burn.

If we had a proper thermometer we might know that fat was hot enough for ordinary frying purposes when 350 degrees of heat were registered. For whitebait it would need to be higher than this, and should reach 400 degrees.

There are ways by which we can test the heat of fat without the thermometer, and, apart from the stillness of the fat, one is to throw in a little piece of the crumb of bread into the fat, and if it at once becomes a golden colour the fat is hot and ready for whatever is to be fried. Another way is to let one single drop of cold water fall into the fat, and if this produces a loud hissing noise, the fat is hot enough  for the purpose required.

Another point that must be looked after, if we would fry successfully, is that the article to be cooked should be dry. Unless it is, it will not brown properly. It is a good plan, in order to dry fish perfectly, to let it lie folded in a cloth for two or three hours before attempting to fry it, and it is very usually floured also to secure the same end. Of course the flour should be shaken off before the fish is put into the fat, especially if the fish is to be egged and breaded. Fish is, however, very good dipped in flour alone before being fried, thus saving the egg and bread crumbs.

It is evident that if we are to take as much fat for frying as I have said we ought to do we should never get on if we used only the flat shallow pan so common in English kitchens, and know as a frying-pan. Nor is it desirable that we should do so. In the kitchens of rich people there is found what is called a frying-kettle, or deep pan, for frying, which is provided with a wire lining, with a handle at each end. The cook lets her fat boil, puts whatever is to be fried on the wire, then plunges it into the hot fat, and when it has been in long enough, lifts the wire lining by the handle, and, of course, the fish or whatever is being fried is taken up with it, and the fat drains away as it rises. All that is then necessary is to place the fried article on kitchen paper for a minute or two, to take the grease from the surface, and they are ready to serve. I said, take the grease from the surface only, for if the fat is hot, and the fish has been plunged into it as I have described, there will be no fear that it will be greasy inside. The hot fat will have hardened the outside so securely, that not only will the goodness have been kept inside the case, but the grease will have been kept outside it.

It is not every one, however, who possesses one of these convenient frying-kettles; and when we have not got a thing we must do as well as we can without it. It is always bad workmen who quarrel with their tools. Fortunately for small articles, an ordinary iron saucepan will supply all we want, if only it is perfectly clean. If there is anything sticking to the bottom, we must expect that it will burn and spoil our fat. If we can manage to procure a little wire frying-basket upon which our materials can be placed before they are plunged into the fat, we shall be as well off as the fortunate possessor of the finest frying-kettle in the world. A basket of this kind can be bought for about half-a-crown, or people with clever fingers can twist one together with two or three pennyworth of wire. If the basket is not to be had, we can take whatever is fried out with a skimmer, and for a great many things that will answer quite as well. If the article to be fried is large, such as a sole, for instance, we shall, if we have no frying-kettle, be obliged to use the frying pan, only we ought to have in it enough fat to cover the fish. Fortunately though soles are broad, they are thin, so that this can be done without much difficulty. Very thick soles are seldom fried, the flesh being usually lifted from the bone, and cooked in fillets or small slices.

And now I must say one word about the fat that is used for frying. Lard is commonly taken for this purpose, and, unfortunately, nothing worse could be chosen, because lard always makes food look greasy; besides which it often has a peculiar taste. Oil is very good, but it is expensive, and it is rather difficult to manage, because it quickly boils over. Butter is also expensive, and it needs to be very gently heated. The very best fat that can be selected is what is called kitchen fat, that is, the skimmings of saucepans and the dripping from joints that in nine English kitchens out of every ten is put on one side by the cook and sold as her perquisite for about fourpence a pound. When the good fat is well out of the way, inferior fat, that is lard, is bought at 8d or 9d per pound to take its place.

It is quite a puzzle to me to make out how this most absurd custom arose, and a still greater one that it can be kept up. It is a comfort to think that when ladies get to understand cookery, it will soon be put a stop to.  I have nothing to say against servants being well paid; if they do their work well, by all means let them have good wages; but why we should allow them to increase their wages by selling our excellent kitchen fat at less than half its value and then expect us to spend double the money in buying fat that is not nearly so good, is beyond my comprehension. I can only imagine that the practice was begun by some one who was ignorant, and kept up by someone who was dishonest. For fear of accidents we should let the boiling fat cool a minute or less in the basin before mixing the cold water with it, and we should add the cold water gradually.

But if, notwithstanding all our care, we are still short of the requisite quantity of fat, what are we to do? Make it up with lard? By no means. Rather gather together every piece of fat meat upon which you can lay your hands, cut it into small pieces, put these in a saucepan, and place this on a clear fire. Leave the lid off the pan, and boil the fat gently, stirring it every now and then to keep it from burning to the bottom of the pan. Afterwards we must pour the contents of the saucepan through a strainer into a basin, and then our fat is ready again for use.

If the pieces of fat taken from joints still do not afford as much dripping as we need, the best thing we can do is to buy what is called by the butchers ox flare, cut into pieces, and render it down in the same way. This flare can be had for about 6d per pound; it is much better than suet or hard fat because it produces a softer kind of dripping. A better fat still is the "twist" from the top side of the round of beef, but this can very seldom be obtained, as it is sold with the meat.

Fat does not need to be clarified each time it is used for frying. It requires only to be strained through a metal strainer to free it from any little pieces of meat or fish that are in it. Care should be taken, however, to remove it from the fire as soon as it is done with, to prevent its becoming discoloured, and also to let it cool a little before pouring it through the strainer, as otherwise it may melt the metal. The impurities will always settle at the bottom of the fat after melting, and they can be easily removed.

Fat that has been once used for fish is likely to have a fishy taste, therefore it should be kept exclusively for that purpose.

Now, perhaps you will feel inclined to say, Is there nothing we can fry without a large quantity of fat? Certainly there is. We fry pancakes and omelettes and slices of bacon with a small quantity of fat. Mutton chops and beefsteaks are often fried in the same way. Strictly speaking, however, this is not to fry them, but to sauté them. Chops and steaks, however should not be cooked in a frying-pan at all. They are sure to be greasy when thus prepared, and are much better broiled over a clear fire. And of broiling I will speak at our next lesson.

13 March 1880 - 'Our Cookery Class' by Phillis Browne - 'Baking'

In many parts of England baking is spoken of as if it referred to bread alone. I do not want us to consider it in that way, but rather as a means of cooking food of different kinds, such as meat, pastry and puddings, as well as bread. Baking is really but another form of roasting, the difference between the two being that in roasting the meat turns before the fire in the open so that a current of air can play upon it, and in baking the meat lies motionless in a confined space.

There is no doubt that meat roasted before a fire is very much superior to meat baked in the oven. Those who have been long accustomed to the first cannot enjoy the second. They can detect it at once, both by its taste and its smell, and consider it both unpalatable and unwholesome. 

The old-fashioned open ranges are certainly very objectionable, for a great many reasons. They consume a great deal of fuel, and they are exceedingly dirty, all saucepans that are put upon the fires becoming so soot that it is scarcely possible for those who have to use them to help being grimy also; and with them food becomes smoky very quickly; but there is no question that with them meat can be roasted to perfection.

We have, however, to do with things as they are, and these open ranges are rapidly becoming things of the past. We may quite expect that in the course of a few years they will be done away with altogether, and on the whole it will be a very good thing. The principal reason why I shall be glad to see close ranges universally used, is that I believe ladies will practice cookery more when they are common, than if it can possibility be expected they will when they cannot cook a mutton chop without blacking themselves and their dress. With closed ranges they can put on an apron and a pair of sleeves, and with their own hands prepare little delicacies for their husbands and fathers; remove the apron, and, without further trouble, take their places at the head of the table, looking as fresh as a summer flower.

And, in addition, they can practice cookery and still keep their hands white and soft. This may, to strong-minded people, seem a unimportant detail, and I do not quite know that I ought to speak of it here, but I may as well confess that I admire soft, white hands, and I think every girl is justified in taking pains to keep hers so. If she could not do this whilst doing useful work, I would certainly say, let your hands go; but this is not always the alternative.

And now  for the best way of roasting meat in the oven, or, to speak correctly, baking it. In the more modern closed ranges a special provision is made for ventilating the oven, in order that fresh air may enter and the vapours given off by the meat may be carried away, and so the saturated taste peculiar to baked meat be removed. Meat thus baked in a ventilated oven is generally called roast meat; and it is very nearly, though I cannot say I think it is quite, as good as that which is roasted before the fire.

The same general rules as to hanging meat and basting it will hold good in baking as in roasting. When first the meet is put in, the ventilator should be closed, and the joint should be placed for about five minutes in the hottest part of the oven, in order that the outside may become quickly browned, and so the goodness of the meat may be kept in. After this the ventilator should be opened, and the meat be gently baked till done. The opening of the ventilator will slightly cool the oven. A small vessel containing hot water should be put by the side of the meat in order to keep the air of the oven moist. When the air is dry the meat is more likely to become heard and scorched. Cold water must not, however, be put in, as it would lower the temperature of the oven.

Meat should be placed on a stand in the dripping tin, in order to raise it and prevent its soaking in its own dripping, and thus becoming saturated and disagreeable. Small stands made  for the purpose are to be bought for a few pence.

When placing the joint on this stand it is well to put the fat side uppermost in the first instance, in order that the fat may melt and drop down upon the leaner part. If there should be but little fat upon the joint, a piece of kitchen paper that has been thickly spread with dripping should be placed over it to keep it from burning too quickly - of course, printed paper will not do for this. In any case the meat should be turned over two or three times, or it will not be equally cooked.

As to the time that a joint should be baked. When the ventilator is made use of, the same rules may be followed as in roasting before the fire If there is no ventilator in the oven, ten minutes to the pound and ten minutes over will be quite sufficient. As in ordinary roasting, solid meat needs to be cooked longer than thin meat, and white meat longer than red meat. It must be remembered also that cakes and pastry should not be put into the oven when meat is being baked, as the steam t rises from it will be likely to make them heavy.

A very important point in baking is the temperature of the oven. No rules as to the time of cooking can be of the slightest use unless the oven is of the right heat. The very safest way of testing it is to have a thermometer set into the front of the oven and regulate the heat by this. Bakers in Paris and Vienna, who make most delicious bread, never bake it by guess, but are guided by a thermometer. If we have one of these useful articles in our oven door, we only need be careful that the quicksilver shall rise to 300 degrees for baking small articles of puff pastry, to 280 degrees for larger pieces of pastry, such as pies, tarts, etc., and to 240 degrees for cakes and meat. Bread will require 280 degrees of heat to begin with, but this heat should be lowered after the bread has risen.

Not many ovens, however, are provided with thermometers, and therefore we must have some other way of finding out the heat. Ovens are particular concerns. They need to be looked after and managed and understood, and if they are neglected they are sure to revenge the insult. There are so many varieties amongst modern stoves, that the particular kind each has to do with must be studied, or the most carefully mixed cake or the lightest pastry will be "spoilt in the baking". An experienced cook could tell by putting her hand into the oven whether it was of the right temperature; but until we can gain this experience we must adopt some simple test.

Perhaps the easiest way of testing the heat of the oven is to sprinkle a little flour in it. If this should turn black in one minute the oven is too hot. If it should be of a bright brown colour the oven is hot enough for baking. If it should remain uncoloured, the oven is slack.

An oven that is too hot is, however, to be preferred to one that is "slack". It is always easy to put an additional baking sheet underneath, or a strip of paper over what is to be baked; but an oven that is too slow never bakes well. It will make bread and cakes heavy, pastry hard, and meat dry and flavourless.

There is generally one part of the oven that is hotter than the other. I have already said that meat should go into this first, in order to brown the surface quickly; and also should cakes and pastry, and anything that contains flour or any starchy substance. The small starchy grains need to be burst with the heat, and after this is done the mixture can be allowed to bake more slowly. If it is not done the preparation will be heavy.

Bread requires peculiar management, which must be the result of experience. As a rule, brick ovens are to be preferred to iron ones for baking bread, because the heat in them is more equal. Iron ovens, such as are attached to kitchen ranges, quickly become over-heated, which causes the surface of the bread to become hard before the heat has reached the centre of the dough, and this keeps the bread from rising. Therefore, if an iron oven must be used for this purpose, it will be found that small loaves or rolls are more easily baked than large ones.

There is one thing in baking that we must bear in mind, and that is that "an oven will not look after itself". The numbers of carefully prepared delicacies I have seen spoilt through forgetfulness of this simple fact. Only the other day a young friend of mine announced her intention to make some buns. She collected her materials, selected the recipe, mixed the ingredients in the most satisfactory manner, and put her buns into the oven. The whole family was in a state of expectations, when suddenly an odour more strong than agreeable diffused itself through the house. The melancholy fact slowly forced itself upon us. The buns were burning.  My friend had forgotten to look after them whilst they were in the oven, and they were all burnt as black as our shoes.

One objection to an oven is that it is not always hot when it is wanted. Those who want to do a little cooking in a hurry and find that the oven is cold and the fire low, may make a substitute  for the oven out of a saucepan. Small pieces of meat, poultry, and game are excellent thus "baked in a pan". Take a common iron saucepan (a tinned or an enamelled one would not answer  for the purpose). Melt a slice of dripping in it, and rub the meat or bird that is to be cooked all over with dripping. Place it in the pan, put on the lid, and turn it about every two or three minutes till it is equally browned all over. Cover the pan closely, draw it to the side of the fire so that the meat can cook slowly, and turn and baste it frequently. It will be done in about the same time that it would take to cook in an ordinary oven, and few would guess that it had not been dressed as usual.

14 February 1880 - 'Our Cooking Class' by Phillis Browne - 'Boiling'

Before boiling meat of any kind whatever, we should always ask ourselves one question, and that is "Do I want to keep the goodness in this meat, or do I want to get the goodness out of it?" It is on the answer we give, that our course must depend.

If the meat is to be eaten, we want to keep the goodness in it. We shall not be able to manage this entirely, for, with all our care, some of it will escape into the water, but we may preserve a great deal of it. And the best means we can adopt for this purpose is to surround the meat as quickly as possible with a kind of shield, through which the juices cannot escape.

We all know that an egg when broken in a cup is liquid. If this same egg be turned into a saucepan containing boiling water it will in three minutes be quite different,  for the white part will e solid. Now, there is in meat a great deal of the same substance that white of egg is composed of - that is, albumen, the peculiar property of which is that heat makes it solid. When, therefore, we plunge meat into boiling water, the albumen in it becomes solid, just as the white of an egg does. Of course, the part that is nearest to the hot water, that is, the outside, gets hard first, and this makes our shield. after the meat has boiled for five minutes, or a little less, it is quite surrounded with a covering that will keep in the goodness that we so much want to preserve.

If any one doubts the truth of this, let her take a little piece of raw beef, divide it into halves, and put one half into cold water and the other into boiling water. In one minute the cold water will be tinged with red - the goodness will have begun to escape from the meat. The boiling water will be very nearly the colour it was before. If the beef is allowed to be in the cold water for about half an hour, the water will be quite red and the meat will be white; its juices will have passed into the water, and it will be valueless for nourishing purposes. It is on this account that, when we want to make beef-tea, we put the beef to soak for awhile in cold water to draw out the goodness, before we put it into a jar to e placed in a saucepan of water to simmer till it is done.

We must not suppose, however, that, when we have got our shield round the meat, we are to let it keep on boiling till it is sufficiently cooked. If we did this, the meat would be shield all the way through, and that would make unnecessarily hard work for both our teeth and our digestions. What we want is not only to keep in the goodness, but to make the meat tender. This can be done only by gentle stewing. We must therefore proceed in this way. First we plunge our meat into the fast boiling water; it instantly stops boiling,  for the cold meat cools the liquid, so we bring it to the boiling point again as quickly as we can, let it boil for five minutes, then draw it back to a cooler place, put a wine-glassful of cold water into it to lower the temperature, and keep it simmering gently till it is done.

If we had a thermometer at hand to put into the water, we should find that when it was boiling, the quicksilver rose to 212 degrees. When the saucepan was drawn back and the cold water put in, the quicksilver would fall to 180 degrees, and it is at this point it should be kept all the time.

I know of nothing more difficult than to persuade inexperienced cooks of the fact that meat is made tender by gentle simmering and not by quick boiling.

Somehow it seems as if, when the water in the saucepan is galloping away, progress is being made, and the meat will be done sometime; whilst, when it simmers only, things seem almost at a standstill. I have again and again explained this to pupils, as I thought, in the clearest manner, and then, if I turned away for a little time, I should be sure to find the water boiling hard on my return. At last I have come to look upon those who can calmly allow meat to simmer, instead of boil, with a great deal of respect, as being far on the way to make good cooks.

The rule applies to all fresh meat - beef, mutton, pork, poultry and fish. When once we understand the general rule, we do not need to look in a cookery book to see how different joints are cooked. The rule is for all; a neck of mutton, a leg of mutton, a chicken, or a salmon, we must treat them all alike - first surround the meat with a coat of mail to keep in the goodness, and then simmer it til gently done.

I know very well that it is very uncommon to observe this rule, so far as fish is concerned. But I know of no reason why this should be. It is true, fish does not contain so much albumen as meat; but it contains a little, and this, when hardened, will help keep in the goodness. The only exception should be with mackerel, which may be put into warm water, because the skin is so delicate that boiling water will cause it to break.

One would think, to hear people talk, that boiling was one of the commonest processes in cookery. The fact is that, when cookery is understood, real boiling is very uncommon, excepting for a few minutes at a time. If we used words that really expressed what we mean, we should say "simmered" rabbit and "simmered beef", instead of "boiled" rabbit and "boiled" beef. Boiling, as applied to meats, is useful chiefly for hardening the outside to keep in the goodness and for reducing the liquid to make sauces.

As soon as the water boils, after the meat is put in, it should be well skimmed. The impurities that are in the meat are dissolved by the hot water, and they rise to the surface in the form of scum. If this is not taken off at once, it will sink again and make the meat a bad colour, so it will be well to watch  for the scum and take it off as quickly as it appears; a little salt thrown into the liquid will help it to rise. The earliest scum should be thrown away, but in a little while the fat of the meat will melt and rise, and this should be taken off and carefully preserved, for there is no fat that we can get that is so useful for frying as the skimmings of saucepans. Of that I shall have to speak when we are talking of frying meat.

The time that meat should simmer must, as in roasting, vary with the thickness of the joint. The safe general rule for beef and mutton is a quarter of an hour to the pound and a quarter of an hour over. When meat is very thick and solid, half an hour over may be allowed. When meat is to be pressed under a weight, and eaten cold, half an hour per pound will not be too long for it to simmer. Pork and salt meat should have twenty minutes per pound, and fish ten minutes per pound, and ten minutes over if it is thick. The time should always be counted from the moment the meat is drawn back, after it has been surrounded by its shield. This, therefore, must be considered, and allowance made  for the time the water will take to boil again after the meat has cooled it.

This general rule of putting meat into boiling water holds good for fresh meat only. A difference must be made with salted meat. Salt gets into the pores of the meat and needs to be drawn out a little before the shield surrounds the joint, or the meat would be hard. Therefore salted meat put into lukewarm instead of billing water, or, if it has been very strongly salted, it may even be put into cold water. The liquid may then be brought to the boiling point, be skimmed, and be left to boil for five minutes, and boiled twenty minutes per pound and twenty minutes over.

I must not forget to mention one thing. When I was speaking of roasting meat I said that beef and mutton should hang as long as possible, before being put down to the fire. It is not so with meat that is to be boiled. If meat on the point of turning were boiled, it would neither taste well nor look well, and, more than that, the liquor in which it was cooked would be good for nothing.

I hope no one would even think of throwing away the liquor in which fresh meat has been boiled. As I said a little while ago, do what we will, some of the goodness of the meat will have gone into it, and this must not be wasted. We English have the character of being the most wasteful cooks in the world, and the greatest benefit that would follow the spread of the knowledge of cookery would be that there would not be so much waste. The meat liquor must be poured at once into a clean earthenware pan and kept in a cool place till wanted. Excellent soup may afterwards be made of it, or it may be used instead of water for gravy and sauces. The only precaution that is necessary in order to keep it good is to boil it every day in warm weather, and every three or four days in cold weather. The worst of salt meat is that the liquor can seldom be used again in this way, and especially when saltpetre has been plentifully used to redden salt meat. The best thing that we can do after salt meat has been boiled is to taste the liquor, and if it is very salt, to throw it away at once. If saltpetre has been sparingly used, the liquor may serve for pea or lentil soup, but for no other kind.

So much for boiling meat. And now for vegetables. The majority of these should be thrown into plenty of fast boiling salted water, and boiled with the lid off the pan. If this can be done, and the vegetables are of moderate age, they will be sure to be of a good colour. Sometimes, when they have to be cooked on an open range, the fire is smoke, and, therefore, the lid must be put on. They will not then be of such a good colour. Closed ranges are, however,  becoming every day more usual amongst us, and with them there need be no dif in preserving the colour of vegetables. An exception to the general rule of putting vegetables into boiling water is made in the case of old potatoes, which should be put into cold water and gently stewed. New potatoes may, however, be put into boiling water like the rest.

24 January 1880 - 'Our Cookery Class - Gravy for Joints' by Phillis Browne

You can generally tell, from the look of the gravy that is served with a joint, whether or not the cook understands her business.  If the gravy is fatty, or cold, or looks like thin light-coloured gruel, also if there is a great deal of it in the dish, I would advise you to resign yourself to your fate, and remember that man eats to live, he does not live to eat. If on the contrary the gravy is clear, bright, brown, free from fat and small in quantity cheerfully leave yourself in the hands of the carver, for it is probable that you are about to partake of a well-cooked dinner.

Gravy may either be made a little time before it is wanted, or it may be prepared from the brown sediment which is to be found in the dripping tin under the joint. The latter method I do not recommend, but it is the more usual of the two, and therefore I will describe it first.

It is well known that after meat has been hung before the fire for a while, fat begins to drop from it. In course of time this fat will be mixed with a sort of rich brown juice, and it is from this latter substance that the gravy is to be made.

Now a great point in making gravy is to have it free from fat. Everyone knows what fatty gravy is like. So long as the meat and dish are hot, it is not very objectionable, but as the joint and the plates cool, the fat solidifies, and floats in cakes on the top of the gravy, and the taste of one of these is more easily imagined than described.

The reason why it is undesirable to make gravy from the contents of the dripping tin is that it is so difficult to get rid of the fat in the tin, and to retain the sediment only.

When, however, gravy has to be thus made, the fat must be poured off from one corner of the tin; this must be done carefully and with a steady hand. When the sediment only remains, the cook should pour in about a third of a pint of boiling stock, or boiling water, if stock is not to be had. She should then scrape the tin will in order to dissolve any hard dry spots of gravy that there may be, and when these are melted she should pour a spoonful or two of the gravy round, but not over, the meat in the dish, and the rest into a hot tureen.

If the gravy has become cool whilst in the tin, it should be made hot in a saucepan before being strained into the dish, but it should not be allowed to boil.

No greater mistake can be made than to pour a large quantity of gravy into the dish with the meat. In the first place, it is very awkward  for the carver; for a mere slip of his knife may cause him to splash the grave over the cloth. In the second place, unless a hot-water dish is used, the gravy will cool much more quickly in a large dish than it will in a small covered tureen. And more than all, made gravy will dilute the gravy that runs from the meat. When a joint is properly roasted, a gush of grave follows the first cut of the knife, and then continues to flow from the meat while it is being carved. The majority of grown-up people would rather have a teaspoonful of this real juice of meat than a quarter of a pint of the coloured water which is so often served as gravy. When the family is large, and gravy is much liked, a little made gravy must be used, because the joint, in all probability, would not yield as much as is wanted, but it is a pity when that which it does yield is not made the most of.

If gravy is provided apart from the joint, the entire contents of the dripping tin can be poured into a basin. In a few hours, when the fat is cold, it will be found that the gravy has settled to the bottom and lies, a clear brown cake of jelly, which can be used without any of the fat the next time gravy is wanted.

When I recommend that gravy should be prepared apart from the joint, I hope no one will think I am going to advise the purchase of gravy beef. Indeed I am not, for I should consider such a purchase extravagant and unnecessary.

In all houses where meat is cooked there are little bones, trimmings and scraps, from which excellent gravy can be prepared, costing nothing but a little care and fore-thought; and without these, economical cookery is impossible.

Suppose that gravy is wanted to-day for a joint of beef. Something was cooked for dinner yesterday, and it is almost certain that a bone or scraps of some kind were left from it. If the cook had forethought she would put these on one side, cover them over to keep them clean, and when there was a convenient opportunity, that is, when the fire was not in use, she would stew them for gravy. Perhaps bacon was served for breakfast or boiled meat had been provided, in either case she would be particularly fortunate; of course she would have preserved the meat liquor, pouring it into a clean earthenware pan and throwing a little muslin over it to keep it from dust and flies. What course would she now pursue to make gravy?

She would first take a small onion, skin it and cut it into rings. She would melt a little dripping in a saucepan, throw in the onion and shake it over the fire until it was brown but not at all burnt. She would now put in the bones and scraps, together with a sprig of parsley, an inch or two of celery, three or four peppercorns, and the rind of the bacon which had been scalded in boiling water and scraped with a blunt knife to make it quite clean. Over all she would pour meat liquor or cold water to barely cover her materials, then covering the saucepan closely and placing it by the side of the fire, she would let its contents stew very gently indeed, skimming it every now and then with an iron spoon for a couple of hours till the liquor was considerably reduced, and was strong and pleasantly flavoured. Then she might strain it off and put it on one side to let any fat there might be to rise to the surface, when it could be easily removed. If the liquid were light-coloured, a few drops of sugar browning should be stirred in, but it is probable that the browned onion will have supplied all that is required. Only let the grave be a rich, deep brown. In cookery the appearance of a dish is almost as important as its taste, and light-coloured gravy for joints is not pleasing to the eye.

If two tablespoonfuls of the gravy thus made were put into the dish with the meat, the gravy that runs from the meat would mix with it and would furnish an excellent accompaniment to the roasted joint.

If it should happen that there was no opportunity to stew the scraps and trimmings in time  for the fat to cake on the top of the gravy, it would be well to pour the liquid into a jar, and set this in a vessel containing cold water. This would make it cool more rapidly, and so cause the fat to rise more quickly to the surface.

Care must be taken, however, not to put too much water over the bone. Good gravy is wanted, and this would be more likely to be obtained if water or stock were taken to partly cover the bone and no more.

Gravy thus made would do very well for beef or pork, but not for mutton or lamb. These meals would be served with good brown un-flavoured gravy. Therefore the flavouring ingredients should not be stewed with the bone for them; but the bone should be stewed in nothing but stock or water slightly salted. Good gravy for a leg or shoulder of mutton may be made by stewing the shank bone and one or two trimmings of meat for an hour or two.

Perhaps it will be thought that it is a very simple business to make gravy, and that it is unnecessary to attend to all these details in connection with it. But it is not so. Very often gravy is a delusion. I have known cooks who professed to understand their business take a little boiling water and pour it over the browner portions of the joint, thus watering the joint to all intents and purposes, and then consider that they have done all that is required for gravy. They were mistaken and they were only proving their ignorance. There is nothing that shows the ability of a cook more than gravies and sauces. It is very safe to conclude that where meat is served regularly with good brown bright gravy, perfectly free from fat, some one in the house knows something of cookery.

3 January 1880 - 'Our Cookery Class' by Phillis Browne - Chapter One

This is part one of the first series of cookery essays Phillis Browne wrote for the G.O.P.

Cookery is one of the Arts. Those who would excel in it must, like other artists, be educated for it. It would be as reasonable to expect that a girl could play one of Beethoven's sonatas, because she had the score, a piano, and a music stool, as it would be to suppose that she could prepare a dinner because she was in possession of a cooking apron, a rolling-pin, a pastry board, and the materials for making an apple pie.

A knowledge of cookery consists in the understanding of a number of details connected with the subject. To be a cook is to be able to set upon that knowledge. This power can only be gained by practice and experience. No one can learn to be a cook by reading papers on cookery any more than they can satisfy their hunger by looking at a sirloin of beef.

It will be my endeavours in these papers to write down the details of cookery as plainly as I can. The girls who read them must, if they would become cooks, go down into the kitchen and prove for themselves whether or not what I say is right. They will feel at first a little awkward; things will not come exactly as they want them. But if they will persevere they will soon become skilful, and after a time they will be able to congratulate themselves on being able to cook. This means that as long as they live they, and more than themselves - those whom they love - will never be dependent upon others  for the comforts of home; that whatever position in life they may occupy they will be able to cook food for themselves or to direct others in doing it; and that they will have gone a long way in the road which leads to their being good daughters, good wives, good mothers, and good mistresses. In addition, they will gain one of the finest things a woman can gain - the power to use their own hands for a useful purpose.

There are six different ways of cooking food. Roasting, broiling, boiling, stewing, baking, and frying. Of these roasting and broiling may be described as the most nutritious; stewing and boiling as the most economical and digestible; frying and baking as the most convenient and speedy. I will begin with roasting.

ROASTING.

We English are continually being told how very much better the French cook their food; but at any rate we may pride ourselves on this, they do not roast meat so well as we. A great French cook once said that in England all women roast well, and certainly the roast beef of old England is celebrated all over the world. Those who have travelled on the Continent know that wherever the English go it is thought necessary to provide them with "rosbif", and as a rule I imagine experienced travellers avoid the dish and regard it as a delusion and a snare. Our real roast beef is quite a different thing. Let us see what makes it so excellent.

The first consideration is the joint itself. The superior pieces of meat are generally chosen for roasting. The coarser parts are reserved for stewing. Red meats - that is, beef and mutton and game - should be hung for awhile before they are roasted, for only when this is done can it be expected that they will be tender. White meats, on the contrary - such as lamb, veal and pork - taint quickly, and require to be roasted w- fresh.

The time that meat should be kept must depend upon the weather and the time of year. In cold dry weather a leg of mutton can be hung for three weeks with advantage. In hot, and particularly in what is called "muggy" weather, it will not keep for as many days. In buying meat, therefore, the state of the weather should first be considered. If it is favourable, inquiry should be made when the joint is bought, as to the time which has elapsed since the animal was killed. If it is freshly killed do not be persuaded to roast it at once. Hang it - not lay it in a dish - in a cool, airy larder, and examination it every day. Do this with particular care if the weather should change. If it should get to look at all moist in any part, cook it at once. Good beef, however, does not become moist with keeping. A good many cooks will flour a leg or a shoulder of mutton all over to prevent its becoming moist, and this is a very good plan.

One thing I must not forget to say, and that is that a joint must not be allowed to freeze; if it does it will be sure to be spoilt. When there is a frost, it is advisable to put meat that is to be roasted in the warm kitchen for awhile, in order to soften it, before putting it down to the fire. Houses are built in such a way now that it is not every one who has a "cool, airy larder" in which they can keep meat. When this is the case, there is nothing for it but to trust to the butcher. If you ask him to supply you with well-hung beef or mutton, he will doubtless do so, or will hang the meat for you.

If meat is to be roasted before an open range, the fire must be looked after, fully an hour before the meat is put down. It would be of no use to hang meat before a fire that had just been made up. It would only get a smoky, unpleasant taste, and the juice would be drawn out of it, instead of being kept in the meat as it ought to be. A good cook is very particular about her fire. She first pokes it well underneath, to clear it thoroughly from the dust and small cinders which will have settled at the bottom, pushing the live coals to the front of the range. She then puts fresh coal on the fire, choosing for her purpose not large blocks of coal, but what are called "nubbly" pieces. She does not throw these on from a scuttle, but arranges them with her fingers, protected by an old glove, so that they shall be packed closely, yet leaving room for a draught of air to pass between the lumps. She then sweeps up the hearth, collects the cinders, and places them with some coke or damped coal-dust at the back of the fire. A fire made like this will last a long time. As soon as the front part is clear and bright it is ready  for the meat. It must not be forgotten, however, that it must be watched, and fresh pieces of coal or coke added occasionally, in order that it may be kept up until the meat is roasted.

The dripping-tin, with a good-sized lump of dripping in it, should be put down ten minutes or so before the meat. This is to be done so that there may be dripping at hand to baste the meat with as soon as it is put down. The goodness of roasted meat depends very much upon its being frequently basted, and this is particularly necessary when the joint is very close to the fire, as it is at the beginning. If a meat-screen is used, it also should be put before the fire, so that it may not be cold when the meat is put into it.

While the dripping is melting the meat may be got ready. It should be looked over and trimmed neatly if required, any rough or jagged pieces, or superfluous fat or suet being cut away with a sharp knife. A leg of mutton should have the knuckle bone cut off, and the skin from the thickest part of the leg, where it joined the loin, cut away. These trimmings must of course be preserved. They can be stewed, and will make very good stock. A sirloin of beef should have the soft pipe that runs down the middle of the bone taken away. This has a very unpleasant appearance if left on the joint. All white meats are better for being wrapped in greased paper before they are put to the fire.

Some cooks think it necessary to wash meat before putting it down. If the joint has been bought of a respectable dealer, and has not been roughly handled, it is most undesirable that this should be done, as nothing draws the goodness out of meat more than washing it. If there is any suspicion that it has been touched by dirty fingers, it may be scraped and wiped with a damp cloth, or if it is in such a condition that it must be washed, it should be plunged in and out of hot water. The business must be performed as quickly as possible, and the meat must be dried at once and thoroughly with a soft cloth. If it should happen that the meat has been kept a little too long, or if it is discoloured in any part, it should be washed quickly with vinegar and water and wiped dry afterwards.

The next thing is to wind up the meat-jack, to weight the joint, and then to hang it on the meat hook. And here it must be remembered that the meat is to hang by the small end, so that the largest or thickest part should hang a little below the hottest part of the fire. The thickest part of the meat will take more roasting than the rest, therefore the fiercest heat of the fire must fall upon it.

It is a great object both in roasting and boiling meat to keep in the gravy or juice. In both cases this is best effected by cooking the outside very quickly, so that it shall be a sort of case through which the juices of the meat cannot escape. It is for this purpose that the meat should be put quite near the fire to begin with - that is, as near as it can be not to burn the outside; and it should be basted immediately to prevent its becoming hard and dry. Then in about five or six minutes it may be drawn back to the distance of about a foot from the fire, and basted frequently till it is done. By frequently I mean as much and as often as possible, for meat can scarcely be basted too much. It is the lean part of the meat that requires basting. The screen that is put round it will keep the cold air from blowing upon it.

This is a very important part of roasting, and I should like to impress it upon you. I once heard a very clever cook say that in every dish she made there was a secret; and her great desire was to keep the secret very safe, so that no one might make such good things as she did. We will act quite differently. We will try to discover the secrets, and if they are worth knowing we will tell them all around.

As to the time that meat will take to roast, that will vary with its quality, its thickness, and the heat of the fire. This is one of the points on which a cook cannot go by a book, but must use her common sense. The great general rules are a quarter of an hour to the pound and a quarter of an hour over for red meat, and twenty minutes to the pound and twenty minutes over for white meats - lamb, veal and pork. These rules, however, cannot always be followed. A thick, solid piece of meat, such as rolled rib of beef, or the topside of the round of beef, or a loin of mutton boned and rolled, would need to be roasted longer per pound than a shoulder of mutton or a loin of mutton that was not rolled; while a joint that had a good deal of gristle and bone in it, such as the thin flank of beef, would need to roast half-an-hour to the pound. Then the time of the year has something to do with it. Meat requires longer roasting in winter than it does in summer time. This is one of the lessons that only experience can teach.

There is one very important point that I must not forget to mention, and that is - take care of the dripping. This is a most valuable article. It can be used for a great many purposes, which we will speak of later; therefore we must look after it now. It may be that we have a dripping-tin made with a well to receive the fat, and if this is the case it will be kept free from dust and cinders without any difficulty. But a very great many people have merely a shallow tin or wrought-iron pan to put under the meat. When this is the case, the fat must be looked after. If any cinders fall in they must be removed, and the fact must be poured away once or twice whilst the joint is roasting, to prevent its getting burnt. Of course, enough dripping must still be left in the pan to baste the meat. If dust should fall from the fire to soil the side of the tin, the opposite side should be at once turned to the fire.

And now we have kept up our fire and basted our meat vigorously, and the time is drawing near when it should be sufficiently roasted.  I am quite sure that a pleasant odour is making itself felt which is enough to make our mouths water. The dishes and plates are on the plate warmer, and everything seems ready. But what about the gravy? We must leave that until the next lesson.

4 January 1902 - 'The White House Class' by Lina Orman Cooper - Chapter 4

A Victorian curry. Look, I don't condone everything here, I just transcribe it, all right?

Having had two “sweet mornings”, or rather two mornings devoted to sweet things, Miss Benson thought a lesson in savoury cooking would not come amiss.  Mr Merton, in fact, had gone out of his way in order to call at the White House and ask Miss Benson to teach his daughters how to cook a curry.

“Having been in India so long,” he explained, “I am devoted to curry.  No, my liver is not out of order, Miss Benson, but my life is incomplete without that spicy and toothsome mixture on my table occasionally.  It is true, my wife gives me a yellowy, pallid compound, which she calls curry!  But it is nothing like unto the crisp, browny, golden mixture I used to get in Bengal.”

“Well, I think I can give your daughters instruction on that point,” answered Miss Benson, smiling.  “I myself learned from a shivering Bengalese in London many years ago.  He came to my mother’s house one bitter wintry day clad in his national costume.  No, not in a neat postage stamp and a necklace, Mr Merton, but swathed in snow-white muslin.  The poor fellow was such an object of compassion, that my people took him in, until they could communicate with the proper officials interested in such stray Orientals.  In gratitude, Mooza taught my sister and me how to make his national dish.  I never eat a curry now in any house but my own.  For what professes to be such is but a feeble imitation. 

Mr Merton was full of thanks.

“And don’t forget the rice,” he whispered, as he took his way down the white steps.  “For goodness’ sake, Miss Benson, don’t forget the rice!”

So on the fourth morning, the round spice-box, full of every kind of dry pod and bean which can be used, stood on the kitchen dresser when the three young maidens arrived for their weekly instruction. 

“Condiments, my dear girls,” began Miss Benson, in her most pedagogic manner, “are rather adjuncts to food than foods themselves.  In fact they may be said to be medicines more than foods.  Yet they are extremely valuable in rendering food more palatable, stimulating a jaded appetite, supplying a necessary substance, and assisting in the preservation of food.  Your father was here yesterday, and though he did not pl illness, or complain of a jaded appetite, he did ask me to teach you all how to make him a savoury curry such as his soul loves.  Lucilla, Linda and Eva, you are this day to make a curry succulent enough to melt in the mouth, hot enough to tickle the palate, soft enough to be eaten with a spoon, and crisp enough not to be a hash!”

Miss Benson was evidently in good form this morning.  Lucilla kissed the white brow which was so often wrinkled with pain, and looked lovingly at the thin cheeks.

“Yes,” replied Miss Benson to the unspoke sympathy, “I am feeling better than usual.  So you girls will have to look extra spry if you want to please me.  I am all anxiety to turn out a first class curry.”

On the table the girls saw some raw beef cut up into dice, some cooked vegetables left from last night’s dinner, a bottle of powder, and onions.

“First and foremost, Linda, those onions must be cut into rings.  I have some compassion on your eyes, dears, so I asked cook to peel them for you.  That is right, Linda, I want a good pile.  Now, Eva, melt in a stew pan a lump of good dripping or butter; when it boils, and it only does this when all bubbling has ceased, pour in your rings and let them fry.  You may let them, indeed, look quite a dark colour and feel quite crisp before you remove them from the fire.  Linda, if you peel a couple of potatoes with the knife you have used in slicing the onions, all unpleasant odour will be eradicated.  Now, Lucilla, dredge over the meat and vegetables with flour out of its dredger.  Don’t be satisfied with a sprinkling, but see that every part is well covered with a white veil.  Eva, whilst the onions are frying, mix a tablespoonful of curry-powder with a breakfastcupful of milk.  It I had been able to get butter-milk or thick sour cream it would be even better.  Mix thoroughly and take out every lump with the back of a spoon.  Pour it into the pan.  When it boils up, Linda, must put the meat in.  There, that will do, but as we have had to use sweet milk, Lucilla, please squeeze a lemon over the meat, and see that the sauce covers it completely.  That is the foundation of all curries; but we must add much more if we want really a good one.  I see an apple on the dresser, slice that in, and are not those green gooseberries in that basket?  Top and tail a handful, little Eva, they can go in too.  Is there anything else?  Yes, that bottle of chutney is nearly empty and its contents too dry to use.  Pop it in – the chutney, not the bottle, I mean.  Now give it one or two ‘rakes’ with a folk, Lucilla, and if it’s bubbling draw it away from the open ring and leave it to cook at the side of the range.  The lid is well down, isn’t it, Linda?  Doesn’t fit properly?  Oh, then we had better dispense with it altogether!  Our object will be to keep in all the steam which may arise; so put a plate over the compound, Lucilla, it will act splendidly.”

“But when will the curry be ready, Miss Benson?  It is scarcely cooking at all at the side of the range.”

“It will not be ready till eight o’clock dinner,” explained Miss Benson, “by that time every ingredient will be undistinguishable.  It will be a golden brown mass of soft stuff, most toothsome and most appetising.  Never be in a hurry with curry.  It is always better after twelve hours’ cooking.”

“Do you always make your curries of fresh meat, Miss Benson?” quoth  Lucilla the prudent.  “Mother says she uses up all the cold meat and scraps in one.”

“Your mother is quite right, Lucilla, as she always is.  For I hope your motto is the same as I had when a girl – ‘What mother says is so – Is so, even if it isn’t so.’  Curies may be made of any scraps at hand.  It’s in the mixing and the cooking that success hangs; but, of course, a curry made of fresh meat or fowl is better than one made of dry, cold mutton or any reheated stuff.  As I wanted your father to have a really good one, I have been extravagant enough today to use fresh butcher’s beef.”

“Now for the rice!” exclaimed Lucilla.  “That is a more fearsome mystery than the curry even.”

“It is less seldom met with properly cooked,” answered the old lady.  “Let us try our ‘prentice hands anyway.”

So, according to directions, a quarter of a pound of Patna rice was well washed in clean cold water, every disfiguring dark grain being ruthlessly picked out.  It was then put  into a large saucepan of madly boiling water.

“A large saucepan is a sine qua non for cooking rice,” explained Miss Benson.  “There must be room for each separate grain to whirl about in the water.  If you put rice into a little water, it will absorb it, and become a glutinous pulpy mass.  If there be sufficient water that is impossible.  Keep it boiling quickly for fifteen minutes; at the end of that time try a grain between finger and thumb; if there still be a ‘bone’ in it, give another minute’s boiling.  Then strain quickly, pour cold water through it, and after covering the rice with a dry clean cloth, put the sieve and it into an oven, and serve when every grain is distinct.”

“Is there much difference between the different kinds of rice we see in the grocer?” queried Linda, who was particularly fond of the delicious little grain.

“There is a great difference in price and some difference in appearance, Linda,” answered Miss Benson; “but there is not much difference in their nutritive qualities.  The large-grained Patna rice at threepence a pound is quite indispensable for cooking with curries.  It is so white and firm; but the smaller grains at twopence a pound do well enough for milk puddings, etc.  The cheaper kinds, and there are cheaper, must be I think the sweeping of grocers’ shops, and to be avoided.  It is wonderful how we are able to get rice at even threepence a pound, which is the top price in the market, when one thinks that it is an entirely tropical or sub-tropical production, and the long way it has to travel to reach us.  We ought never to grudge the price.  Rice requires much moisture and germinates best in marshy surroundings.  For this reason the paddy fields of India and the cultivated portions of the Nile banks grow the finest kinds.  There is not much nutriment in rice myself, though from the earliest records it has formed the staple food of the great masses of population in both India and China.  One has only to read of the way in which Death mows down his millions in those countries whenever an epidemic breaks out, to see how little stamina the people possess.  It is the additions we make to it that makes rice wholesome.  In India it is the ‘ghee’ or rancid butter, they mix with their daily dole, which sustains life.  In this country the milk and sugar we usually cook it with is what makes it valuable.”

“Can anything be done with this plain-water boiled rice when there is any over?” queried economical Lucilla, looking at the pile of snowy grain left on the sieve after being boiled.

“One nice way of eating it is to add cold milk and aw sugar to it and eat it thus.  As a child I delighted in this mixture, and every other child I have ever given it to does the same; but, as a rule, rice is not worth heating up twice.  You can soon tell how much you  need to cook.  Usually far too much is put into saucepan or pudding.  Amateurs forget how much rice swells, one teaspoonful to half a pint of milk is quite sufficient for the milk-rice so much used.  Skim milk will make this, if you replace the abstracted cream with a bit of finely-chopped suet.  This suet is better than butter in giving a thin yellowy-brown skin to the baked pudding.  It never tastes as strongly as does cooking butter, and it is more wholesome to weakly digestions.  You know suet boiled in milk is largely given to consumptives as a fattening, sustaining, heat-giving food.”

The curry prepared that morning at the White House appeared at the dinner table of Mr Merton that same night.  It was of a dark-brown complexion, and encircled with a high wall of dainty grains of white rice.  N.B. – This was freshly boiled, the trio of cooks having demolished the first-made pile with sugar and milk before they left Miss Benson’s kitchen.  In addition to the curry was a small glass pot of hastily-made chutney.  I append the recipe for the same. 

A handful of sultana raisins well cleaned and finely chopped, a few small chillies treated in the same way, a handful of fresh green mint chopped and pounded, and a fistful of raw brown sugar.  All these ingredients pounded together in a mortar and moistened with a few drops of tarragon vinegar.

“The very nicest chutney I ever tasted,” decided Mr Merton, the connoisseur, as he helped himself for a third time.  “More power to your elbows, girls, and may your shadows never grow less!”

2 November 1901 - 'The White House Class' by Lina Orman Cooper - Chapter 2

How to light a fire, a brief foray into social justice and the manufacture of matches, cooking methods and the question of ethical vegetarianism. 

A love of cookery, or rather, of cooking, is born in all children.  From their earliest years they will make sand or mud pies, turn puddings out of buckets on the shore, or make feasts in winkles and cockle shells.  Who does not remember the toffee of childhood boiled only on snowy days and as hard as the nether millstone?  Who does not recall the tallow, crimson drops evolved by application of a sugary lump to a smoking candle?  Who does not recall the delight of snow pancakes and even of those wonderful flat loaves made from courtcards?  Who does not love doughy pigs with currant eyes, or pastry mice with tender tails?

Yet how few of the maidens who esteemed an hour in the kitchen as the greatest pleasure of all their pleasurable childhood carry out this love into intelligent interest and manipulation in other years?  Miss Benson had not been in error when she said that the three young Mertons would look upon the classes as a grand bit of fun.  They came in sparkling and dimpling and bursting with eagerness.  For the first morning their instructress let them work their own sweet will, “Just to let them know their own ignorance,” as she said.  When this was manifested by a pile of burnt pies and sodden cakes, she raised their spirits by telling them that she would see they made no mistakes in future.

“Listen to what I say and follow what I say, and you will be successful.”  And successful they were in the end, though inaccuracy and carelessness and inattention spoiled many a dish even after they had set themselves to learn in real earnest.

As Miss Benson’s classes were no formal ones, so no formal sequence of proceedings marked them.  Just as was convenient she taught them various things, so my readers must not wonder if the lessons hopped from pastry to turnips and from soups to sweets.

“The first thing a cook must learn is how to lay and light a fire,” said Miss Benson, as her small class came in the next day.  “I have not allowed cook to do mine this morning so that you might have a chance.  Coal, sticks, and paper are the articles wanted.  Rake out every bit of dust and cinder.  Your fire requires air to breathe just as much as your lungs do.  Now put a few of the larger cinders at the bottom.  On them place a handful of sticks.  No, not in a bunch like that, Linda!  Build them up as you would do bricks.  You have in your hand a bundle of prepared kindling twigs.  Each end has been dipped in resin, as you see, to make it catch easily.  A bundle costs one halfpenny, and half a bundle should be sufficient to light up a big range fire quickly.  If speed be not an object the bundle can be made to light three fires, and it should be expected to do so, when used in the parlour or bedroom.  For one penny, therefore, you have sufficient kindling material for three fires.  Remember this when you have servants of your own, my dears.”

“But when wood is so cheap, is there any need to be so particular?” inquired Lucilla, with her most grande-dame air.  “It hardly seems worth while, does it?”

“My dear child,” said Miss Benson, you have evidently never mastered the first principles of economics!  A wise man has said, ‘Political economy consists in spending a pound to save a penny.  Household economy consists in spending a penny to save a pound’.  This is true, and every penny saved is a penny gained.  I will not bid you add up the amount to credit if you save just one farthing in firewood per diem!  Such statistics are futile to most folk!  But I will demonstrate truth in another way.  The heap of firewood in that corner beside you cost sixpence.  There are twelve bundles.  Take a third from each bundle, and you will lose four bundles at once!  That is, that you waste twopence out of every sixpence, or nearly seven shillings out of every pound!”

Lucilla looked convinced.  It was all as clear as day when Miss Benson put it that way!

“Now use that wire shovel beside you for taking up each bit of cinder.  Heap it on the wood, and intersperse it with lumps of round coal.  Not large ones, Linda!  Just the smallest in the bucket.  There!  Your fire is alight!”

“But you use expensive matches, I see, Miss Benson,” quoth Lucille, remembering the little lecture on saving she had just been given.

“Yes, my dear, for two reasons!  One is that common Swedish matches at fourpence a dozen are apt to catch fire when not wanted.  Only the other night a child came in to me with her hand badly scorched by a box of these cheap things exploding in it!  Extracting one match is often sufficient to cause the whole box to ignite.  The second reason is that most match-making is a most fatal trade.  By improper sanitary precautions the match-makers of England suffer from a most terrible and fatal disease called ‘Phosphorous jaw’.  Manufacturers know that unless certain precautions are taken this dreadful disease is sure to attack those who engage in it.  If these precautions are taken, it makes match-making a more expensive process than if they are given out to be made at home.  For this reason I always use the matches made by the Salvation Army.  These are made under healthy and safe conditions.  And I believe Bryant and May are careful about their employees too, and their matches are very well made!”

“Then we should all use safety matches from unselfish as well as selfish motives,” remarked Lucilla.  “I have only heard the cheap ones condemned because they are unsafe.”

“That is the reason usually given, because folks have not looked into the matter,” said Miss Benson earnestly.  “But my reason is, as I have told you, because in safety matches, which are said to light only on the box, the head of the match contains no phosphorus as do those of ordinary make.  They are tipped with a mixture of chlorate of potash and sulphide of antimony.  These are comparatively harmless chemicals.”

Linda, whilst the talk had been going on, had the fire well laid and blazing.  Miss Benson bid her carry away all refuse and, when the first blaze was a little over, she was directed to add more coal. 

“As Mr Ruskin says a knowledge of cookery includes many other things, I must give you a little lecture about coal, I suppose,” sighed Miss Benson, for her class was eager to get “forrard”.  “I wonder which of you girls can tell me to what kingdom it belongs.”

“As it is dug out of the ground, I suppose to the mineral,” quoth all three at once.

But the old lady shook her head.

“To the vegetable, my dears!  Coal is of vegetable origin.  It is, indeed, the remains of vast forests which grew in the carboniferous period!  There is a long word for you, little Eva!  Wherever coal is now found was once, ages and ages ago, vast swampy forests, in which grew gigantic trees.  These forests subsided beneath the sea, and the accumulated vegetable matter was covered with a layer of sand.  The wet vegetable matter underwent slow decomposition, and consequently became richer and richer in carbon.  Our ordinary household contains, I believe, on an average about 88 per cent of carbon.  That is why it fizzes in little jets and gives out such a cheery flame.  Another form of true economy, Lucilla, is connected with coal.  The cheapest is never the cheapest in the long run!  Good, hard, clean coal is far less wasteful in use than cheap, soft stuff.  It burns itself and does not leave behind clinkers and cinders and ash.  I save the proverbial pound by spending the proverbial penny in this matter.”

The kind of fire necessary to our different processes of cooking were next dwelt upon.  For roasting, Miss Benson said, a clear hot fire was called for.  This could be secured by having the front surface built up of lumps and kept in place by a background of damp slack.

“In large kitchens,” she said, “the fireplaces are built very shallow.  At King’s College, Cambridge, where the kitchens are almost as beautiful as the Chapel, long grates measuring only about three inches in depth are found.  These give a large surface and very little background.  Spits hang before these long gratings, and food is cooked in the most digestible way.  In roasting, our object must be to seal up the juices of the meat in a kind of envelope.  Hence we hang a joint as near the fire as we can.  Intense heat freezes the surface, to use a Hibernianism.  After a time the meat is drawn backwards and basting begins.  This keeps the inside moist and helps to make the envelope crisp.  The rule for roasting is, twenty minutes before the hottest part of a fire to begin with; then twenty minutes to each pound at a reasonable distance from the same.

“For baking we need much the same kind of fire, but it must be as fierce at the back as in front, otherwise our oven will not heat.  This fire must be kept at the same heat all the time the oven is required.  Regulation of it must take place by letting in air to the oven and letting out fair from it.  Twenty minutes to each pound is again the rule for all meat cookery in an oven.  Roasting and baking may be called the aristocratic branches of heating.  The poor must be content with boiling and stewing – indeed so must the dyspeptics!  No way is meat so digestible as when stewed.  By stewing I mean extracting the juices and goodness of meat by slow boiling.  French people seldom cook in any other way, and in stewing, inferior or, I would rather say, less expensive parts of a carcass can be used.  Really inferior meat is never economical.  Go to the best butcher in the town, is my advice.  If you cannot afford to buy the best joints buy the cheaper ones.  But by dealing with an honest well-to-do man you are sure of getting good value for money, and of getting even the less tasty part of meat of good quality.  It is the duty of a cook to so present these inferior parts that they may be just as nourishing and toothsome as the superior ones.  A good cook in this way is a most economical thing.  I pity housewives who have to put up with a ‘slavey’ at six pound a year.  She will waste more thorough ignorance than one realises.  If you cannot have a good trained cook, girls, then do the cooking yourselves!  So much depends on the kitchen in a modern household – health and spirits and brain and cheerfulness!”

Miss Benson had apparently forgotten the last branch of cookery.  Lucilla reminded her she had said nothing about boiling. 

“For boiling,” amended the old lady, “you need a gentle heat.  For what is called boiling a joint is not boiling at all – or certainly not beyond the first two minutes.  Here again our object must be to produce an envelope capable of resisting the action of hot water.  This we obtain by plunging the leg or shoulder or chicken into a pot of madly bubbling water.  Introduction of the said shoulder, etc., immediately stops boiling.  But let the pot come up to a bubble again and you will have sealed the pores of the meat, and can depend on juices being retained until it is cut at table.  All delicate-looking white-complexioned meat is produced by not attending to this rule.  And then not only is the meat tasteless but its most nourishing properties have been left behind in the pot from which it was lifted.  That contains the essence, as it were, extracted by the process of stewing.”

“Mother told me to ask you, Miss Benson, if New Zealand frozen meat is as nourishing as English-fed animals?  It is so much cheaper, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” replied Miss Benson.  “It may be prejudice but I must confess I prefer nice English mutton to any which has come over the sea.  New Zealand lamb, however, and American beef are much in vogue now.  It depends entirely on how long they are cooked whether they are as nourishing as English produce.  In some ways I rejoice at the introduction of ice chambers and refrigerators.  It has done away with much of the dreadful trade of shipping living animals for consumption in our little island.  It makes one inclined to forswear all animal food to read of the torments inflicted on poor brutes during the passage, say, from Ireland to England, or from Normandy to us.”

“Do you, then, approve of vegetarianism?” queried Eva with wide-open eyes.

“Yes, in many ways,” answered Miss Benson.  “But for ourselves I believe our cold climate calls for use of animal food in moderation.  We eat far too much as a rule, little Eva.  If milk and eggs could be procured as cheaply and easily as flesh, I think our artisan population might be largely benefited by using them more generously.  I am sure our ‘upper suckles’ would benefit largely by knocking off half their daily meat allowance.”

By this time the hour was up.  Miss Benson and her two pupils looked ruefully at the clock.

“We have done absolutely no cooking this morning,” urged the trio.  “Can’t we go on for awhile?”  But Miss Benson shook her head.

“I perceive these classes will be as diffuse as Mr Ruskin could wish!” she said.  “But one hour is quite enough, my dears, both for teacher and for taught.  Next week, I promise you, you shall do some real cooking.  But you will have to light the fire first, remember.”