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.

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.

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.

12 October 1889 - 'Home-made Sweetmeats' by Edith A. Brodie

I think to most young folks the sweetstuff made by themselves at home tastes indescribably better than that which comes from what Scotch children call a "sweetie" shop. It has, at any rate, the merit of being more wholesome. With this idea I have written out some successful recipes, which have been duly tried and approved of by an appreciative circle of girl friends, and I think, if you carefully follow them, you also will be pleased with the results.

My first shall be for that time-honoured favourite, Toffee. Take one pound of brown sugar, two ounces of butter, and half a teacup-ful of cream or milk. Put these materials into a nice clean pan, and boil, without stirring, for twenty minutes. At the end of that time find out if it is sufficiently boiled, by dropping a little into cold water, when, if it "sets", the mixture should be poured into a buttered dish or tin. The addition of five or six drops of essence of vanilla, just before it is poured out, is a great improvement.

Toffee-Balls are made by taking a little of the toffee off the buttered dish before it gets too cold, and rolling small pieces tightly into balls in your fingers. When you have  thus shaped the balls, roll them about on a cold plate until they are perfectly hard and cold.

If you want to have Almond Toffee, blanch four ounces of almonds, split them into strips, and throw them into the toffee just before it is dished, omitting the vanilla flavouring. To blanch the almonds, throw them into a basin of slightly salted boiling water, and leave them to soak for two or three minutes. Then pour off the water, and you will find the skins slip off between your fingers. Drop each almond into clear cold water, then strain and lay them in a shallow dish to dry slowly in front of the fire before using.

Everton Toffee - For this, half a pound of golden syrup, half a pound of Demerara sugar, lemon juice to taste, and from five to six ounces of butter are required. Mix carefully the sugar and syrup, and then add the butter in little bits, stirring slowly till it is all thoroughly mixed. Then cease stirring, or the toffee will "sugar", let it boil gently till a tiny bit thrown into cold water sets. If everything is satisfactory, it will be beautifully crisp, and the whole should then be poured into a tin previously well rubbed with sweet oil or butter. When it is half cold, mark it into squares.

Butter Scotch - Put into a very clean pan one pound and a half of soft sugar, two ounces of butter, half a teaspoonful of cream of tartar, and half a teacupful of cold water. Let the whole boil for about ten minutes without stirring, then dip a spoon in cold water when the mixture hardens it will do. You may add, if you like, a little powdered ginger of vanilla essence just before pouring it out. Mark it into neat square when it cools a little.

Marzipan - Procure half a pound of almonds, two ounces of bitter almonds, and half a pound of sugar. Blanch the almonds and pound them in a mortar; clarify and cook the sugar slightly, then remove it from the fire and stir into it the almonds. Warm all together, stirring well, and taking the greatest care that it doesn't burn. When it is cooked enough (that is, when it won't adhere to the fingers), pour it out on a board sprinkled with sugar. As soon as it is cool, cut it into tiny fancy shapes, stars, rings and fingers; and, if you are anxious to make it a very "swell" goody, decorate it with preserved cherries or other dried fruits.

Chocolate Creams - Take one pound of loaf sugar, put it into a saucepan, and pour some good milk or thin cream over it, as much as the sugar will absorb. Let the latter dissolve, then boil it gently for a time, until when you drop a little into cold water it candies. Do not boil it too long, or, in place of smoothly creaming, the sugar will go into minute sand-like grains. Be most careful, too, that it doesn't stick to the pan, but do not stir it till it is taken off, when it must be continually stirred until it creams. Then beat until cool, when it has to be rolled into little balls, which form the inner cream of the sweetmeat. Now put half a pound of vanilla chocolate into a jar, and place over a saucepan of boiling water to dissolve; when melted, dip the creams into it and place them on a buttered paper to get cool.

Cocoa-nut Tablet - Get a small fresh cocoa-nut, open one of the holes at the top, and pour out the milk into a cup; crack the shell, take out the kernel, and pare all the skin from it, then grate about half of the kernel. Dissolve half a pound of loaf sugar in a large cupful f cold water, and when it is dissolved put it on a clear moderate fire, without flame or smoke, to boil; a little of the cocoa-nut milk may be added. Allow it to boil for five or six minutes, carefully removing every particle of scum that rises, when the sugar should look like a thick white cream; then add the grated cocoa-nut, and let it boil for a few minutes longer, stirring it continuously from the bottom with a wooden spoon to prevent it catching. Try if it is ready by pouring a teaspoonful into a cup of cold water, when if you can gather a little soft lump at the bottom of the cup it is sufficiently boiled. Remove it from the fire, pour it out upon a buttered plate, or sheet of clean, common note paper previously laid in front of the fire to warm. When it is thoroughly set, but not quite cold, cut it into neatly shaped blocks. If you would like the tablet to be pink, add some drops of cochineal to the syrup while boiling, stirring to see the required tint.

Barley Sugar - For this you require one pound and a half of fine loaf sugar broken into very small lumps and boiled over the fire in a pint of water. Keep on skimming it carefully till it looks like glue, and becomes so brittle when dropped into cold water that it snaps. Now add the juice of a lemon, and a few drops of essence of lemon, and boil the sugar up once. Stand the pan in a basin of cold water till the contents have somewhat cooled, when they may be poured out upon a shallow buttered tin; to prevent the sweetmeat spreading too much, draw it together with a knife. When it has cooled sufficiently to be handled, cut it into small pieces, and roll them into round sticks, which you can twist a little so as to make the look more like the barley sugar one buys in shops. All that remains to be done is to sift the sugar lightly over the sticks when they have become perfectly cold and hard.

Fig Rock - For this take one cupful of sugar, three-quarters of a cupful of water, and a quarter of a teaspoonful of cream of tartar. Boil till the mixture becomes an amber colour, but do not stir during the process; add the cream of tartar just before taking from the fire. Wash the figs, split them in half, and lay them flatly on a dish, pour the mixture over them, and let it stand til cold.

13 March 1886 - 'Omelettes, and How to Make Them' by Phillis Browne

In the life of a great Englishwoman, just published, her biographer says that "she was an excellent housekeeper, and her excellence was partly attained from knowing how things ought to be done". There is a great deal of truth in this remark. People who know how things ought to be, how they look when they are right, have a great advantage over people who simply make a guess, and try to imagine after having the process of manufacture described, though they have never actually seen what the result is.  This is particularly the case with omelettes. For years authorities in cookery have been telling us that omelettes are delicious, inexpensive, elegant and wholesome; indeed, that they supply one of the most wholesome ways of cooking eggs; that French people use them every day, and never tire of them; that the varieties are endless; that if you can make one sort you can make fifty; that though a certain knack is required in making them, and though failure in them is much more frequent than success, yet that they are very easily made; that they are most convenient preparations, because they can be so quickly prepared (indeed they must be quickly prepared if they are to be good, and it has been said that an omelette should not only be made, but should be eaten also, in the space of three minutes).

All these assertions are true, and yet omelettes are not at all common in England.  English cooks seem afraid of them. I was much astonished the other day to hear a lady, who is, I know, exceedingly clever in cookery, and whom I have for years been accustomed  to regard as an oracle, say, "We had company the other day, and I hired a French cook to prepare dinner for us. He proved to be so obliging that I asked him to teach me how to make omelettes, and he did so. I was surprised to find how easy they are. I shall never be afraid of them again."  I should have soon have suspected this lady of being afraid of boiling an egg as of making an omelette. I feel sure that the timidity so frequently felt about preparing omelettes arises from the fact that few English cooks have seen them when properly made.

It is impossible for me in writing about omelettes to give the girls of our cookery class a sight of one. Al I can do in this direction is to address them to be on the look-out, and to take advantage of any opportunity that may arise in this direction. If they know a clever cook, ask her to make an omelette for them, or if there should be any cookery class held where omelettes are prepared, let them attend the lesson and learn for themselves. Or, of occasions of this kind should be quite out of reach, let them try to make an omelette once or twice, from the directions I am now about to give. It is quite possible that they will make one or two failures, but I should say also that it is almost certain there would be ultimate success, and if once they saw an omelette as it should be they would never mistake it  for the future.

In this case they would find it best to make a small omelette to begin with, so that there need not be much waste if there were failure. Indeed, small omelettes are so much more easily made that large ones, that it is always well for beginners to commence with one or two eggs only. The French generally allow two eggs for each person, and these would be quite enough to experiment on. On this account the pan used should not be too large, because the eggs are not supposed to spread all over the pan as they do in a pancake; they are intended to be kept together and to form a thick, light oval-shaped cushion, the size and shape of half the pan. For three or even four eggs, therefore, the omelette pan should not be more than six inches in diameter, while for two eggs a still smaller pan will be sufficient. These small pans are now sold of different sizes at every ironmonger's, and they cost only a few pence. Indeed, they are offered for sale so much more frequently than they once were, that one cannot help thinking that the making of omelettes is better understood among us than it used to be.

A very important detail concerning these omelette pans is that they must be kept for omelettes only; indeed, it is almost impossible to make an omelette satisfactorily in a pan which has been used for all sorts of things. One reason for this is that an omelette pan should never be washed; it should simply be wiped dry. If it is washed, the next omelette fried in it will stick, and it is a great point in making omelettes to keep them from sticking. If through accident or forgetfulness the pan should have been washed, or even if a new pan is to be used, it must be doctored by leaving a little fat, made exceedingly hot, in it, then pouring this away, and wiping the pan out quickly and briskly with paper until it is clean and bright. Omelette pans are made of copper, enamelled iron, tin, and earthenware, and they should be shallow and round, as well as small. Above all things, they must be perfectly clean from rust and dirt. Experienced omelette makers generally, I think, become attached to one particular pan, and prefer using it to any other. I suppose the explanation is that they have used this same pan successfully a few times, and get into the way of associating it with their success.  I expect that their fancy leads them to take care of it, and thus it is kept in good condition.

Strictly speaking, a plain omelette ought to consist of nothing but eggs and flavouring. This flavouring may be varied indefinitely, all sorts of suitable ingredients being added, provided only that they are cooked or else need no cooking, for it cannot be expected that in the short time the eggs take to cook more solid food will be rendered eatable. Thus, when meat, such as game, bacon, kidneys, or fish are added to omelettes, the meat should be cooked separately, chopped small, then introduced deftly into the centre of the omelette, and covered with the egg, or else it should be mixed with the beaten eggs before cooking. Of course, the omelette is then named after the distinguishing addition. Thus when it is said that fifty varieties of omelettes are made, nothing more is meant than that fifty different additions may be put with the eggs. Thus we have asparagus omelette, bacon omelette, green pea omelette, kidney, lobster, mushroom, oyster, tomato omelettes, and many other sorts. Omelette aux fine herbes is omelette to which minced herbs, and perhaps a suspicion of finely-chopped shalot, has been added; omelette aux confitures is omelette with jam; omelette au natural is nothing but plain omelette; omelette au rhum is made by mixing a glass of rum with the eggs, then sprinkling sugar on the dish, and at the moment of serving pouring a glass of rum over and setting on fire, as brandy is set on fire for Christmas pudding. This is considered a very superior dish.

M. Gouffe, who as everyone knows, is a great authority in cooking, advises that the eggs in omelettes should not e over-beaten. He says that by doing nothing is gained, and that the omelette is rendered watery. Other authorities, equally deserving of honour, say that the eggs should be well beaten, as this is especially needed to make the omelette light. I recommend girls not to overbeat certainly, but at any rate to beat the yolks and the whites together lightly, so that they may be thoroughly mixed before being turned into the pan. A mistake which English cooks frequently make is to cook the omelette overmuch. When properly done, the inside is quite soft and almost liquid, while the outside is firm enough to hold it together and keep it compact. An omelette must on no account be left standing in the dish after it is ready, but must be eaten immediately. No matter how light it is when finished, it will be heavy when cold.

We will suppose now that we are going to make a small omelette with two or three eggs. First, we must remember to have everything ready to our hand. If we get half through the business and then have to run off to fetch a knife, a spoon, or a dish, we are certain to come to grief; indeed, the dish which is to receive it should be very hot. Break two or three eggs into a basin, beat them lightly with a fork, and put with them some sugar and any suitable flavouring. Essence of vanilla is very good. Melt an ounce of butter in the omelette pan. When it is very hot, so that it froths all over, put in the eggs, and with a spoon or fork work the mixture lightly from the sides, mixing in the butter while so doing, and be very careful not to let the eggs stick to the pan. Do not, however, continue stirring until the mixture is solid all the way through, but stop while it is still a little liquid. It may be finished in two ways. One is to tilt the handle of the omelette pan upwards, so as to let the egg slide downwards to the lower half of the pan, and away from the hottest part of the fire.  As it goes, scrape it away so as to keep it together. Let it cook for a second or two, then tilt the pan the other way, and with a spoon roll the omelette over to the other end. Keep it together, because it ought to be thick, and as soon as it is set slide it upon a dish, sift sugar over it, and serve. The other way of finishing it is to fold it over something like a turnover when it is half set to make the proper oval shape.

This sounds simple enough, does it not? So it is when you get to know how to do it but, like many other simple things, it wants practice. It is quite an accomplishment to make an omelette properly. I often think that describing cookery is like describing how scales should be played. We might say that in going down the scale you should first play with the five fingers, then pass the second finger over the thumb, and afterwards the third finger. This sounds easy, but what a bungle those make of it who are not accustomed to the business. They twist their fingers up, and jerk their elbows out most awkwardly, while those who have practice glide smoothly up and down in most elegant fashion. So with cookery, practice is what is wanted to make perfect. The most elaborate instruction might be given, and yet the novice would come upon some little detail concerning which she was bewildered. Try again and again, if scrape it away so as to keep it together. Let it cook for a second or two, then tilt the pan the other way, and with a spoon roll the omelette over to the other end. Keep it together, because it ought to be thick, and as soon as it is set slide it upon a dish, sift sugar over it, and serve. The other way of finishing it is to fold it over something like a turnover when it is half set to make the proper oval shape.

This sounds simple enough, does it not? So it is when you get to know how to do it but, like many other simple things, it wants practice. It is quite an accomplishment to make an omelette properly. I often think that describing cookery is like describing how scales should be played. We might say that in going down the scale you should first play with the five fingers, then pass the second finger over the thumb, and afterwards the third finger. This sounds easy, but what a bungle those make of it who are not accustomed to the business. They twist their fingers up, and jerk their elbows out most awkwardly, while those who have practice glide smoothly up and down in most elegant fashion. So with cookery, practice is what is wanted to make perfect. The most elaborate instruction might be given, and yet the novice would come upon some little detail concerning which she was bewildered. Try again and again, if necessary;  that is the best way of learning; the road to success lies through failure. And, as I said before, remember what you are aiming at - to produce a thick, soft, golden-coloured, oval-shaped mass, which, when cut into, shall look more like cooked custard than anything else I think of, shall e liquid in the centre and firm on the outside. And as the most usual mistake made in cooking an omelette is that it is too hard, err on the side of tiling up the pan too soon rather than too late, and above all things be expeditious.

Some people put a little milk into an omelette. The effect of this is to make it less rich, and although in a perfectly correct omelette I suppose this is not admissible, yet, on the whole, I do not think the addition is to be objected to, because a frequent objection made to omelettes is that they are too rich. A dessert-spoonful or a table-spoonful of milk to each egg will probably be considered sufficient.

When after persevering attempts an omelette has been made properly with two or three eggs, a large number of eggs may be taken. I do not know however that it is in any case advisable to use more than six eggs. As an authority has declared, the best omelettes are never made with more than six eggs. Also when this skill has been attained, additions and variations can be made to any extent, for it will be understood an omelette may be mixed with almost anything.

An omelette soufflé is a favourite variety of the ordinary omelette. In making this, the whites should be beaten separately until they are very stiff, and added to the well-beaten yolks, so as not to beat down the froth. The omelette will be lighter if more white than yolk may be allowed, although this is by no means indispensable. Dissolve in a saucepan a tablespoonful of sugar and a teaspoonful of orange-flower water, or any other suitable flavouring. Pour the syrup into a cup to cool, then add the yolks of eggs and beat them to a cream; add then the whites, which have been beaten to a stiff froth. Melt a piece of butter the size of a nut in an omelette pan; when this is hot pour in the mixture; put the pan over a gentle fire for a couple of minutes, just to set the bottom of the omelette; then put the pan into a very hot oven and bake it until it rises high. Slip it on a hot plate, put some jam or sugar on it, turn it over like a sandwich, and serve instantly. In an oven which is so hot underneath that the eggs will set at the bottom, there is no need to put the omelette on the fire. It may simply be put in the oven for five minutes, and it must not be left after it has risen, or it will fall again. This is a very easy way of making an omelette.

Another easy way is to beat the eggs with milk, sweeten, and flavour them; butter a frying-pan to prevent sticking, and pour them in as if we intended to make a thick pancake. Let the preparation set, and then roll it up. A third easy way is the following: - soak the crumb of a slice of stale bread taken from an ordinary loaf in as much milk as it will absorb. Pour off any milk that is over, and beat the bread to a paste with a fork, adding a little sugar or salt and the yolks of four eggs. Make a slice of butter hot in the pa. Have ready the whites of the eggs beaten to a solid froth, mix these with the rest; pour the mixture into the pan, and move it about for a minute. When the preparation is set at the bottom, put it into a very hot oven for five minutes, or until it is firm on the top, then fold it over and serve.

Sometimes with savoury omelettes, or with omelettes mixed with meat or fish, gravy is served. This should never be poured over the omelette; it should be sent to table separately. The gravy for omelettes is usually thickened with arrowroot or cornflour.

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!”

21 December 1901 - 'The White House Class' by Lina Orman Cooper - Chapter 3

Today, sponge cake and a delicious-sounding apricot gateaux.


Miss Benson was a wise woman.  She did not wish to make the weekly classes at White House too severely scientific.  So, on the third morning on which the young Mertons came up her spotless hite steps, and into her pretty, comfortable kitchen, they found a variety of tempting ingredients laid out on the table in the window.  There were currants and spices, and sultanas and sugar, and flour and baking-powder, and butter and jam.  The fire too was alight, and nothing but one of the most interesting of processes to be gone through.


“I am going to have a tea-party tonight.  I want a sponge cake, voila tout!” explained the old lady, with a sweep of her hands.


“But how are we to make it, please?” quoth the proud Lucilla humbly.  “I haven’t the faintest idea!”


“What ingredients do you suppose you will want?” queried Miss  Benson.


“Flour, of course,” answered all three.


“Butter as well,” added Lucilla.


“Eggs,” said Eva.


“Milk,” supplemented Linda. 


“Eggs certainly,” assented Miss Benson.  “And maybe a very little flour.  But no milk and no butter.  Sponge cake is one of the easiest of cakes to make.  It is also one of the least expensive.  On the other hand it takes the most time and requires a good deal of elbow grease.  Now, Lucilla, take two eggs and their weight in flour.  Put the latter in a basin, and whilst you are breaking up six more eggs, Linda must sift the flour carefully.  My last cook broke my sifting wheel, Linda; but pass the flour carefully through that tiny wire sieve and it will do as well.  Now, Lucilla, break each egg separately.  This is always necessary if eggs are bought in a shop.  It is unnecessary if they are home laid.  AS you see that the white of each is clear, you may add it to the ones already broken.  There, that will do.  Now, with a spoon, Lucilla, remove these little white specks and threads attached to so many yolks.  If you forget to do this, the cake may taste strongly and will be heavy too.  Now, whisk with that wire erection.  It cost eightpence, and is better than any double fork.  Nay, child, but you have to whip for twenty minutes, and if you do it from the shoulder you will never last out!  Whisk with the wrist, as I show you – what a mercy I have the use of my hands, isn’t it?  Now, take a quarter of a  pound of sifted sugar, and add it to your eggs.  Go on whisking all the time.  I see that the mixture is more like milk than cream, so we must add the flour Linda has already prepared.  If you were expert enough at whisking, this would not be necessary.  Now squeeze half a lemon into the cream.”


Poor Lucilla went on labouring at the beating, whilst Eva was directed to put a walnut of butter into a round cake pan.


“Melt it, and then sift over some white sugar, turning the tin in all directions as you do so in order that it may be coated with the oleaginous compound.  This little addition is the secret whereby confectioners manage to give their sponges the syrupy, frosty appearance so taking, and apparently unattainable by an ordinary amateur.  The oven must be hot.  Put a crumb of bread in it, Linda.  Is it brown at once?  Then the oven is hot enough.  Now pour the cream into the pan, Lucilla, as quickly and deftly as possible.  Cover the face with a sheet of tissue paper, and put at once into the oven.  Don’t attempt to look at it for ten minutes, girls.  At the end of that time it will have risen as much as it will ever do, a /heat must be moderated in order to cook it thoroughly all through."


All three girls were intensely delighted at the result of this morning’s work.  Their cake emerged from the oven in first-rate condition.  Though the cream had only half filled its tin when introduced to its fiery ordeal, it was a couple of inches above the top of the rim when finished.  Loosening it with a knife from its surroundings, it slid out freely and satisfactorily without leaving any morsels of ragged sponge behind it.  Then it was set on a sieve to cool.


“If it we lay it on a flat surface like a plate,” explained Miss Benson, “it would become moist and heavy with the condensation of steam.  On a sieve it dries evenly and completely, and even its bottom layer will be as crisp as its crown.”


So it was.  And great was Mrs Merton’s satisfaction when she eat a bit of the first cake made by her daughters’ hands.


Not to be prolix, I will say that this sponge mixture may be used in many different ways.  It can be poured into patty-pans and made into spongelets.  It can be spread out evenly on the tin top of an ordinary biscuit box, then cut in two, sandwiched with jam, and so made into swiss roll.  It can, par excellence, be made into apricot shape.  As this is a famous supper dish of Miss Benson’s, I will tell you how she prepared it.


After making and baking a square sponge cake after the above plan, she caused the girls to scoop out its crumb as far as possible.  This was done with the point of a knife.  Then this hollow was filled with apricot mixture and covered with apricot glaze.  To prepare the latter, she soaked a quarter of an ounce of sheet gelatine in about two tablespoonfuls of water.  In order to do this, it was set over gentle heat in a small saucepan.  As soon as it was melted, two tablespoonfuls of apricot jam was added to it.  If too thick to run nicely when dropped from a spoon (and gelatine rather varies in strength) a little syrup from an open tin of apricots was added to it. This glaze was then poured over the sponge casing, which rested on a tin, through a fine wire-sieve.  This enabled any glaze which ran down the sides to be pasted up again with the back of a spoon.  That left over finally was taken up and poured into the centre of the casing.


Then two whites of egg were beaten up as stiffly as possible with a flat wire-netting spoon.  Two and a half ounces of sugar were added to the froth and mixed up in it.  This compound was next forced through a paper bag (the pattern for which I gave in a recent number of the “G.O.P.”) on to the sponge.  It was sprinkled with sugar.


“Never forget this sprinkling,” directed Miss Benson, when she was teaching her class this particular recipe.  “If you do, the meringue will entirely lose its crispness and character.”


It was set in an oven for five or six minutes, taken out and let cool. Then, lastly, the centre of the apricot gateau was filled up with good tinned apricots. 


“Would fresh fruit do as well, Miss Benson?” queried Lucilla, as she piled up the apricots.  “Mother has a great prejudice against our eating any tinned things, and we would like our share of this delicious dish.”


“To be sure,” answered the old lady.  “Any fresh fruit would do as well.  Strawberries might be slightly mawkish, but raspberries would not be too sweet to use, or stewed apples.  There, it is done now, girls; but it looks a little dry.  So put away the syrup out of the tin, and I will tell cook to add a little to the cake before bringing it to the table.  This must be done at the last moment, or it would soak into the sponge casing and make it sodden.  But, for gracious, Linda, don’t leave the juice in the tin!  Pour it into a cup or bowl.  No wonder your mother objects to your eating canned things, if that is the way you manage them.  Never leave any contents of a tin in its former receptacle when once opened; that is what causes the few cases of poisonings we hear of.  If it be fruit, an acid will be formed which is highly injurious.  Why, even potted meat should never be left in the tin in which it is bought!  It should be scraped out and put into a china pot.  I have them of all sizes with tight-fitting covers.  By using such, all dangers of ptomaine poison is avoided.”


As Mr Ruskin’s definition of cookery included a knowledge of fruits, Miss Benson told her class a little about the process of preserving fruits in a tin.


“I was for awhile in California,” she said, and the girls set themselves to listen as to an interesting tale, “and saw several canneries at work.  All prejudice on the matter was taken from my mind at seeing the way in which peaches and apricots were treated.  Warm and luscious they were brought from out of the hot sunshine into the cool depths of the store.  They were always carefully covered with layers of their own glossy oval leaves.  Then each downy, orange-brown skin was looked at, and if bruised in any way, that particular specimen was tossed aside into a large basket and sent away to feed the pigs; if whole and sound, the fruit was laid on a stone slab, and with one sweep of a sharp knife detached from its stone.  Some of the kernels were bitter, others sweet; when this last was the case the kernel was added to the quartered fruit and put into the tin with it.  Syrup was then poured over all, and the air being expelled by artificial means, it was soldered down.  Now, besides the care exercised in choosing only sound apricots, the tins were subjected to strict scrutiny before being used.  It is almost impossible to say how quick and deft the packers were in discerning any flaw in them.  Thousands of tins are passed through a store in the season, but quite as many are rejected as being unsuitable."


“Does the apricot tree flourish in all parts of the world, Miss Benson?” queried Linda.


“I do not know,” replied the old lady frankly, “but it is not indigenous to England, though it flourishes so well on a south wall in our cold island.  It was introduced only in the time of Henry VIII.  The agent was his own gardener named Weolf, and this man brought it from Italy.  The fruit was, however, well known to the Greeks and the Romans, so its antiquity is great.”


“It is rather hard sometimes to tell an apricot from a peach,” quoth Lucilla thoughtfully.  “Do they belong to the same family, Miss Benson?”


“No,” answered the old lady, who seemed to have such knowledge at her finger-ends.  “The peach is of the genus almond and of the natural order Rosaceae, whereas the apricot belongs to the plum family.  Nectarines are a tender variety of the peach, with a smooth instead of a hairy skin, but apricots are quite distinct.  I suppose you know that the tiny bottles of bitter almond flavouring are distilled from peach stones and from the pulp of the bruises leaves.  It is a deadly poison.”


“Why do we so seldom come across canned plums?” queried Eva, whose special favourite was the above mentioned stone fruit.


“There is no need to tin plums when we can procure them so easily in a dried form,” answered Miss Benson.  “Heavy pressure to extract moisture, and a thorough drying in a southern sun is enough to preserve this fruit to us.  If prunes be properly cooked, they are almost equal to fresh plums, and their mecicinal properties are too well known for me to enlarge on them.”


“I suppose it is incorrect cooking that makes the stewed prunes one is so often given, like nothing but hard skin and stone,” went on Eva.  “How do you cook them, Miss Benson?”


“Just gently stewing them,” said the old lady.  “But the secret is not so much to soak as to plump them,  by pouring over them boiling water.  The prunes, if treated in this way, and dried figs too, will ‘swell wisible’ like Mr Guppy.  Then they must be stewed in a prepared syrup until tender.  Taken as a laxative they are invaluable.  But if given to very young children the skins should be passed through a wire-sieve and reduced to pulp, or the results may be disastrous.”


Here the kitchen clock struck a sonorous twelve, and the class had to adjourn.