Showing posts with label rice. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rice. Show all posts

Wednesday, 15 June 2016

14 August 1880 - 'Economical and Wholesome Dishes Made Without Meat' by Phillis Browne



Vegetarian dishes Victorian style: white bean soup (make with pork stock if possible), macaroni cheese, cauliflower cheese, and cheesy rice.

A good deal has been said of late years about the desirability of doing without meat altogether, and living upon nothing but milk, eggs, vegetables, fruit, and grains. I have no intention of entering into the subject here, for I do not suppose it would interest you very much. But I know there are several excellent and nourishing dishes into which meat does not enter, and which cost very little; and as you might like to try some of them I will describe how two or three of them are made.

One seems to have an idea that soup, if it is to be worth anything, must be made from meat. And yet some very excellent and nourishing and most palatable soups can be made without it. One of them is haricot soup.

I suppose you know the white haricot beans that are sold at the cornchandlers at a price varying from 4d to 6d per quart. Procure a print of these, wash them well, and pick out any beans that float or look black. Put the rest to soak all night in plenty of cold water. The next morning drain them and place them in a saucepan with two quarts of cold water and a large onion cut into slices, and boil them for four hours, by which time they will be soft. (And by the way I may say that white soups and white sauces are more likely to be a good colour if they are made in a white or enamelled saucepan rather than in an iron one.) Invert a wire sieve in a large bowl, turn the beans with the liquor upon it into this, and with a wooden spoon rub beans and onion through the sieve. The skins will not go through, and they should be thrown away. Stir the pulp that has been passed through the colander with the liquor, and season the mixture liberally with pepper and salt, and then return it to the saucepan, and put it on the fire, stirring it now and then. Boil a pint of milk separately. Mix this with the puree at the last moment, put it into a hot soup tureen, and it is ready.

If we can procure them, we may sue red haricot beans instead of white ones, and then we can make what is called soup a la Conde. We must proceed exactly in the same way as with white haricots, but we shall not need to add milk to our puree. The soup will be a rich, deep red colour, and will taste excellently. Red haricots are not, however, much used in England, and cannot be bought at every shop, though they may generally be had if ordered beforehand.

Peas, lentils and haricot beans are all very nearly as nourishing as meat, and very good soup may be made of each of the three by following the idea given in this recipe, that is, soaking them for a time, boiling them till soft with suitable flavourings, and rubbing them through a sieve. Milk, however, will be required for haricot soup alone, although many people think it is an improvement to throw a cupful of boiling milk into a tureen of lentil soup.

The flavouring of the different soups must be suitably varied. Celery stalks or celery seed certainly be boiled with both lentils and peas, and onions are called for with all three soups. It is very usual to add also carrots and turnips to lentil and to pea soup. But in every case the particular point that needs attention is to pass the boiled beans through a sieve. The skins are too coarse to enter into the soup, and they would only spoil if they were put in. One word I must say about lentils. It is commonly understood that the Egyptian or red lentils are to be preferred to the German or green lentils. To my mind this is a mistake. I prefer the German lentils for every purpose. However, tastes differ, and the way to decide between the two is to first try both.

People who do not care  for the trouble of rubbing the beans through the sieve frequently buy what is called pea flour or lentil flour, thickening their soups with it. Their plan is not, however, to be recommended. Too often, these prepared meals are mixed with inferior meal of different kinds, and they are rarely to be relied on. We want real lentil soup or real pea soup, and we had better make it the right way.

If we were not "set" against using meat in some form or other the liquor that pork or fat bacon had been boiled in would be better than water for making pea or lentil soup. Not so, however, with haricot soup. We want this to look white and delicate, and therefore pure water will answer our purpose for it better than anything, besides which the milk that is put with it will help to make the soup nourishing.

So much for soups. And now for two or three savoury dishes made without meat. Amongst the best of these are Italian macaroni and cauliflower au gratin, and rice and cheese.

Macaroni is a preparation of flour. It is very wholesome and good, but few English people care for it. I do not think, however, that anyone could help liking it if made in the way I shall describe.

There are different qualities, too, of macaroni, and we may take it as a general rule that the commoner the kind the more quickly it is boiled. We must, however, procure the best, that is Naples macaroni, and the fresher and smoother it is the better.

Supposing we take half a pound of macaroni. We first wash it for safety's sake in lukewarm water, break it into three inch lengths and throw it into two quarts of boiling water, seasoning it with plenty of pepper and some salt. We then let it simmer very gently for about twenty minutes, though if the macaroni is very superior, it will take half-an-hour. At any rate it ought to simmer until a little piece taken between the thumb and finger feels tender, but it is not at all broken or pulpy. We now drain the macaroni carefully and put it back into the stew-pan with half-a-pint of milk, and simmer it again for a minute or two until this is absorbed. Meanwhile we have read-grated and mixed two ounces of Parmesan and two ounces of Gruyere cheese. Half the quantity must be sprinkled over the macaroni and tossed over the fire well till it is well mixed in. An ounce of fresh butter is now put with it in the same way, and this is tossed about till melted. Last of all the remainder of the cheese is added. When the macaroni begins to get stringy it is ready to pour upon a hot dish and to be served.

Real Italian macaroni would be made with broth or gravy instead of milk, but of course if we are to do without meat we cannot have broth, and milk will do very well for our purpose. It may happen, however, that the cheese becomes oily when melted, and if this should be, one or two additional table-spoonfuls of moisture must be added and gently stirred in for about a minute.

I have said that equal quantities of Parmesan and of Gruyere cheese are to be used in making Italian macaroni. These cheeses are not very common in England, and perhaps might be difficult to get, although they could be obtained easily enough by ordering them beforehand. They are suitable for this purpose simply because they are so dry that they can be grated to powder as a nutmeg is, though on a cheese grater. If we could get an English cheese dry enough to grate in this way it would do instead of the foreign cheese, though it would not be quite so good. You can see, however, that a rich cheese could not be grated to a fine, dry yellow powder; it would cake together in a mass and it would become oily when tossed in the macaroni.

I am afraid I cannot say that cauliflower au gratin is a very nourishing dish, but it is so delicious that I must tell you of it. We shall want for it one large or two moderate-sized cauliflowers and 2 ozs of grated Parmesan, or any other dry cheese, half an ounce of butter, 1 oz of flour, 2 tablespoonfuls of cream, or milk. Boil the cauliflower in the usual way, and take it up when it is slightly underdone. Whilst it is boiling prepare the sauce. Melt half an ounce of butter in a small stewpan, and beat smoothly with it off the fire 1 oz of flour Add a gill of cold water and stir the sauce over the fire till it boils, put in two tablespoonfuls of cream and half the grated Parmesan, and the sauce is ready. Trim away all the green leaves from the cauliflower, and break the white part into sprigs. Lay half of these on a dish, and pour half the sauce over them; arrange the remainder on the top, pour the rest of the sauce over, and sprinkle the other half of the grated cheese over all. Brown the cauliflower before the fire, and serve it very hot. An girl who wishes to give a little treat to her father or brother could not do better than prepare this dish for them.

We all know that rice is very nourishing and wholesome; indeed, it is said to constitute the chief food of one-third of the human race. Rice and cheese cooked together are excellent. For this we take any quantity of rice - say half a pound. Wash it well, for if rice is well washed in the first instance it is not so likely to burn afterwards. Put it into a saucepan with cold water to cover it, and bring it to a boil, then drain it and return it to the saucepan with a pint and a half of milk, a little pepper and salt, and a piece of butter the size of a fourpenny piece. Let it simmer gently till it is tender, and if necessary add a little more milk, but it ought not to be moist. While it is boiling prepare a quarter of a pound of grated cheese. Grease a dish with bacon fat [What???] spread the rice and cheese upon it in alternate layers, the cheese forming the uppermost layer. Put a little more bacon fat over all, [FFS, Phillis.]  and put the rice in the oven to brown. Serve as hot as possible.

Tuesday, 20 January 2015

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!”

Wednesday, 4 April 2012

8 October, 1887 - Useful Hints - French Stewed Steak, or Other Meat - How To Boil Rice as in India

French Stewed Steak, or Other Meat

The peculiarity of this method is that the gravy is always prepared before putting in the meat and vegetables.

Place in the stewpan two ounces of butter, and when thoroughly melted add a tablespoonful of flour, enough to absorb the butter, leaving sufficient moisture to stir easily about till it becomes a rich brown colour; this will take fifteen minutes. If you wish for a paler gravy, for what is called a white ragout, the mixture must be taken off the fire while it is still pale, adding three turnips sliced, two onions sliced, the steak at the top. The turnis to be laid at the bottom of the stewpan, then the onions, lastly the steak. No water - this is important.

Stew them until tender - one hour and a half or more - then take out the steak, strain the gravy from the vegetables through a sieve, take off the fat; mix it in a basin with a teaspoonful of flour, add pepper and salt, mix it all well together, then add the gravy to the vegetables; give it one boil up and pour it over the steak, and put the steak in the stewpan till wanted. Be careful to shake the pan occasionally to prevent the steak burning; flavour it to your taste.







How to Boil Rice as in India

Two quarts of water, one pint of rice, one tablespoonful of salt.

When the water is boiling throw in a tablespoonful of salt, then the rice, after it has been well washed in cold water; let it boil twenty minutes; throw it into a colander and strain off the water. When the water is well drained off put the rice back into the same saucepan, dried by the fire, and let it stand near the fire for some minutes, till required to be dished up; thus the grains appear separately and not mashed into a pudding. Excellent with a little butter.