The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 16, No. 97, November, 1865

V >> Various >> The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 16, No. 97, November, 1865

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Indeed, the enthusiasm over biscuits has its place, as well as that over
books; and it is not always that there is as much genuine joy in a novel
as one may get out of bread-making. This is quite too scientific and
interesting to be left to a domestic. It is really among the most
exciting experiments. Try it every week for two years, and it seems just
as new an enterprise as at the beginning,--but a thousand times more
successful, we observe. Working up the light drifts of flour, leaving
them at night a heavy pat and nothing more,--waking to find a dish
flowing-full of snowy foam. The first thing on rising one's self is, to
see if the dough be risen, too; and that is always sure to be early, for
every batch of bread sets an alarm in one's brain. After breakfast one
will be as expectant as if going to a ball in lieu of a baking. Then to
see the difference a little more or less flour will make, and out of
what quantity comes perfection! To feminine vision, more precious than
"apples of gold in pictures of silver" are loaves of bread in dishes of
tin. If one were ever penurious, might it not be of these handsome
loaves of hers? The little housewife will be very gentle to the
persecuted man of Scripture who was so reluctant to get up at midnight
and give away his bread. She will even be charitable to the stingy
merchant scorned by Saadi, of whom it was written, that, "if, instead of
his loaf of bread, the orb of the sun had been in his wallet, nobody had
seen daylight in the world till the Day of Judgment."

Dr. Kane says, he knows how bread can be raised in three hours without
salt, saleratus, or shortening,--knows, but sha'n't tell. This must be
another mystery of the Arctic regions. Certainly that bread could not
have been raised in the sun. But how one quantity was managed the Doctor
is free to say. He kneaded a whole barrel of flour in a pickled-cabbage
cask, and baked it at once by firing several volumes of the "Penny
Cyclopaedia of Useful Knowledge."

After compliments, however, to come in with the cash down of the
practical, here is a veritable bread-making recipe, well-tested and
voted superior. Take a quart of milk; heat one third and scald with it a
half-pint of flour; if skimmed milk, use a small piece of butter. When
the batter is cool, add the remainder of the milk, a teacup of
hop-yeast, a half-tablespoon of salt, with flour to make it quite stiff.
Knead it on the board till it is very fine and smooth; raise over night.
It will make two small loaves and a half-dozen biscuits.

This recipe ought to give good bread week in and week out, so saving you
from the frequent calamity of soda-biscuits. These may be used for
dumplings, or as a sudden extempore, but do not let them be habitual.
True, you will occasionally meet people who say that they can eat these,
when raised ones are fatal. But some persons find cheese good for
dyspepsia, many advocate ice-cream, others can eat only beans, while
some are cured by popped corn. Yet these articles are not likely to
become staples of diet. They would hardly answer a normal appetite; and
any stomach that can steadily withstand the searchingness of soda and
tartaric acid seems ready to go out to pasture and eat the fences.
Chemists will say, if bread must be improvised, use soda and muriatic
acid. These combined in precise proportions are supposed to evaporate in
the baking, and leave common salt. But this acid is such furious stuff!
It will come to you from the druggists in a bottle marked "Poison," and
it is not pleasant to put into one's mouth a substance that will burn a
hole in her apron. It is too much of the Roland for an Oliver,--You eat
me and I will eat you. For it is quite difficult to perfectly combine
the acid and alkali, and then the bread is streaked with muriatic fire;
then one might easily take into the system a thousand streaks a year,
and then one would become a fire-eater.

But probably the greatest of all bread wonders are the unleavened Graham
cakes. These are worth a special mail and large postage to tell of. I
was about to beg that you surprise H. with them at your next breakfast.
But no, he won't like them; besides, according to the theory of "Woman
and her Era," they're a deal too good for men, they are fit only for
women and angels. So just salt and scald some Graham meal into a dough
as soft as can be and be handled. Roll it an inch thick, cutting in
diamonds, which place on a tin sheet and thrust into the hottest of
ovens. (Note this last direction, or the diamonds will be flat leather.)
Strange to say, they will rise, and keep rising, till in ten minutes you
take them out quite puffed. One would never guess them innocent of
yeast. An inch thick is the rule; but there is nothing like an
adventurous courage. It is at once suggested, if they are so good at an
inch, will they not be twice as good at two inches. And certainly they
are. The meal will not be outwitted. It is the liveliest and most
buoyant material. Its lightness keeps up with the utmost experiment.
Finally, it may be turned into a massive loaf, and with a brisk heat it
will refuse to be depressed.

The morning when were produced these charming little miracles remains a
red-letter day in our household. Who ever tasted anything, save a nut,
half so sweet, or who ever anything so pure? We ate, lingered, and
revelled in them, thus becoming epicures at once. It seemed as if all
our lives we had been seeking something really _recherche_, and had just
found it. They were as great a revelation to the palate as Bettine or
Thoreau might be to the mind. Now all was _couleur de rose_. Here was
found, if not the philosopher's stone, the philosopher's bread, that
should turn everything into health. Henceforth the strong heroes
celebrated by Emerson, who "at rich men's tables eat but bread and
pulse," might sit at ours, arising refreshed and glorified. And was not
this also coming very near Nature? but two removes from the field, wheat
cracked, then ground. (I have since come a degree nearer on cracked
wheat at a water-cure!) It sounded altogether wholesome and primitive. I
hastened with a sample to my best friend. She, too, tasted, exulted, and
passed on the tidings to others. Now, indeed, was the golden age in
dawn. Already we saw a community purified and rejuvenated. Before our
philosopher-cakes sin and bad blood would disappear, and already the
crowns of grateful generations were pressing on our brows. But something
went wrong with all the cooks. Either they didn't scald the meal or they
didn't heat the oven,--what in one hand was light beaten gold in another
became lead. For a while it seemed that I could not go to my friend's
without meeting some one who cast scorn on our reformation cakes. All
tried them and failed; so sin remains in the world.

But now hope plumes itself anew. You at least will attempt the little
wheatens. You have a deft hand, and will succeed. The buoyancy of the
meal revives in my blood. Now the world rights itself again, and once
more we are all bounding sunward.

But to be honest. For a few weeks I and the radical cakes were as
satisfied as young lovers, but soon came temptations to progress from
the primitive,--first to add a little sugar. But I vetoed as resolutely
as Andrew Jackson himself, thus putting up the bars between the
wheat-field and cane-field, or probably by this time I should have been
pouring in spice, eggs, and milk, and at last should have committed the
crime of doing just as other people do.

If you would confess it, you have probably found in your new
captain-general a susceptibility not only to your charms, but to those
of good cooking. Always count these among the young wife's fascinations.
Remember how Miss Bremer's Fannie, of "The Neighbors," in a matrimonial
quarrel with her Bear, conquered him with fresh-baked patties aimed at
his mouth. But be not too conciliatory,--especially towards coffee. If
you could be hard-hearted enough to win H. from this bilious beverage,
would it not be worth the perils? Entertain him for a few mornings so
brilliantly that he won't know what he is drinking, then----But I'll
tell you how we will cheat him admirably; and it isn't very cruel
either, for merely to gratify the taste make-believes are as good as
realities. First, every one knows Taraxacum or dandelion; invalids know
crust-coffee, and many with indignation know burnt peas. Also Miss
Beecher, whose estimable cook-book you certainly must get, mentions that
ochra seeds or gumbo cannot be told from Java; an army correspondent has
since reported coffee made at the South from oker seeds, doubtless the
same; another found in use the sweet potato, roasted, and flavored with
coffee; while a friend has just described the most enticing beverage
made from chickory,--the root being stripped and dried under the stove.
This is said to be so rich that sometimes it has to be diluted with a
trifle of coffee. And still further, there is simple rye, which is
cheaper found than either. Jeff. Davis drank it for four years and wrote
all _her_ grand proclamations out of it. But probably the wholesomer
article is wheat coffee. I have lately prepared some by boiling a cup of
well-scorched wheat-bran in a pint of water; and although I don't quite
know how good coffee tastes, no doubt this was very like the true Java.
It poured clear and rich as wine. Now try this in full strength with
your spouse, being very witty when he drinks. And as the mornings pass,
oh, weaken it more and more. That is, cheat him pleasantly at first,
then worse and worse, till he is glad to take milk or pure water with
you. Conspiracies are usually contemptible; but this is one of the very
"best water," you see.

Perhaps we who never drink coffee can hardly understand the affection
its votaries have for it. To their minds, water seems to be given only
for steeping that delicious mud. Said one extravagant Madame Follet,
"When I see a coffee-pot, 'tis exactly the same as if I saw an angel
from heaven." And the Biloxi people, whom General Butler surprised of a
morning, were found to be in a very tragic state. One boy exclaimed,
"Oh, give me just a handful of coffee, master, an' I'll give you
'lasses, sugar, anything!" while a strong man ejaculated, "My God, we're
short of everything! I haven't tasted tea or coffee for four
months!"--as grievous as if he hadn't seen a human face for a year.
According to the "Herald" correspondent, the chief reason that the South
rejoices in peace is that "Now we'll be able to get some real
coffee!"--perhaps, he adds, in the next breath inquiring, "What are you
going to do with our niggers?"

No, we could not, with Ward Beecher, "bless the man who discovered the
immortal berry." Nor could we, with De Quincey, apostrophize to a
certain other excitant, "O just, subtle, and mighty opium! thou boldest
the keys of Paradise!" Yet one must concede the possible uses of a
stimulant. Coffee has been priceless to our army, on its cold, wet
marches; and benedictions should be ordered in the churches, if need be,
to the man who made it into that wondrous pemmican, so that the coffee
of a regiment may be carried in a few tin cans. Then, too, it seems good
for men who go driving up and down the world on stage-coaches and
locomotives; but for stay-at-home, counting-house mortals, is it not a
mere delicious superfluity? Quite as much of one as a cigar, I think.

But henceforth, when Rio is high, drink rye. If one must have either,
better the simulant than the stimulant.

Among other things, you have doubtless discovered that one admirable
breakfast dish is eggs. If you serve them in the shell, it is quite
worth while to follow the English way, keeping them close covered for
ten minutes in very hot water without boiling. The yolks are thus left
running, and the whites are beautifully jellied. These are convenient to
get when relations arrive at night, and there is no meat in the house.
Relations always expect meat for breakfast.

In fact, it is just at this point that one's genius is to come in,--when
a nice meal must be gotten at short notice, and the larder is empty.
None but the woman of resources can do it; and she knows her realm is as
full of strategies as was ever the Department of the Potomac. Under her
hand, when there was supposed to be nothing for breakfast, I have seen
bits of meat snatched from cold soup, and wrought up into the most
savory morsels,--one would never guess that the goodness was all boiled
out of them; while a cup of yesterday's griddle-cake batter went
suddenly into the oven, and came out a breakfast-cake finer than
waffles.

One who had the knack of the heroine Fleda, in "Queechy," would be
friendly to omelets, and tell of them too. But you must be self-reliant,
and put them on the list of experiments. It will probably be some time
before you come to that refinement of egg-eating which Mrs. Stowe found
at the mansion of the Duke of Sutherland, where she was honored with
lunch. Her sylvan spirit was somewhat startled, when a servant brought
five little speckled plover eggs, all lying in the nest just as taken
from the tree. How they were cooked is unknown; but one would certainly
need a recipe to eat them by.

But an American woman can outdo the Duchess of Sutherland. She will find
an egg daintier than the plover's, and not stir from her own door; for
awhile since, some one, fumbling among the secrets of Nature,
discovered, not that stones were sermons, but that snow was eggs, and
straight made a cook-book to tell it, as we will do on discovering that
rain is milk. Of course all things have their limitations; and these new
eggs are not just the article for custards, will not do to poach for
breakfast, or would hardly keep in brine; but they may be used in any
compound that requires lightness without richness. Even our grandmothers
made snow pancakes; but, in the present age, to be distinguished is to
be venturesome, and in this experiment one need not stop short of
veritable loaf-cake. The volatile element in snow makes two table-spoons
of it equal to one egg; therefore to a small loaf I should allow ten
table-spoons. Cooks always put in as many eggs as they can afford, you
know.

Thus, when snow falls every day for four months, as it does in New
England, eggs get exceedingly cheap in the prudent household. Then one
can smile to think how she circumvents the grocer, and pray the clouds
to lay a good nestful every week.

A friend the other day improvised a list of edibles headed, "Poisonous
_P_s,"--pastry, pickles, pork, and preserves. She was pleased to leave
out puddings, and hereto we shall say, Amen. Not that one is to indorse
such odiously rich ones as cocoa-nut, suet, and English plum; but,
bating these, there are enough both nice and wholesome to change the
dessert every day for a fortnight, at least. At another time I may give
you some recipes, with various items by this writing omitted.

Pastry the physiologists have been shaking their heads about for some
time,--especially as many persons use soda with the lard, not being
aware that they are making soft soap. This sort of paste one often sees
in the country. But it is easy to omit the soap. On the next
bread-making day, simply reserve a piece of the well-raised dough, and
roll in butter. This gives a palatable and harmless crust. I have also
experimented with a shortening of hot, fine-mashed potato and milk,
which, if it may not be recommended to an epicure, is really better than
it sounds, And does it not sound better than Dr. Trall's proposal of
sweet oil? Will not some of these ways satisfy our ardent reformers and
physiologists? But about chicken-pie, remember the tradition, that,
unless the top crust is punctured, it will make one very ill. (Who knows
but this was the secret of the National Hotel sickness?) At least, it is
truer than some other traditions, such as that eating burnt crusts will
make the cheeks red, or that fried turnip will make the hair curl.

Pickles do not seem so good that they must be eaten, nor so bad that
they must not be. But with them comes evermore the vision that Trollope
has prepared of all our smart little five-year-old men and women perched
at hotel-tables, pale-faced and sedate, with waiters behind their
chairs, and ordering chowders and chops with an inevitable "Please don't
forget the pickles."

Preserves, aside from the recent luxury of canned fruit, have the
happiest substitutes, if we will take what the seasons bring to our
hands. Not a month in the year is left wholly barren of these relishes
for the tea-table. There are berries all the summer, apples and
cranberries in the winter, when, just as the last russet disappears, and
with it every one's appetite, up springs the pungent and luxuriant
rhubarb. Somewhat curious is it concerning this last article. Forty
years ago it was such a pure experiment in England, that a Mr. Myatt,
who took seven bundles of it to London, succeeded in selling but three.
Still he persisted in keeping it before the people, although he seemed
only to lose rhubarb and to gain ridicule, being designated as the man
who sold "physic pies."

And besides our own zone, with its fruits fresh or dried, there are the
abounding tropics always at the door: Pine-apples, which, if
unwholesome, are yet charmingly convenient to help a luckless
housekeeper, and which, by the way, made a better _entree_ in London
than pie-plant, being so popular that their salesmen floated flags from
the top of their stalls; bananas, those foreign muskmelons of spring;
oranges, gilding every street-corner; dates, which do not go meanly with
bread and butter, though one is a little fearful of finding a whole
straw bed therein; and prunes, which, if soaked several hours and stewed
slowly, are luscious enough for a prince.

But pork it appears to be the common impression that man cannot do
without. Certainly he must have partaken somewhat of its nature to make
him so greedy; and there would seem to be animals enough on land and
sea, without devouring the swine. If pork be important anywhere, it is
so in the old Puritan dish of baked beans; yet those who have tasted
baked beans prepared with fine rich beef instead have voted them quite
sumptuous, and possibly rich enough for people who live at restaurants.
But so long as fish, bird, and fowl remain, and men even eat turtles and
frogs,--so long as sheep do not die of wolves, nor cattle of the county
commissioners,--may not the pig be left to his wallowing in the mire?

Thus much for the poisonous _p_s. We do not place among them that
popular plant, the potato, though it has the blood of the nightshade in
its veins. But these may be made moderately poisonous by putting them
into soup. Once taste clear potato-water, and you will not aspire to
drink a strong broth from it. And even potatoes one may eat at a dozen
tables, and not find nicely served at any. With domestics generally they
figure as the article that in cooking takes care of itself,--the
convenient vegetable, that may be thrown into the kettle, and taken up
when nothing else needs to be. In the end they are either half done and
hard, or when done, being left soaking, are watery and soggy; whereas
they should be pared, kept boiling in salted water till they break, then
drained and shaken over the coals till powdery dry. They need tossing
up with as light a hand as an omelet, you see. If they are not of the
nicest variety, they should be mashed with milk, butter, and salt, and
placed in the oven to brown. This is a kind of medication which usually
makes the poorest article quite palatable, and is resorted to in the
early summer, when potatoes are become decidedly an "aged _p_." I was
once amused to hear a man complaining of a certain potato, because it
was "too dry." It is doubtful what he would do in Maine, the land of the
famous Jackson whites, which boil to a creamy powder. One must be
grateful that our Massachusetts Dovers cannot be dampened by this
original potato-taster. He probably would like juicy potatoes and mealy
oranges.

But of course none can have studied diet and its varied effects on
various persons, without seeing it to be impossible to make up two lists
of dishes, one of which shall be voted hurtful and the other harmless.
Nor does the healthfulness of food seem to consist wholly in its
simplicity, according to old Grahamite theories. There is probably some
truth in the saying of Hippocrates, "Whatever pleases the palate
nourishes"; but one cannot fail to recognize the wisdom of M. Soyer,
that prince of the _cuisine_, who maintains that the digestibility of
food depends, not on the number of articles used in its manufacture, but
in their proper combination. Says M. Soyer, "I would wager that I could
give a first-class indigestion to the greatest _gourmet_, even while
using the most _recherche_ provisions, without his being able to detect
any fault in the preparation of the dishes of which he had
partaken,--and this simply by improperly classifying the condiments used
in the preparation." This gives a hint of the nicety of the culinary
art, the genius required to practise it, and the fine physical effects
that hinge upon it. It is no wonder that Vatel committed suicide before
the great banquet which he had prepared for his master, the Prince of
Conde, because he feared it was to fail. It is certainly enough to alarm
ordinary amateurs,--and such are the most of us; for, while Americans
place all due stress upon the table, they neglect to emphasize the
_cuisine_. Instead of this _nonchalance_, we have yet to discover that
cookery belongs to the fine arts; that it is exhaustive alike of
chemistry and physiology, and touches upon laws as sure as those which
mingle the atmospheric elements, hourly adjusting them to man's nicest
needs. And we should count it among the best of the progressive plans of
our country, if to the new Industrial College under subscription at
Worcester were to be added an elaborate culinary department, with the
most accomplished professor that could be obtained. Perhaps, as M. Soyer
was philanthropic enough to go to the Crimea, and teach the English to
make hospital soup, he would even come here and give our nation a
glimpse of those marvellous morsels that have made Paris the envy of
epicures the world over.

And if there is a proper harmony to be attained in the combining of
various ingredients, making every perfect dish a poem, there is no less
harmony in combining the various dishes for a repast, making a poem in
every perfect meal. For every leading dish has its kindred and
antagonistic ones: as, at dinner, one would not serve cauliflower with
fricasseed chicken, nor turnips with boiled salmon, nor, at tea,
currants with cream-toast, nor currants with custard. But this is
something that cannot be fully taught or learned. It is almost wholly at
the mercy of one's instinct, and may be ruled by a tact as delicate as
that which conducts a drawing-room.

But we are quite curious to learn, M., if your excellent companion has
yet been away from home so long that you have had to go to market. And
can you wisely discern roasts, steaks, and fowl? Says one, "The way to
select fowl is first to select your butcher"; and away he swings out of
intelligence and responsibility with a magnificent air. A lady friend
has this charming fashion of frankness: "Now, Mr. ----, I don't know one
piece of meat from another, and shall expect you to give me the best";
thus throwing herself directly on her faith and fascinations. But these
might grow jejune, nor is it safe to trust the tender mercies of a
butcher. Better know what you want, and know if you get it. Therefore
you will study the anatomy of animals, as laid down in all modern
cook-books. But really it is a little perplexing. I confess I am near
concluding that every beef creature is a special creation; for one never
finds the same joint twice, and apparently the only things common to all
are tongue and liver.

Not long since, having a discussion at the market with an elderly
gentleman, he said something pleasant which must be written for the
husband of a young housekeeper. We agreed that a rump steak was of more
uniform richness than a sirloin, the best of the latter being only that
luscious strip underlying the bone. "But," added the kindly man, "I
always buy the sirloin, because I give that juicy scrap to my wife." It
is worth while, M., to be wedded to the thoughtful heart, who, after
forty years, yet wills to give one the single choice bit from the table.

Aside from the ordinary beef-routine, there is another dish which is
usually popular. Select a cheap, lean piece of beef, weighing two or
three pounds, put it on the stove in cold water soon after breakfast,
boiling gently. Half an hour before dinner add a small onion, a sliced
parsnip and carrot, a few bits of turnip, and a half-dozen dumplings.
When these are done, remove them; season and thicken, serving a dumpling
with meat and vegetables to each plate of stew. This may be rather
plebeian, but is certainly palatable,--unless there be choice company to
dine. We might call it Rainy-Day Stew.

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