More Sundries: Feather Curling!

Don't even try pretending your feathers never got tumbled.

It happens.

The trick is to know how to handle it once it does.

Rotten Glass, Irish Potatoes, Slovenly Domestics, and Soap Shakers

The last chapter in Common Sense in the Household is titled Sundries, and includes advice on how to clean all sorts of things, including cloth coats, carpets, "doubtful calicoes", knives, and "very dirty black dresses".

(I get the black dress bit; I've owned many in varying stages of dirtiness. But "doubtful calicoes" still has me wondering.)

A suggestion for all who have been washing knives with the rest of the dishes:

Knives

Clean with a soft flannel and Bath brick. If rusty, use wood-ashes, rubbed on with a newly cut bit of Irish potato. This will removes spots when nothing else will. Keep your best set wrapped in soft white paper; then in linen, in a drawer out of damp and dust.

What's a Bath brick you may well ask? Turns out it is a precursor to Brillo pads. Here's a visual for you:

Speaking of washing dishes, turns out there is a lot to learn about how to do it right. Not to mention the difficulty of training the household help. Check it out:

The next page continues the author's diatribe, describing the slovenly methods that many domestics of the day employed.

She concludes with a long description of proper dish washing. I'll spare you most of the details, but I loved that the author recommended using a device she calls a "soap-shaker", produced by the Dover Stamping Co., because I have one!

Somewhere.

I dug up this picture on Google so that you can see what it looks like:

I think you'll enjoy the closing sentences of this piece:

A lady did once explain the dinginess of her goblets to me by saying that she was "afraid to put them in hot water. It rots glass and makes it so tender! I prefer to have them a little cloudy." This is literally true--that she said it, I mean. Certainly not that a year's soak in hot water could make glass tender.

Certainly not?

Calf's Foot Jelly Part 2

Silly me. My birthday post on Calf's Foot Jelly did not include the second page. Apologies for the time delay, but I think it is still worth posting.

Who would really question the belief that the beauty and flavor of jellies made with feet are superior to that made from horn shavings and hoofs?

Let's take a look on the inside to prove the point:

When working with the beloved whole, you get all that delicious subcutaneous connective tissue, navicular bursa, and fetlock joint juice.

How can the pre-packaged powdered stuff possibly compare?

Regardless of the truthfulness of this page, deaf ears seem to have prevailed. JELL-O is king.

READER BONUS: While Googling for calf's foot images, I made an interesting discovery. Turns out some people prefer to wear the feet rather than turning them into tasty gelatin desserts. If you fall into that camp, here's a pair you may enjoy:

Now THOSE are some party shoes! They give the term "jello shots" a whole new meaning.

Recipes for Every Emergency!

In addition to recipes for food, Common Sense in the Household contains many interesting tidbits related to health and hygiene.

Take these two items. (You may want to print a copy to put in your first aid kit.)

Let's look at the one on blood flow first. Do you think the author stored a collection of cobwebs in a bin somewhere in case of nasty cuts? Or did she scurry around house and barn, grabbing handfuls wherever she found them?

Can you imagine the state of the injury after a few days of being bound up with cobwebs and brown sugar?

Yuck!

Now on to the second remedy.

I'm imagining an ash tray filled with twists of saltpeter encrusted paper, at the bedside of some poor asthmatic. Could the smoke possibly have been helpful, acting as a primitive nebulizer? The author seems to have personal knowledge of efficacy. Perhaps she uses the treatment herself.

I'm no fan of pharmaceutical companies, but reading this stuff sure makes me grateful for the local drug store.

Vote of No Confidence

I love, love, love this page!!!

Please do yourself the favor of reading it. If the text is too small for you, contact me and I'll send a larger version.

It has everything. Plays on words. Bug parts. Comparisons to dirty clothes. Geology. Mince pies. Dyspepsia.

And last, but hardly least, the intriguing question of what exactly would happen in the mid-night hour if you let your children eat currents immodestly?

A Justly Earned Reputation for Grossness

I'm a bit fascinated by the idea of "indigestibility", which back in the day typically referred to fat content or greasiness.

For example, Aunt Jenny's cookbook contains numerous claims about how much more digestible Spry is than other shortenings on the market. Take the following passages:

"Fried foods crispier, tastier, and so digestible: But say, when it comes to fryin, I could tell as much as any of 'em! Since I been fryin' with Spry, you should see all the doughnuts, French fries, and fried chicken my husband, Calvin, stows away! And never a twinge of indigestion!"

"Mebbe I mentioned it before, but I want to say over again, so that everybody gets it, how easy to digest foods cooked with Spry are. Grandpa Briggs at the Old Soldiers' Home eats pies and doughnuts and fried foods aplenty. Mrs. Thompson, the matron, uses Spry for everythin'."

"And you'll notice such a difference with fried foods! Why folks are eatin' all they want since Spry came to town. Sleepin' like tops and feelin' real chipper, too. Fact is, foods fried proper in Spry are as digestible as if baked or boiled. Why even a child can eat 'em."

Apparently devoted hubby Calvin, old man Briggs, and even little Tommy are putting away fried stuff like there's no tomorrow. With nary a twinge.

Obviously, the concern about fried foods had more to do with what it does to the tum tum than what it puts around it.

But back to the Bacon and Cabbage.

In this recipe, I'm confused. Looks like you still cook the cabbage in the grease-saturated pot liquor, so it's not like the leaves walk away unbeglistened. In this recipe, you drain off as much of the stuff as you can, so maybe it was the pool of liquor floating with fat globules that turned the author off. If you drain it, merely a gleaming whiff of pork fat would remain on the leaves, which could perhaps be disregarded as you dig in to the bacon.

OR

(And herein lies the mystery.)

Is it the cabbage itself that produces results described as indigestibility, the symptoms of which could be reduced by changing out the cooking water?

My solution, and undoubtedly Aunt Jenny's: do yourself a favor and just fry the cabbage in Spry. You'll justly earn a reputation for refinement.

An Admirable Preventive of Decomposition

I'm thinking of rubbing some charcoal on my face.

12 Eggs and a Glass Full of Brandy Means it's Time for Divorce. I Mean, Dessert.

Time for dessert!

First off, apologies for the skewed image. It's a book, after all. An old book. I don't want to press it too flat, nor get my fingers in the shot.

While I'm on the subject, apologies generally for the horrible photography in my blog. I'm no Pioneer Woman. It's true.

Back to the recipe.

Having recently wrapped up a very painful and drawn out divorce, I can't help but love love love (translate <3 <3 <3) the name of this recipe.

I so get it.

With luck, in time, I will view marriage in a more favorable light. I believe in it intellectually,10,000%. Maybe even a million percent.

But.

Given where I am, so recently post-married that my flesh still stings and my emotions wince, the name of this cake is completely logical to me.

Not to mention the brandy. Though I would have included at least three wineglass fulls.

Better stock up on eggs.

Tootsies and Jammies

Enough about seafood! Where's the beef?!?

Actually, I'm not sure this entry qualifies as beef. But I'll let you be the judge.

Here's the thing: I never realized that calf's foot jelly was jelly. I mean, I've heard of it before, and had the usual shivering "Eeeewwwwww" response that most of us do from our view in this latest millennium.

But I never realized that it was sweet. I'd pictured one of those 1960's aspic affairs, some sort of jellied consume upon which ladies lunched.

But no. This is sweet. Three cups of sugar sweet. (Or to taste. Depending on how sweet you like your cow toes.)

Pay close attention to the first step: clean the feet carefully.

Now I don't know much about raising cattle. But I'm imagining that cows don't exactly tip-toe around the pasture, trying to avoid the patties in their path. They may be smarter than sheep, but even the most cautious bovine must step in poo.

Seriously.

So I like that this is the first step. In case you are the same person who fell for the city eel of previous report.

Wash the darned feet. Carefully. Use an old toothbrush if you must.

I also like the image of the jelly filtering through an old pair of jammies, knotted around an overturned chair.

Heartwarming.

And while the recipe doesn't state it, you should probably wash those as well.

Dexterous Wrenches and Autumn Frolics

What better way to follow up on an eel post than to show you a page about oysters! Especially apropos on an autumn day such as this.

Helpful advice is, as usual, offered in abundance. For example, one should wash the oysters so as not to offend fastidious guests.

Your own "good man" will be truly heartened by your offering of this pearl of bivalves when he comes home on a wet night, cold, tired, and hungry.

Indeed.

Don't forget your bushel basket. Or your knife. or the pepper pot.

Country Eel Stew. You Know What it Tastes Like.

I love the earthy practicality of Common Sense in the Home. Here's another fine example:

Let's be honest: who hasn't been duped by one of those city slicker eel merchants? And who really has time to consider the diets of urban eels compared to those of more pastoral climes?

It's not just us. Even Freud had eel issues.

"Since eels do not keep diaries," the investigator, 19-year-old Sigmund Freud, wrote to a friend in the spring of 1876, the only way to determine gender was to cut and slice, "but in vain, all the eels which I cut open are of the fairer sex."

Poor Sigmund appears to be the victim of his own envy.

But I digress.

The advice is just so darned useful. For example, the suggestion about avoiding a three pound eel, despite the obvious draw.

(Three pounds is a big fella by anyone's reckoning.)

But I digress again.

So you start with a one pound country eel and THEN you add butter.

This affirms one of my culinary beliefs: add butter and anything tastes like chicken.

Stew that is.

Recollection of Perplexities, and Assurance of Safety

Lard Making 101: Practical Housewifery at it's Finest

This post is for my friend Carol Douglas, who appears to be in need of the recipe at just such a time as this.

It comes from the book Common Sense in the Household. It is copyrighted 1880 but was printed in 1903.

Just look; the poor thing is falling apart at the seams. Reminds me of what I saw in the mirror some mornings over the past year.

Unlike me, the cracks in this thing probably won't heal, no matter how much cosmeticological lard is spread on it.

Anyhoo, the book has been on my list for presentation to you, but I hadn't gotten around to it yet. Thanks for the prompting, Carol!

Here's your first taste of Practical Housewifery. Now you too can make your own lard.

Lard

Every housekeeper knows how unfit for really nice cooking is the pressed lard sold in stores as "best and cheapest." It is close and tough, melts slowly, and is sometimes diversified by fibrous lumps. And even when lard has been "tried out" by the usual process, it is often mixed with so much water as to remind us unpleasantly that it is bought by weight.

The best way of preparing the "leaf lard," as it is called, is to skin it carefully, wash, and let it drain; then put it, cut into bits, into a large, clean tin kettle or bucket, and set this in a pot of boiling water. Stir from time to time until it is melted; throw in a very little salt, to make the sediment settle; and when it is hot--(it should not boil fast at any time, but simmer gently until clear)--strain through a close cloth into jars. Do not squeeze the cloth so long as the clear fat will run through, and when you do, press the refuse into a different vessel, to be used for commoner purposes than the other.

Most of the lard in general use is, however, made from the fatty portions of pork lying next the skin of the hog, and are left for this purpose by the butcher. Scrape from the rind, and cut all into dice. Fill a large pot, putting in a teacupful of water to prevent scorching, and melt very slowly, stirring every few minutes. Simmer until there remains nothing of the meat but fibrous bits. Remove these carefully with a perforated skimmer; throw in a little salt, to settle the fat, and when it is clear strain through a fine cullender (sic), a sieve, or a coarse cloth. Tip the latter in boiling water, should it become clogged by the cooling lard. Observe the directions about squeezing the strainer. If your family is small, bear in mind that the lard keeps longer in small than large vessels. Set away the jars, closely covered, in a cool, dry cellar or store room.

In trying out lard, the chief danger is of burning. Simmer gently over a steady fire, and give it your whole attention until it is done. A moment's neglect will ruin all. Stir very often--almost constantly at the last--and from the bottom, until the salt is thrown in to settle it, when withdraw to a less hot part of the fire. Bladders tied over lard jars are the best protection; next to these, paper, and outside of this, cloths dipped in melted grease.