Pumpkin Pies — The Vegetable Vagabond Makes a Great Pie

1876

We generally have them made of squash at our house, but always call them pumpkin, it sounds so much better. Squash is a dreadful name, and the man who invented it ought to have had a big Hubbard hurled at his head, as Ichabod Crane was served with a pumpkin, in the "Legend of Sleepy Hollow." But pumpkin is altogether a different word, whether it adorns a bill of fare, is woven into poetry, or is flattened into "pu-n-n-kin, as genial Robert Collyer does it. It is one of the old-fashioned vegetables, that has held its own among upstart rivals for a hundred years.

Precious little help has the pumpkin had from the propagating gardeners who are so intent on improving nature's productions in other fields The pumpkin is the, same honest, homespun self-made sort of vegetable vagabond it was when it straggled through the corn fields, and dotted the autumn landscape with spots of a golden color, in the pioneer days when luxuries were not necessities, and wants were few. They pretend to say that the quality has deteriorated, like some strains of blood in men whose heads this useful vegetable has most uncharitably been made to symbolize, and that the flesh is white and poor compared with what it was in former years. Yet this may be merely the croak of the old-time worshippers. But, whether made true to name or of sq——sh, a pumpkin pie, if rightly made, is a thing of beauty, and a joy, while it lasts.

We know there is an attempt made by certain super-civilized writers — of the sort who order for dinner "a little tea-ah and toast, wa-tah, and a chicken's wing" — to make abstinence from pie a test of refinement. Some of them haven't gastric juice enough to digest anything but a weak wash of some sort; but others are just putting on airs. We wouldn't trust some of the fellows who make a virtue of abhoring pie alone with a whole one behind the kitchen door — even at eleven o'clock at night. A well-made pie, of the right sort, is a good deal more wholesome than half of the modern masses concocted as a concession to dyspeptics, who charge upon healthful food the natural result of their own sin and ignorance in working without exercise, sleeping too little, and neglecting other normal conditions of right living.

But to return to our pies. We scorn to make a cook book of these columns, with our present supply of technical knowledge; but we do know that for a good pumpkin pie you want plenty of milk, just enough eggs, not too much pumpkin, a lump of butter, and a judicious sprinkling of spices — principally cinnamon and ginger. The concoction, when ready for the oven, should be about the consistency of good thick cream. Pies that cut out only a little less firm than a pine board — those that will "wabble" without breaking, like a piece of leather — and those that run around loose on your plate, are alike to be avoided. About an inch thick strikes us a good depth for the filling; two inches is better than the miserable thin plasters that one sometimes sees at boarding-houses, that look, for all the world, like pumpkin flapjacks. The expressive phrase "too thin" must have come from such lean parodies on pumpkin pies.

With the pastry light, tender, and not too rich, and a generous filling of smooth, spiced sweetness — a little "trembly" as to consistency, and delicately browned on top — a perfect pumpkin pie, eaten before the life has gone out of it (say three hours after baking), is one of the real additions made by American cookery to the good things of the world. We have our opinion of the man who could get up dissatisfied or cross from a dinner topped off with a quarter-section of such a pie. For the first pumpkin pie of the season, flanked by a liberal cut of creamy cheese and a glass of cider fresh from the press, we prefer to sit down, as the French gourmand said about his boiled turkey, "with just two of us — myself and the turkey!" Company is apt to distract the attention — and subtract from the pie.

Refinement Removed from Excess, Waste, Allied to Simplicity

1876

Refinement is not fastidiousness. It is not luxury. It is nothing of this kind. It is far removed from excess or waste. A person truly refined will not squander or needlessly consume anything. Refinement, on the contrary, is always allied to simplicity and a judicious and tasteful employment of the means of good and happiness which it has at command. It seeks to divest itself of superfluities and aspires continually to the utmost possible purity.

Refinement leads to personal cleanliness and elegant neatness, good taste and simplicity in dress. All "loudness" or "flashiness" is repugnant to its spirit. In its home and surroundings — whether palatial, affluent, or humble — the same chasteness and natural grace is maintained. The abode of genuine refinement and a mere pretender to it are very different. In the former you will find no excess, gaudiness, or false glittering; but the latter abounds in it.

In personal manner, refinement is most conspicuous. A man of refinement is always polite without flourish, gentle without effeminacy, and considerate without stiffness. Display and ceremony are not identical with refinement, and are poor substitutes for it. There is of course no refinement like that of the heart, which impels its possessor to show on all occasions a thoughtful and kindly regard for the feelings of others. No adherence to etiquette can compare with it for the spontaneous observation of true and gratifying politeness.



The Best Nourishment

Be as the little child who eats and sleeps and grows. God gives you the best nourishment, although not always the sweetest to the taste. — Madame Guyon.

How to Find Out Whom Any Given Person Will Marry

1876

It doesn't require any astrologer, or medium, or gipsy with a dirty pack of cards. It is very simple, lies in a nutshell, and can be expressed in a very few words.

The plan is this. If a girl expresses a fondness for majestic men with large whiskers, make up your mind that she will marry a very small man with none. If she declares that "mind" is all she looks for, expect to see her stand before the altar with a very pretty fellow who has just sense enough to tie a cravat bow. If, on the contrary, she declares she must have a handsome husband, look about for the plainest person in the circle of her acquaintance, and declare "that is the man," for it will be.

Men are almost as bad. The gentleman who desires a wife with a mind and mission marries a lisping baby, who screams at a sight of a mouse, and hides her face when she hears a sudden knock at the door. And the gentleman who dreaded anything like strong-mindedness, exults in the fact that his wife is everything he detested. If a girl says of one, "Marry him! I'd rather die!" look upon the affair as settled, and expect cards to the wedding of these two people. If a man remarks of a lady, "Not my style at all," await patiently the appearance of his name in the matrimonial column in connection with that lady's. And, if any two people declare themselves "friends, and nothing more," you may know what will come next.