User: Can you write me a poem about act and nature?
Assistant: Sure, here's a poem about act and nature:
  We may live without poetry, music, and art;
We may live without conscience and live without heart;
We may live without friends; we may live without books;
But civilized man cannot live without _cooks_.
He may live without books--what is knowledge but grieving?
He may live without hope--what is hope but deceiving?
He may live without love--what is passion but pining?
But where is the man who can live without _dining_?
"I REQUEST you will prepare
To your own taste the bill of fare;
At present, if to judge I'm able,
The finest works are of the table.
I should prefer the cook just now
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1864,
"What's under this cover?
For cookery's a secret."--MOORE.
Through tomes of fable and of dream
I sought an eligible theme;
But none I found, or found them shared
Already by some happier bard,
Till settling on the current year
I found the far-sought treasure near.
A theme for poetry, you see--
A theme t' ennoble even me,
In memorable forty-three.
Your logic and Greek, but there is nothing like feeding.
Upon singing and cookery, Bobby, of course,
Standing up for the latter Fine Art in full force.
Are these the _choice dishes_ the Doctor has sent us?
Heaven sends us good meats, but the Devil sends cooks.
That my life, like the German, may be
"Du lit a la table, de la table au lit."--MOORE.
Though cooks are often men of pregnant wit,
Through niceness of their subject few have writ.
'Tis a sage question, if the art of cooks
Is lodg'd by nature or attain'd by books?
That man will never frame a noble treat,
Whose whole dependence lies in some _receipt_.
Then by pure nature everything is spoil'd,--
She knows no more than stew'd, bak'd, roast, and boil'd.
When art and nature join, the effect will be,
Some nice _ragout_, or _charming fricasee_.
What earth and waters breed, or air inspires,
Man for his palate fits by torturing fires.
But, though my edge be not too nicely set,
Yet I another's appetite may whet;
May teach him when to buy, when season's pass'd,
What's stale, what choice, what plentiful, what waste,
And lead him through the various maze of taste.
The fundamental principle of all
Is what ingenious cooks the _relish_ call;
For when the market sends in loads of food,
They all are tasteless till _that_ makes them good.
Besides, 'tis no ignoble piece of care,
To know for whom it is you would prepare.
You'd please a friend, or reconcile a brother,
A testy father, or a haughty mother;
Would mollify a judge, would cram a squire,
Or else some smiles from court you would desire;
Or would, perhaps, some hasty supper give,
To show the splendid state in which you live.
Pursuant to that interest you propose,
Must all your wines and all your meat be chose.
Tables should be like pictures to the sight,
Some dishes cast in shade, some spread in light;
Some at a distance brighten, some near hand,
Where ease may all their delicace command;
Some should be moved when broken, others last
Through the whole treat, incentive to the taste.
Locket, by many labors feeble grown,
Up from the kitchen call'd his eldest son;
Though wise thyself (says he), though taught by me,
Yet fix this sentence in thy memory:
There are some certain things that don't excel,
And yet we say are tolerably well.
There's many worthy men a lawyer prize,
Whom they distinguish as of middle size,
For pleading well at bar or turning books;
But this is not, my son, the fate of cooks,
From whose mysterious art true pleasure springs,
To stall of garters, and to throne of kings.
A simple scene, a disobliging song,
Which no way to the main design belong,
Or were they absent never would be miss'd,
Have made a well-wrought comedy be hiss'd;
So in a feast, no intermediate fault
Will be allow'd; but if not best, 'tis nought.
If you, perhaps, would try some dish unknown,
Which more peculiarly you'd make your own,
Like ancient sailors, still regard the coast,--
By venturing out too far you may be lost.
By roasting that which your forefathers boil'd,
And broiling what they roasted, much is spoil'd.
That cook to American palates is complete,
Whose savory hand gives turn to common meat.
Far from your parlor have your kitchen placed,
Dainties may in their working be disgraced.
In private draw your poultry, clean your tripe,
And from your eels their slimy substance wipe.
Let cruel offices be done by night,
For they who like the thing abhor the sight.
'Tis by his cleanliness a cook must please;
A kitchen will admit of no disease.
Were Horace, that great master, now alive,
A feast with wit and judgment he'd contrive,
As thus: Supposing that you would rehearse
A labor'd work, and every dish a verse,
He'd say, "Mend this and t'other line and this."
If after trial it were still amiss,
He'd bid you give it a new turn of face,
Or set some dish more curious in its place.
If you persist, he would not strive to move
A passion so delightful as self-love.
Cooks garnish out some tables, some they fill,
Or in a prudent mixture show their skill.
Clog not your constant meals; for dishes few
Increase the appetite when choice and new.
E'en they who will extravagance profess,
Have still an inward hatred for excess.
Meat forced too much, untouch'd at table lies;
Few care for carving trifles in disguise,
Or that fantastic dish some call _surprise_.
When pleasures to the eye and palate meet,
That cook has render'd his great work complete;
His glory far, like _sirloin knighthood_[xi-1] flies
Immortal made, as _Kit-cat_ by his pies.
Next, let discretion moderate your cost,
And when you treat, three courses be the most.
Let never fresh machines your pastry try,
Unless grandees or magistrates are by,
Then you may put _a dwarf into a pie_.[xi-2]
Crowd not your table; let your number be
Not more than seven, and never less than three.
'Tis the _dessert_ that graces all the feast,
For an ill end disparages the rest.
A thousand things well done, and one forgot,
Defaces obligation by that blot.
Make your transparent sweetmeats truly nice
With Indian sugar and Arabian spice.
And let your various creams encircled be
With swelling fruit just ravish'd from the tree.
The feast now done, discourses are renewed,
And witty arguments with mirth pursued;
The cheerful master, 'midst his jovial friends,
His glass to their best wishes recommends.
The grace cup follows: To the President's health
And to the country; Plenty, Peace, and Wealth!
Performing, then, the piety of grace,
Each man that pleases reassumes his place;
While at his gate, from such abundant store,
He showers his godlike blessings on the poor.
"Despise not my good counsel."
All things likely to be wanted should be in readiness,--sugars of
palatably, and being cheaper ought to be bought in turn; and when
The shank bones of mutton should be saved, and after soaking and
Sons of Apicius! say, can Europe's seas,
Can aught the edible creation yield
Compare with _turtle_, boast of land and wave?
And, zounds! who would grudge
_Turtle soup_, though it came to five guineas the bowl?
The day before you dress a turtle, chop the herbs, and make the
The _chicken broth_ was brought at nine;
He then arose to ham and wine,
And, with a philosophic air,
Decided on the bill of fare.
His soup scientific,--his _fishes_ quite prime;
His patés superb, and his cutlets sublime.
Behold, the dishes due appear!
_Fish_ in the van, beef in the rear.
Ah! all the luxury of fish,
With scalding sauce.
Here haddock, hake, and flounders are,
And eels, and _perch_, and cod.
Here stay thy haste,
And with the _savory fish_ indulge thy taste.
Your betters will despise you, if they see
Things that are far surpassing your degree;
Therefore beyond your substance never treat;
'Tis plenty, in small fortune, to be neat;
A widow has cold pie, nurse gives you cake,
From generous merchants ham or _sturgeon_ take.
Red speckled trouts, the _salmon's_ silver jole,
The jointed lobster and unscaly sole,
And luscious scallops to allure the tastes
Of rigid zealots to delicious feasts;
Wednesdays and Fridays, you'll observe from hence,
Days when our sins were doomed to abstinence.
Lobster sauce and rye bread should be eaten with boiled salmon.
But soon, like _lobster boil'd_, the morn
From black to red began to turn.
The man had sure a palate cover'd o'er
With brass or steel, that on the rocky shore
First broke the oozy _oyster's_ pearly coat,
And risk'd the living morsel down his throat.
You shapeless nothing, in a dish!
You, that are but almost a fish!
By nerves about our palate placed,
She likewise judges of the taste.
Who would ask for her opinion
Between an _oyster_ and an onion?
_'Tis no one thing_; it is not fruit, nor root,
Nor poorly limited with head or foot.
What will not luxury taste? Earth, sea, and air,
Are daily ransack'd for the bills of fare.
Thanks, my lord, for your _venison_; for finer or fatter
Never ranged in a forest or smoked in a platter.
The haunch was a picture for painters to study,
The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy.
The haunch of buck will take about three hours and three quarters
And now that I think on't, as I am a sinner!
We wanted this venison to make out the dinner.
What say you? a _pasty_! it shall and it must,
And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust.
"What the de'il, mon, a pasty!" re-echoed the Scot.
"Though splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that."
"We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out;
"We will all keep a corner!" was echoed about.
And aye a rowth, a _roast beef_ and claret:
Syne wha wad starve!
In short, dear, "a Dandy" describes what I mean,
And Bob's far the best of the gems I have seen,
But just knows the names of French dishes and cooks,
As dear Pa knows the titles and authors of books;
Whose names, think how quick! he already knows pat,
_A la braise_, petit patés, and--what d'ye call that
They inflict on potatoes? Oh! maître d'hotel.
I assure you, dear Dolly, he knows them as well
As if nothing but these all his life he had eat,
Though a bit of them Bobby has never touched yet.
I can scarce tell the difference, at least as to phrase,
Between _beef à la Psyché_ and _curls à la braise_.
The funeral _bak'd meats_
Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.
Is there, then, that o'er his _French ragout_,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornful view,
On sic a dinner?
_Time was_, when John Bull little difference spied
'Twixt the foe at his feet or the friend at his side;
When he found, such his humor in fighting and eating,
His foe, like _beefsteak_, the sweeter for beating.
If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twere well,
It were done quickly.
Cut the steaks off a rump or the ribs of a fore quarter. Have the
Fair fa' your honest sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin' race;
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm,
Weel are ye wordy of a grace
As langs my arm.
His knife see rustic labor dight,
An' cut you up with ready slight,
Trenching your gushing entrail bright
Like onie ditch,
And then, O! what a glorious sight,
Warm reekin' rich.
Ye powers wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill of fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies,
But if ye wish her grateful pray'r,
If it is a large haggis, it will take at least two hours boiling.
The British fleet, which now commands the main,
Might glorious wreaths of victory obtain,
Would they take time, would they with leisure work,
With care would _salt their beef_, and cure their pork.
There is no dish, but what _our_ cooks have made
And merited a charter by their trade.
Silence is commendable only
In a _neat's tongue_ dried.
Pray a slice of your _liver_.
A cook has mighty things professed;
Then send us but two dishes nicely dressed,--
One called _Scotch Collops_.
In truth, I'm confounded
And bothered, my dear, 'twixt that troublesome boy's
(Bob's) cookery language, and Madame Le Roi's.
What with fillets of roses and _fillets of veal_,
Things garni with lace, and things garni with eel,
One's hair and one's cutlets both en papillote,
And a thousand more things I shall ne'er have by rote.
And the dish set before them,--O dish well devised!--
Was what Old Mother Glasse calls "_a calf's head surprised_."
seasoned with a little cayenne and salt.
Good L--d! to see the various ways
Of dressing a calf's head.
Long as, by bayonets protected, we Watties
May have our full fling at their _salmis_ and patés.
I give thee all my kitchen lore,
Though poor the offering be;
I'll tell thee how 'tis cooked, before
You come to dine with me.
The duck is truss'd from head to heels,
Then stew'd with butter well,
And streaky bacon, which reveals
A most delicious smell.
When duck and bacon, in a mass,
You in a stewpan lay,
A spoon around the vessel pass,
And gently stir away;
A tablespoonful of flour bring,
A quart of water plain,
Then in it twenty onions fling,
And gently stir again.
A bunch of parsley, and a leaf
Of ever verdant bay,
Two cloves,--I make my language brief,--
Then add your peas you may;
And let it simmer till it sings
In a delicious strain;
Then take your duck, nor let the strings
For trussing it remain.
The parsley fail not to remove,
Also the leaf of bay;
Dish up your duck,--the sauce improve
In the accustom'd way,
With pepper, salt, and other things
I need not here explain;
And if the dish contentment brings,
You'll dine with me again.
Our courtier walks from dish to dish,
Tastes from his friends of _fowl_ and fish,
Tells all their names, lays down the law,
"Que ça est bon." "Ah! goutez ça."
But man, cursed man, on _turkeys_ preys,
And Christmas shortens all our days.
Sometimes with oysters we combine,
Sometimes assist the savory chine.
From the low peasant to the lord,
The _turkey_ smokes on every board.
Make a stuffing of bread, salt, pepper, nutmeg, lemon-peel, a few
And something's here with name uncivil,
For our cook christens it "_A Devil_,"
"_A Devil_, in any shape, sweet maid,
A parson fears not," Syntax said;
"I'll make him minced meat; 'tis my trade."
In good roast beef my landlord sticks his knife,
The _capon_ fat delights his dainty wife.
Gargilius, sleek, voluptuous lord,
A hundred dainties smoke upon his board;
Earth, air, and ocean ransack'd for the feast,
In masquerade of foreign olios dress'd.
But hang it, to poets, who seldom can eat,
Your very good _mutton's_ a very good treat.
Or urged thereunto by the woes he endured,
The way to be _smoked_, is the way to be _cured_.
But to the fading palate bring relief,
By the _Westphalian ham_ or Belgic beef.
Each mortal has his pleasure; none deny
Scarsdale his bottle, Darby his _ham pie_.
Turkey and fowl, and ham and chine,
On which the cits prefer to dine,
With partridge, too, and eke a _Hare_,
The luxuries of country fare,
She nicely cooked with bounteous care.
Your _rabbits fricaseed_ and chicken,
With curious choice of dainty picking,
Each night got ready at the Crown,
With port and punch to wash 'em down.
Little birds fly about with the _true pheasant taint_,
And the geese are all born with the liver[56-*] complaint.
With all the luxury of statesmen dine,
On daily feasts of _ortolans_ and wine.
Put into every bird an oyster, or a little butter mixed with some
And as for your juries--who would not set o'er them
A jury of tasters, with _woodcocks_ before them?
"It tastes of the _bird_, however," said the old woman, "and she
What say you, lads? is any spark
Among you ready for a _lark_?
Poor Roger Fowler, who'd a generous mind,
Nor would submit to have his hand confined,
But aimed at all,--yet never could excel
In anything but _stuffing of his veal_.
And own they gave him a lively notion,
What his own _forced meat balls_ would be.
Boy, tell the cook I love all nicknackeries,
Fricasees, _vol au vents_, puffs, and gimcrackeries.
_De Beringhen._ In the next room there's a delicious pâté, let's
discuss it.
Seducing young pâtés, as ever could cozen
One out of one's appetite, down by the dozen.
Where so ready all nature its cookery yields,
_Macaroni au Parmesan_ grows in the fields.
What will not _Luxury taste_? _Earth_, sea and air
Are daily ransacked for the bill of fare.
Muse, sing the man that did to Paris go,
That he might taste their soups and _mushrooms_ know.
If you please,
I'll taste your tempting toasted cheese,
Broiled ham, and nice _mushroom'd ketchup_.
Who praises, in this _sauce enamor'd_ age,
Calm, healthful temperance, like an Indian sage?
"Live bullion," says merciless Bob, "which I think
Would, if coined with a little _mint sauce_, be delicious."
Our fathers most admired their _sauces sweet_,
And often asked for sugar _with their meat_.
Cranberry sauce is eaten with roast fowl, turkey, &c.
Along these shores
Neglected trade with difficulty toils,
Collecting slender stores; the sun-dried grape,
Or _capers_ from the rock, that prompt the taste
Of luxury.
Grateful and salutary Spring! the _plants_
Which crown thy numerous gardens, and invite
To health and temperance, in the simple meal,
Unstain'd with murder, undefil'd with blood,
Unpoison'd with rich sauces, to provoke
The unwilling appetite to gluttony.
For this, the _bulbous esculents_ their roots
With sweetness fill; for this, with cooling juice
The green herb spreads its _leaves_; and opening _buds_
And _flowers_ and _seeds_ with various flavors tempts
Th' ensanguined palate from its savage feast.
This branch of cookery requires the most vigilant attention.
Two large potatoes, pressed through kitchen sieve,
Smoothness and softness to the _salad_ give;
Distrust the condiment that bites too soon;
But deem it not, thou man of herbs, a fault,
To add a double quantity of salt.
Four times the spoon with oil of Lucca crown,
And twice with vinegar procured from town;
True flavor needs it, and your poet begs
The pounded yellow of two boiled eggs;
Let onion's atoms lurk within the bowl,
And, scarce suspected, animate the whole;
And, lastly, in the flavored compound toss
A magic spoonful of anchovy sauce.
O great and glorious! O herbaceous treat!
'Twould tempt the dying anchorite to eat,
Back to the world he'd turn his weary soul,
And plunge his fingers in the salad bowl.
salad-dresser.
The things we eat, by various juice control
The narrowness or largeness of our soul.
_Onions_ will make e'en heirs or widows weep;
The tender lettuce brings on softer sleep.
Whose appetites would soon devour
Each cabbage, _artichoke_, and flower.
Now fragrant with the _bean's_ perfume,
Now purpled with the pulse's bloom,
Might well with bright allusions store me;
But happier bards have been before me.
Leeks to the Welsh, to Dutchmen butter's dear;
Of Irish swains, _potatoes_ is the cheer.
You may afterwards place a napkin, folded up to the size of the
Your infant _peas_ to asparagus prefer;
Which to the supper you may best defer.
Every week dispense
English beans or _Carolinian rice_.
On _turnips_ feast whene'er you please,
And riot in my beans and peas.
Much meat doth Gluttony procure,
To feed men fat as swine;
But he's a frugal man, indeed,
That on _the leaf_ can dine.
At early morn, I to the market haste,
(Studious in everything to please thy taste);
A curious fowl and _'sparagus_ I chose,
(For I remembered you were fond of those).
And when his juicy salads fail'd,
Slic'd _carrots_ pleased him well.
Let them be well washed and brushed, not scraped. If young spring
With carrots red, and turnips white,
And _leeks_, Cadwallader's delight,
And all the savory crop that vie
To please the palate and the eye.
_Herbs_ too she knew, and well of each could speak
That in her garden sipp'd the silvery dew,
Where no vain flower disclosed a gaudy streak,
But herbs, for use and physic, not a few
Of gray renown, within those borders grew,--
The _tufted basil_, _pun-provoking thyme_,
Fresh _balm_, and _marigold_ of cheerful hue,
The _lowly gill_, that never dares to climb,
And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to rhyme.
What lord of old would bid his cook prepare
_Mangoes_, potargo, champignons, caviare!
Lives in a cell, and eats from week to week
A meal of _pickled cabbage_ and ox cheek.
'Mongst salts essential, _sugar_ wins the palm,
For taste, for color, and for various use.
O'er all thy works let cleanliness preside,
Child of frugality; and as the scum
Thick mantles o'er the boiling wave, do thou
The scum that mantles carefully remove.
Whereof little
More than a little is by much too much.
He snuffs far off the anticipated joy,
_Jelly_ and ven'son all his thoughts employ.
The board was spread with fruits and wine;
With grapes of gold, like those that shine
On Caslin's hills; pomegranates, full
Of melting sweetness, and the pears
And sunniest _apples_ that Cabul
In all its thousand gardens bears.
With rich conserve of _Visna cherries_,
Of orange flower, and of those berries
Take the stones and stalks from two pounds of clear, fine, ripe
Nature hates vacuums, as you know,
We, therefore, will descend below,
And fill, with dainties nice and light,
The vacuum in your appetite.
Besides, good wine and dainty fare
Are sometimes known to lighten care;
Nay, man is often brisk or dull,
As the keen stomach's void or full.
And the _sun's child_, the _mail'd anana_, yields
His _regal apple_ to the ravish'd taste.
Though many, I own, are the evils they've brought us,
Though R**al*y's here on her very last legs;
Yet who can help loving the land that has taught us
Six hundred and eighty-five ways to dress _eggs_!
But, after all, what would you have me do,
When, out of twenty, I can please not two?
One likes the pheasant's wing, and one the leg;
The vulgar boil, the learned _poach an egg_;
Hard task to hit the palate of such guests,
When Oldfield loves what Dartineuf detests.
On holydays, an _egg or two_ at most;
But her ambition never reached to roast.
Go work, hunt, exercise (he thus begun),
Then scorn a homely dinner if you can;
_Fried eggs_, and herbs, and olives, still we see:
This much is left of old simplicity.
Unless you know the lingo;
If you do, like me,
You'll repent, by jingo.
Starving like a fool,
And silent as a mummy,
There I stood alone,
A nation with a dummy.
Signs I had to make
For every little notion;
Limbs all going like
A telegraph in motion;
If I wanted _bread_,
My jaws I set a-going,
And asked for _new laid eggs_
By clapping hands and crowing.
Put half a handful of breadcrumbs into a saucepan, with a small
"Where is my favorite dish?" he cried;
"Let some one place it by my side!"
The _puffs_ made me light,
And now that's all over, I'm pretty well, thank you.
It should be touched as little as possible with the hands.
You that from pliant _paste_ would fabrics raise,
Expecting thence to gain immortal praise,
Your knuckles try, and let your sinews know
Their power to knead, and give the form to dough;
From thence of course the figure will arise,
And elegance adorn the surface of your pies.
Unless some _sweetness_ at the bottom lie,
Who cares for all the crinkling of the pie!
Fruit pies with lids should have loaf sugar grated over them.
When Terence spoke, oraculous and sly,
He'd neither grant the question nor deny,
Pleading for tarts, his thoughts were on _mince pie_.
My poor endeavors view with gracious eye,
To make these lines above a _Christmas pie_.
All you who to feasting and mirth are inclined,
Come, here is good news for to pleasure your mind.
Old Christmas is come, for to keep open house:
He scorns to be guilty of starving a mouse.
Then come, boys, and welcome, for diet the chief,--
_Plum pudding_, goose, capon, minced pies, and roast beef.
The cooks shall be busied, by day and by night,
In roasting and _boiling_, for taste and delight.
Provision is making for beer, ale, and wine,
For all that are willing or ready to dine.
Meantime goes the caterer to fetch in _the chief_,--
_Plum pudding_, goose, capon, minced pies, and roast beef.
Whatever was the _best pie_ going,
In _that_ Ned--trust him--had his finger.
Where London's column, pointing to the skies,
Like a tall bully, lifts the head and lies,
There dwelt a citizen of sober fame,
A plain, good man, and Balaam was his name;
Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth,
His word would pass for more than he was worth;
One solid dish his week-day meal affords,
And _apple pudding_ solemnized the Lord's.
But man, more fickle, the bold license claims,
In different realms, to give thee different names.
_Thee_, the soft nations round the warm Levant
Polanta call; the French, of course, Polante.
E'en in thy native regions, how I blush
To hear the Pennsylvanians call thee _mush_!
All spurious appellations, void of truth;
I've better known thee from my earliest youth:
Thy name is _Hasty Pudding_! Thus our sires
Were wont to greet thee from the fuming fires;
And while they argued in thy just defence,
With logic clear, they thus explained the sense:
"In _haste_ the boiling caldron, o'er the blaze,
Receives and cooks the ready-powdered maize;
In haste 'tis served, and then in equal _haste_,
With cooling milk, we make the sweet repast.
No carving to be done, no knife to grate
The tender ear, and wound the stony plate;
But the smooth spoon, just fitted to the lip,
And taught with art the yielding mass to dip,
By frequent journeys to the bowl well stored,
Performs the _hasty_ honors of the board."
Such is thy name, significant and clear,--
A name, a sound, to every Yankee dear;
But most to me, whose heart and palate chaste
Preserve my pure, hereditary taste.
The strong table groans
Beneath the smoking sirloin, stretch'd immense
From side to side; in which with desperate knife
They deep incisions make, and talk the while
Of England's glory, ne'er to be defaced
While hence they borrow vigor; or amain
Into the _pudding_ plunged at intervals,
If stomach keen can intervals allow,
Relating all the glories of the chase.
Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks;
He takes his chirping, and cracks his jokes.
Live like yourself, was soon my lady's word;
And lo! _suet pudding_ was seen upon the board.
Of oats decorticated take two pounds,
And of new milk enough the same to drown;
Of raisins of the sun, stoned, ounces eight;
Of currants, cleanly picked, an equal weight;
Of suet, finely sliced, an ounce at least;
And six eggs, newly taken from the nest:
Season this mixture well with salt and spice;
'Twill make a pudding far exceeding rice;
And you may safely feed on it like farmers,
For the recipe is learned Dr. Harmer's.
If you want a good pudding, mind what you are taught:
Take eggs, six in number, when bought for a groat;
The fruit with which Eve her husband did cozen,
Well pared and well chopped, take at least half a dozen;
Six ounces of bread--let the cook eat the crust--
And crumble the soft as fine as the dust;
Six ounces of currants from the stalks you must sort,
Lest they husk out your teeth, and spoil all the sport;
Six ounces of sugar won't make it too sweet,
And some salt and some nutmeg will make it complete.
Three hours let it boil, without any flutter,
And Adam won't like it without sugar and butter.
_Charlotte_, from rennet apples first did frame
_A pie_, which still retains her name.
Though common grown, yet with white sugar stewed,
And butter'd right, its goodness is allowed.
A frugal man, upon the whole,
Yet loved his friend, and had a soul;
Knew what was handsome, and would do't
On just occasion, coûte qui coûte.
He brought him bacon (nothing lean);
_Pudding_, that might have pleased a dean;
Cheese, such as men of Suffolk make,
But wished it Stilton for his sake.
By the rivulet, on the rushes,
Beneath a canopy of bushes,
Taste the _dumplings_ and the whey.
If chronicles may be believed,
So loved the pamper'd gallant lived,
That with the nuns he always dined
On rarities of every kind;
Then hoards, occasionally varied,
Of biscuits, _sweetmeats_, nuts, and fruits.
Methinks I scent some _rich repast_:
The savor strengthens with the blast.
After dreaming some hours of the land of Cocaigne,
That Elysium of all that is friand and nice,
Where for hail they have bonbons, and claret for rain,
And the skaters in winter show off on _cream ice_.
Here _ice, like crystal firm_, and never lost,
Tempers hot July with December's frost.
Stir in the almond gradually, while the cream is freezing.
Pudding our parson eats, the squire loves hare,
But _whipped cream_ is my Buxoma's fare,
While she loves _whipped cream_, capon ne'er shall be,
Nor hare, nor beef, nor pudding, food for me.
Makes a noble dessert, where the dinner's roast beef.
On choicest melons and sweet grapes they dine.
But nicer cates, her dainty's boasted fare,
Or cheesecake, or the cooling syllabub,
For Thyrses she prepares.
Whisk for one hour the whites of two eggs, together with two
And from _sweet kernels_ pressed,
She tempers _dulcet creams_.
Not with the leaven, as of old,
Of sin and malice fed,
But with unfeigned sincerity.
His diet was of _wheaten bread_.
Mixt with the rustic throng, see ruddy maids,
Some taught with dextrous hand to twirl the wheel,
Some expert
To raise from _leavened wheat the kneaded loaf_.
Her _bread_ is deemed such dainty fare,
That ev'ry prudent traveller
His wallet loads with many a crust.
Like the _loaf_ in the Tub's pleasant tale,
It comprised every flavor, was all and was each,
Was grape and was pineapple, nectarine and peach.
Of wine she never tasted through the year,
But white and black was all her homely cheer,
_Brown bread_ and milk (but first she skimmed her bowls),
And rasher of singed bacon on the coals.
Vessels large
And broad, by the sweet hand of neatness clean'd,
Meanwhile, in decent order ranged appear,
The milky treasure, strain'd thro' filtering lawn,
Intended to receive. At early day,
Sweet slumber shaken from her opening lids,
My lovely Patty to her dairy hies;
There, from the surface of expanded bowls
She skims the floating cream, and to her churn
Commits the rich consistence; nor disdains,
Though soft her hand, though delicate her frame,
To urge the rural toil, fond to obtain
The country housewife's humble name and praise.
Continued agitation separates soon
The unctuous particles; with gentler strokes
And artful, soon they coalesce; at length
Cool water pouring from the limpid spring
Into a smooth glazed vessel, deep and wide,
She gathers the loose fragments to a heap,
Which in the cleansing wave, well wrought and press'd,
To one consistent golden mass, receives
The sprinkled seasoning, and of pats or pounds
The fair impression, the neat shape assumes.
Warm from the cow she pours
The milky flood. An acid juice infused,
From the dried stomach drawn of suckling calf,
Coagulates the whole. Immediate now
Her spreading hands bear down the gathering curd,
Which hard and harder grows, till, clear and thin,
The green whey rises separate.
Do, dear James, mix up the cakes:
Just one quart of meal it takes;
Pour the water on the pot,
Be careful it is not too hot;
Sift the meal well through your hand,
Thicken well--don't let it stand;
Stir it quick,--clash, clatter, clatter!
O what light, delicious batter!
Now listen to the next command:
On the dresser let it stand
Just three quarters of an hour,
To feel the gently rising power
Of powders, melted into yeast,
To lighten well this precious feast.
See, now it rises to the brim!
Quick, take the ladle, dip it in;
So let it rest, until the fire
The griddle heats as you desire.
Be careful that the coals are glowing,
No smoke around its white curls throwing;
Apply the suet, softly, lightly;
The griddle's black face shines more brightly.
Now pour the batter on; delicious!
Don't, dear James, think me officious,
But lift the tender edges lightly;
Now turn it over quickly, sprightly.
'Tis done! Now on the white plate lay it:
Smoking hot, with butter spread,
'Tis quite enough to turn our head!
Some talk of hoecake, fair Virginia's pride!
Rich _Johnny cake_ this mouth has often tried;
Both please me well, their virtues much the same;
Alike their fabric, as allied their fame.
Friend, I am a shrewd observer, and will guess
What cakes you doat on for your favorite mess.
With all her haughty looks, the time I've seen
When the proud damsel has more humble been;
When with nice airs she hoist the _pancake_ round,
And dropt it, hapless fair! upon the ground.
To three tablespoonfuls of flour add six well-beaten eggs, three
First in place,
_Plum-cake_ is seen o'er smaller pastry ware,
And ice on that.
Ice it next day.
Must see Rheims, much famed, 'tis said,
For making kings and _gingerbread_.
And here each season do _those cakes_ abide,
Whose honored names the inventive city own,
Rendering through Britain's isle Salopia's praises known.
In vain the circled loaves attempt to lie
Concealed in flaskets from my curious eye;
In vain the cheeses, offspring of the pail,
Or _honeyed cakes_, which gods themselves regale.
Though I've consulted Holinshed and Stow,
I find it very difficult to know
Who, to refresh the attendants to a grave,
Burnt claret first or _Naples biscuit_ gave.
Whence oft with sugared cates she doth 'em greet,
And _gingerbread_, if rare, now certes doubly sweet.
On _cake_ luxuriously I dine,
And drink the fragrance of the vine,
Studious of elegance and ease,
Myself alone I seek to please.
This happy hour elapsed and gone,
The time of drinking tea comes on.
The kettle filled, the water boiled,
The cream provided, the _biscuits_ piled.
And lamp prepared; I straight engage
The Lilliputian equipage
Of dishes, sauces, spoons, and tongs,
And all the et ceteras which thereto belongs.
Some bring a capon, some _Derby cake_,
Some nuts, some apples, some that think they make
The better cheesecakes, bring them.
However, you shall home with me tonight,
Forget your cares, and revel in delight;
I have in store a pint or two of wine,
Some _cracknels_, and the remnant of a chine.
Treat here, ye shepherds blithe! your damsels sweet,
For pies and _cheesecakes_ are for damsels meet.
Bake them twenty minutes.
The bridal came; great the feast,
And good the _bride cake_ and the priest.
It takes three hours baking.
"I never give a _kiss_," says Prue,
"To naughty man, for I abhor it."
She will not give a _kiss_, 'tis true,
She'll take one, though, and thank you for it.
Where _cakes_ luxuriant pile the spacious dish,
And purple nectar glads the festive hour,
The guest, without a want, without a wish,
Can yield no room to music's soothing power.
This kind of cake requires great care.
Mountown! the Muses' most delicious theme,
O, may thy codlins ever swim in cream!
The rasp and strawberries in Bordeaux drown,
To add a redder tincture to their own!
Thy white wine, sugar, milk, together club,
To make that gentle viand--_syllabub_!
Not all thy plate, how formed soe'er it be,
Can please my palate like a bowl of thee.
O, Peggy, Peggy! when thou goest to brew,
Consider well what you're about to do;
Be very wise, very sedately think
That what you're now going to make is _drink_;
Consider who must drink that drink, and then
What 'tis to have the praise of _honest_ men;
For surely, Peggy, while that drink does last,
'Tis Peggy will be _toasted or disgraced_.
Then if thy _ale_ in glass thou wouldst confine,
To make its sparkling rays in beauty shine,
Let thy clean bottle be entirely dry,
Lest a white substance to the surface fly,
And floating there disturb the curious eye;
But this great maxim must be understood,
"_Be sure, nay very sure, thy cork be good_."
Then future ages shall of Peggy tell,
That nymph that _brewed and bottled ale so well_!
'Tis said that the gods, on Olympus of old,
(And who the bright legend profanes with a doubt!)
One night, 'mid their revels, by Bacchus were told,
That his last butt of nectar had somehow run out.
But determined to send round the goblet once more,
They sued to the fairer mortals for aid
In composing a draught, which till drinking were o'er,
Should cast every wine ever drank in the shade.
Grave Ceres herself blithely yielded her corn,
And the spirit that lives in each amber-hued grain,
And which first had its birth from the dews of the morn,
Was taught to steal out in bright dew-drops again.
Pomona, whose choicest of fruits on the board
Were scattered profusely, in every one's reach,
When called on a tribute to cull from the hoard,
Express'd the mild juice of the delicate peach.
The liquids were mingled, while Venus looked on,
With glances so fraught with sweet magical power,
That the honey of Hybla, e'en when they were gone,
Has never been missed in the draught from that hour.
Flora then from her bosom of fragrancy shook,
And with roseate fingers pressed down in the bowl,
All dripping and fresh as it came from the brook,
The _herb_ whose aroma should flavor the whole.
The draught was delicious, each god did exclaim,
Though something yet wanting they all did bewail;
But _juleps_ the drink of immortals became,
When Jove himself added a handful of hail.
Four elements, joined in
An emulous strife,
Fashion the world, and
Constitute life.
From the sharp citron
The starry juice pour;
Acid to life is
The innermost core.
Now, let the sugar
The bitter one meet;
Still be life's bitter
Tamed down with the sweet!
Let the bright water
Flow into the bowl;
Water, the calm one,
Embraces the whole.
Drops from the spirit
Pour quick'ning within,
Life but its life from
The spirit can win.
Haste, while it gloweth,
Your vessels to bring;
The wave has but virtue
Drunk hot from the spring.