Recent publications by philz

New Group and a Foodsville Foamy Face-Off

philz@awb.com — Fri, 28 Mar 2008 16:00:45

There's a new group in town: Beer Lovers of Foodsville.

To join: go to the "Groups" tab. Look under "New Groups." Find us, click on "Beer Lovers of Foodsville." On the right hand side, you'll see "About group." Underneath there is a link, "join group." Click and go back to your beer drinking. You've done it.

Once in:

You are invited to the

1st

Foodsville Foamy Face-Off

• Read the Mayor's IPA feed

• Buy, Taste, Compare, and Record Your Opinion

of the two top-reviewed IPAs from BeerAdvocate:

Stone IPA vs. Two-Hearted Ale

Add your personal results by commenting on this article

by April 15

Let the fun begin...

Sarah's Mostaccioli

philz@awb.com — Sun, 02 Mar 2008 12:48:03

This recipe was one I learned from my wife's roommate in college. It is easy to prepare and is a great alternative to lasagna. I'm sure any noodle could be used, but since the recipe is named "Mostaccioli," I have never altered the pasta.

Democracy of the Dining Table

philz@awb.com — Thu, 07 Feb 2008 20:02:53

For those of you who heard the story this morning on NPR: The Family Dinner Deconstructed (for those who didn't, it's here), it reminded me of something I read yesterday in 250 Meatless Menus and Recipes (1910). The dinner table has always been a place of great comfort in my life; and its honor is not newly celebrated. And so, I would recommend lingering over dinner to every family with young children and old, but I question the modernist contention in the piece this morning that "research" is only a decade old. Maybe "research" is only possible by social scientists, but my guess is that "evidence" for the importance of the table has existed for as long as families have eaten together:

"About a decade ago, research started appearing on the family dinner, and the news was uniformly good.

Children who ate with their families were less likely to do drugs, smoke, have eating disorders or become depressed. They were better at reading, less likely to end up in the hospital for asthma and had better grades. And perhaps most shocking of all, in rare instances they could apparently demonstrate exemplary table manners. (Scientists have been unable to replicate this last finding on a consistent basis, however.)"

Compare the NPR piece to this snippet from Eugene Christian and Mollie Griswold Christian's 250 Meatless Menus and Recipes.

To see the original text, click on the image of the page on the top right.

Democracy of the dining table should be a family 
pride. The table is a place to assemble, a place of 
good cheer, a place to cultivate good manners, to cul- 
tivate hospitality, unselfishness, a place to forget the 
worries of the day, a place to compare notes, to tell 
all that has happened to each and every one ; pride and 
instinct bid us be at our best at the family board. 

For all the grown folks to exercise their rights and 
privileges in these things, and "don't" and suppress the 
child, is to inoculate its mind with the poison of rebel- 
lion, injustice and brute force. 

Every child in the beginning is a little savage. It 
may scratch, fight, bite and throw things around for 
awhile, but it will soon begin to imitate those around 
it; the example, therefore, should be the best. This 
is what we call civilization.

Andy's Hot Burger Sauce

philz@awb.com — Thu, 03 Jan 2008 01:44:07

This is for people who like spicy ketchups, barbeque sauces, and hot sauces on their burgers, veggie burgers, or chicken sandwiches.

Simply Scrapple

philz@awb.com — Tue, 01 Jan 2008 19:55:45

I was introduced to scrapple by my wife Disty when we first met in 1970. She was raised in Philadelphia, and her father, a member of the Fish House, a prestigious men's cooking club, was particularly partial to and accomplished at cooking and eating scrapple. Disty grew up with this breakfast meat, which her father, Stan, used to say "was made from the sweepings off the pig butcher's floor." Sounds very unappetizing, but for those of us who enjoy breakfast meats, there is nothing quite like it. And in Stan's amazing kitchen and by his hands, it became one of the sinful pleasures of our family and the holy grail of our own nuclear kitchen.

My first taste of scrapple was not from Stan's iron pan, but from Disty's. Stan sent Disty a can of it from Philadelphia to our college in Colorado. Later, when Disty spent a year in Taiwan, Stan sent a can to her there. Disty made me some of the scrapple at college from the can, and it was good, but I didn't fall in love with the stuff until I had a chance to meet her dad a few years later at his home in Chestnut Hill, Philadelphia, and eat one of his breakfasts.

Over the 30 years since, while he was alive, I would study his preparation, hoping that someday I would be able to prepare the scrapple, the accompanying scrambled eggs that my children simply called "Pop Pops eggs," and the orange juice of still unknow origin that comprised his host breakfast feasts. We were there every Christmas and Easter, every other Thanksgiving, weddings, funerals, the occasional non-occasion visit and other family events. Our children grew up with his holiday breakfasts. Usually Stan would have been up earlier and have prepared everything, but when I could, I would catch him in his little galley kitchen and try to ask probing questions. He was so fastidious in the preparation, and that in itself marked a huge divide between me and reproducing the recipes. They were the simplest of ingredients: prepared scrapple (Park brand), eggs, cream, butter, orange juice from a container. But in his hands they became irreproducible, transcendent, and highly-prized. Stan died in 2004, but by 1998 he had pretty much hung up his fry pan, and we were left to try our hands.

He had techniques which since then Disty and I have both mastered to some extent, but our memory of them always inserts some quirk of our own that is destined to slightly alter the result. For the scrapple: first you lightly grease the 9" iron fry pan with canola oil, heat the pan on high, then lower it to medium, lay the 1/2" sliced scrapple in the pan and let it cook until the slices freely slides in the pan. Impatience for this delicacy always defeated me. Move it, bother it, and it falls apart. When free from the bottom of the pan, turn the square slices over and let them cook until crispy. For the eggs: Crack 1/2 dozen eggs and put them in a mixing bowl. Add 1/2 cup of cream and mix eggs and cream with a wire wisk. Add a good amount of pepper and a pinch of salt. Mix. Heat an iron pan on high, then reduce heat to medium. Put 2 tablespoons of butter in the pan and allow to melt. Pour egg mixture into pan and immediately begin scraping the bottom with a spatula. Allow it cook until the eggs are still moist and runny. Serve eggs and scrapple, along with orange juice.

There is nothing special about the recipe, but in its execution is the difference between goodness and greatness, a passing moment and a spiritual one, and between mere toleration and profound love.

This past Christmas morning, Disty and I and our grown sons Andy and Chip all sat down to our traditional Pop Pop breakfast. Disty made the scrapple and I made the scrambled eggs. As always, something was missing, but the scrapple was truly out of this world.

Parsley

philz@awb.com — Wed, 02 Jan 2008 02:28:04

From A Garden of Herbs (1921)

To read this in its original form, click on the page image on the right.

"If you will have the leaves of the parcelye grow crisped, then before the sowing of them stuffe a tennis ball with the sedes and beat the same well against the ground whereby the seedes may be a little bruised or when the parcelye is well come up go over the bed with a waighty roller whereby it may so presse the leaves down or else tread the same downe under thy feet." A Crete Herball, 1539.

Hercules is said to have selected parsley to form the first garlands he wore. The Greeks had a great veneration for parsley, and of it the victor's crown was made at the Isthmian games; and Grecian gardens were often bordered with parsley, and rue, and sprigs of this herb were strewn on the dead. Canon Ellacombe says that parsley has the curious botanic history that no one can tell what is its native country. "Probably the plant has been so altered by cultivation as to have lost all likeness to its original self." It is said that Charlemagne having once tasted a cheese flavoured with parsley seeds, ordered two cases of these cheeses to be sent to him yearly.

Dethicke gives the amateur gardener this advice: "To make the seedes appear more quickly steep them in vinegar and strew the bed with the ashes of bean-water with the best aqua vitae, and then cover the beds with a piece of woolen cloth, and the plants will begin to appear in an hour." Then he adds: "he must take off the cloth so that they may shoot up the higher to the wonder of all beholders!"

In the southern states of America the negroes consider it unlucky to transplant parsley from the old home to the new, and in England old-fashioned gardeners will often tell you they never transplant parsley, as it would bring misfortune on every one in the house. It is said that parsley seed goes seven times to the Devil and back before it germinates, and that is why it is so slow in coming up!

Formerly parsley roots were much eaten, and the young roots are still recommended by modern herbalists.

A SAUCE FOR A ROSTED RABBIT USED TO KING HENRY THE EIGHT. Take a handfull of washed Percely, mince it small, boyle it with butter and verjuice upon a chafing-dish, season it with suger and a little pepper grosse beaten; when it is ready put in a fewe crummes of white bread amongst the other : let it boyle againe till it be thicke, then laye it in a platter, like the breadth of three fingers, laye of each side one rested conny and so serve them. The Treasurie of Hidden Secrets and Commodious Conceits, by John Partridge, 1586.

Beans

philz@awb.com — Mon, 17 Dec 2007 19:28:43

Screaming Beans

A Final Meal

philz@awb.com — Thu, 06 Dec 2007 15:48:20

On Tuesday night, my mother had the family over for Hanukkah dinner at her new apartment. My mom made beef, salad and latkes. As the six of us sat down to this sumptuous and nostalgic feast, I asked my nephew, Greg, what foods he would bring to a desert island. After Greg suggested hot dogs, my Mom, Greg, and I agreed they are one of the most forbidden pleasures. Disty (my wife) suggested her hot dog substitute would be scrapple, a Pennsylvania Dutch breakfast food that is fried and dangerous. She told us that her father had shipped cans of it from Philadelphia to her in Denver and China. Larry and Carol (my bother and sister-in-law) thought they might choose french bread, steak and butter dip. There began a discussion of the best cheese steak and then bounced from one comfortable food to another. This was not a what-was-your-best-ever foie gras discussion, but a discussion about the foods that would do when extreme comfort was needed.

Disty mentioned at one point that our friend Catrine told her that when she is on a shoot (she's a food stylist), she and her friends invariably talk about what they would eat for their last meal. They call it the "My Last Supper" game. And there is a book available, Last Meals, which describes those of 50 great modern chefs.

For me, I can always count on a few foods to do the trick. Many are dishes that I remember fondly from family and friends. Each is associated with a memory and a favorite person. I began a reverie about final meals as Disty, who was dozing, and I drove home that night. French toast on Sunday, slathered with maple syrup, sharing the last piece with my brother. A pizza with my sons Andy and Chip on Friday night while we watch a movie. Finding a Nathan's with my mom and getting a couple of hotdogs with as much as can be loaded on. My grandmother's poppy seed cookies or her coconut cream pie, certainly I'd have those for my final just desserts.

Here is my Philz Final Feed Menu:

Appetizers

Guacamole from Disty, Sally, or my mom, who served an avocado spread on toast that I ate in my living room for the first time around 1962 and never looked back.

The Cheese Plate from "Canoe" in Atlanta that Sue and I shared in 2005 and then had to bring other friends from Arcadia back to try it again and again. It is still good.

Veggies

Billy's stirfry in his Boston apartment in 1973.

The brussel sprouts with Aunt Hennie and Uncle Julie in 1964ish.

Barbequed asparagus with Disty and my sons Andy and Chip and their girlfriends, summer 2007 (especially if we could barbeque it with the rosemary we picked from our driveway in Lucca).

Fried Artichokes (Carciofi Alla Giudea) that we had with Cooper and Michael in Rome 2005.

Main Course

A hamburger from John Michalski's boy/girl dance party in the summer of 1967.

A hot dog with my mom at Nathan's, with all of the fixins.

Disty's Dishes that she brought back from her job as the cook at the fraternity house, especially the Beef Stroganoff that she purloined in a yogurt container. One exception to this is the much-beloved-by the-fraternity, layered, multi-colored jello dish with alternating layers of miracle whip. This will not be served.

A lobster roll from Patsy's wedding in 1974.

A cheese pizza and fries from Pizza Express with Andy and Chip on Friday night while watching a movie.

Going to any meal and sitting next to my dad, again.

The Laap Gai we had on the first day of our reuniting with Andy and Chip in Luang Prabang, Laos summer 2006.

Lebanon Bologna with my Uncle Bernie and Grandma Zuckerman in 1959.

The ravioli that my sister Suzanne and I made while Mom and Dad went out.

Sides

Containers of things from the deli (potato salad, cole slaw, olives, etc.) as selected by Myles.

Disty's Fish House Tomatoes (pronounced ta-mah-toes) always.

Bread

The loaf I had with my mom while we ate Gorgonzola and played cards on the night train from Milan to Paris in 1996, when we went to celebrate her 80th birthday.

Dessert

My grandmother's poppy seed cookies (now passed down to my mom) or Grandma's coconut cream pie, certainly I'd have those for dessert.

Anybody's pumpkin pie.

Katie's baklava (or anything else she makes for that matter).

A KozyShack Rice Pudding in 2007 hanging out watching the World Champion Boston Red Sox with Microwave P. Ernest (the most beautiful basset hound in the world).

Wine

The bottle of 1974 Mouton Rothschild Pauillac Cooper brought me for my 25th birthday in 1976.

Beer

A bottle (or two) of Ringnes Special that we drank on the curb of my brother's New York apartment when we moved him on one of the hottest summer days I can remember in 1969.

Cordials

The collection of cordials at the Kelty's.

Bols in the wind-up ballerina bottle that my grandfather gave me (1972ish).

How Indian Corn Came into the World

philz@awb.com — Sat, 03 Nov 2007 20:43:28

An Ojibwa Legend told to Henry R. Schoolcraft

Long, long ago, in a beautiful part of this country, there lived an Indian with his wife and children.

He was poor and found it hard to provide food enough for his family. But though needy he was kind and contented and always gave thanks to the Great Spirit for everything that he received. His eldest son, Wunzh, was likewise kind and gentle and thankful of heart, and he longed greatly to do something for his people.

The time came that Wunzh reached the age when every Indian boy fasts so that he may see in a vision the Spirit that is to be his guide through life.

Wunzh's father built him a little lodge apart, so that the boy might rest there undisturbed during his days of fasting. Then Wunzh withdrew to begin the solemn rite.

On the first day he walked alone in the woods looking at the flowers and plants and filling his mind with the beautiful images of growing things so that he might see them in his night-dreams. He saw how the flowers and herbs and berries grew. He knew that some were good for food, and that others healed wounds and cured sickness. And his heart was filled with even a greater longing to do something for his family and his tribe.

"Truly," thought he, "the Great Spirit made all things. To Him we owe our lives. But could He not make it easier for us to get our food than by hunting and catching fish? I must try to find this out in my vision."

So Wunzh returned to his lodge and fasted and slept. On the third day he became weak and faint. Soon he saw in a vision a young brave coming down from the sky and approaching the lodge. He was clad in rich garments of green and yellow colors. On his head was a tuft of nodding green plumes, and all his motions were graceful and swaying.

"I am sent to you, O Wunzh," said the sky-stranger, "by that Great Spirit who made all things in sky and earth. He has seen your fasting, and knows how you wish to do good to your people, and that you do not seek for strength in war nor for the praise of warriors. I am sent to tell you how you may do good to your kindred. Arise and wrestle with me, for only by overcoming me may you learn the secret."

Wunzh, though he was weak from fasting, felt courage grow in his heart. He arose and wrestled with the stranger. But soon he became weak and exhausted.

The stranger, seeing this, smiled gently on him and said, "My friend, this is enough for once. I will come again to-morrow." And he vanished as suddenly as he had appeared.

The next day the stranger came, and Wunzh felt himself weaker than before. Nevertheless, he rose and wrestled bravely. Then the stranger spoke a second time. "My friend," he said, "have courage! To-morrow will be your last trial."

And he disappeared from Wunzh's sight.

On the third day the stranger came as before, and the struggle was renewed. And Wunzh, though fainter in body, grew strong in mind and will, and he determined to win or perish in the attempt. He exerted all his powers, and, lo! in a while, he prevailed and overcame the stranger.

"O Wunzh, my friend," said the conquered one, "you have wrestled manfully. You have met your trial well. To-morrow I shall come again and you must wrestle with me for the last time. You will prevail. Do you then strip off my garments, throw me down, clean the earth of roots and weeds, and bury me in that spot. When you have done so, leave my body in the ground. Come often to the place and see whether I have come to life, but be careful not to let weeds or grass grow on my grave. If you do all this well, you will soon discover how to benefit your fellow creatures."

Having said this the stranger disappeared.

In the morning Wunzh's father came to him with food. "My son," he said, "you have fasted long. It is seven days since you have tasted food, and you must not sacrifice your life. The Master of Life does not require that."

"My father," replied the boy, "wait until the sun goes down to-morrow. For a certain reason I wish to fast until that hour."

"Very well," said the old man, "I shall wait until the time arrives when you feel inclined to eat." And he went away.

The next day, at the usual hour, the sky stranger came again. And, though Wunzh had fasted seven days, he felt a new power arise within him. He grasped the stranger with superhuman strength, and threw him down. He took from him his beautiful garments, and, finding him dead, buried him in the softened earth, and did all else as he had been directed.

He then returned to his father's lodge, and partook sparingly of food. There he abode for some time. But he never forgot the grave of his friend.

Daily he visited it, and pulled up the weeds and grass, and kept the earth soft and moist. Very soon, to his great wonder, he saw the tops of green plumes coming through the ground.

Weeks passed by, the summer was drawing to a close. One day Wunzh asked his father to follow him. He led him to a distant meadow. There, in the place where the stranger had been buried, stood a tall and graceful plant, with bright-colored, silken hair, and crowned by nodding green plumes. Its stalk was covered with waving leaves, and there grew from its sides clusters of milk-filled ears of corn, golden and sweet, each ear closely wrapped in its green husks.

"It is my friend!" shouted the boy joyously. "It is Mondawmin, the Indian Corn! We need no longer depend on hunting, so long as this gift is planted and cared for. The Great Spirit has heard my voice and has sent us this food."

Then the whole family feasted on the ears of corn and thanked the Great Spirit who gave it. So Indian Corn came into the world.

An Old Fashioned Thanksgiving

philz@awb.com — Sat, 03 Nov 2007 17:44:29

[Editor's Note: For Thanksgiving, we'd like to post a wonderful story of food and family written by Louisa May Alcott in 1881. Applewood Books published a small paperback edition of this work sixteen years ago, and it is still in print.]

SIXTY YEARS AGO, up among the New Hampshire hills, lived Farmer Bassett, with a houseful of sturdy sons and daughters growing up about him. They were poor in money, but rich in land and love, for the wide acres of wood, corn, and pasture land fed, warmed, and clothed the flock, while mutual patience, affection, and courage made the old farmhouse a very happy home.

November had come; the crops were in, and barn, buttery, and bin were overflowing with the harvest that rewarded the summer's hard work. The big kitchen was a jolly place just now, for in the great fireplace roared a cheerful fire; on the walls hung garlands of dried apples, onions, and corn; up aloft from the beams shone crook-necked squashes, juicy hams, and dried venison--for in those days deer still haunted the deep forests, and hunters flourished. Savory smells were in the air; on the crane hung steaming kettles, and down among the red embers copper saucepans simmered, all suggestive of some approaching feast.

A white-headed baby lay in the old blue cradle that had rocked six other babies, now and then lifting his head to look out, like a round, full moon, then subsided to kick and crow contentedly, and suck the rosy apple he had no teeth to bite. Two small boys sat on the wooden settle shelling corn for popping, and picking out the biggest nuts from the goodly store their own hands had gathered in October. Four young girls stood at the long dresser, busily chopping meat, pounding spice, and slicing apples; and the tongues of Tilly, Prue, Roxy, and Rhody went as fast as their hands. Farmer Bassett, and Eph, the oldest boy, were "chorin' 'round" outside, for Thanksgiving was at hand, and all must be in order for that time-honored day.

To and fro, from table to hearth, bustled buxom Mrs. Bassett, flushed and floury, but busy and blithe as the queen bee of this busy little hive should be.

"I do like to begin seasonable and have things to my mind. Thanksgivin' dinners can't be drove, and it does take a sight of victuals to fill all these hungry stomicks," said the good woman, as she gave a vigorous stir to the great kettle of cider applesauce, and cast a glance of housewifely pride at the fine array of pies set forth on the buttery shelves.

"Only one more day and then it will be the time to eat. I didn't take but one bowl of hasty pudding this morning, so I shall have plenty of room when the nice things come," confided Seth to Sol, as he cracked a large hazelnut as easily as a squirrel.

"No need of my starvin' beforehand. I always have room enough, and I'd like to have Thanksgiving every day," answered Solomon, gloating like a young ogre over the little pig that lay near by, ready for roasting.

"Sakes alive, I don't, boys! It's a marcy it don't come but once a year. I should be worn to a thread paper with all this extra work atop of my winter weavin' and spinnin'," laughed their mother, as she plunged her plump arms into the long bread trough and began to knead the dough as if a famine were at hand.

Tilly, the oldest girl, a red-cheeked, black-eyed lass of fourteen, was grinding briskly at the mortar, for spices were costly, and not a grain must be wasted. Prue kept time with the chopper, and the twins sliced away at the apples till their little brown arms ached, for all knew how to work, and did so now with a will.

"I think it's real fun to have Thanksgiving at home. I'm sorry Gran'ma is sick, so we can't go there as usual, but I like to mess 'round here, don't you, girls?" asked Tilly, pausing to take a sniff at the spicy pestle.

"It will be kind of lonesome with only our own folks." "I like to see all the cousins and aunts, and have games, and sing," cried the twins, who were regular little romps, and could run, swim, coast, and shout as well as their brothers.

"I don't care a mite for all that. It will be so nice to eat dinner together, warm and comfortable at home," said quiet Prue, who loved her own cozy nooks like a cat.

"Come, girls, fly 'round and get your chores done, so we can clear away for dinner jest as soon as I clap my bread into the oven," called Mrs. Bassett presently, as she rounded off the last loaf of brown bread which was to feed the hungry mouths that seldom tasted any other.

"Here's a man comin' up the hill lively!" "Guess it's Gad Hopkins. Pa told him to bring a dezzen oranges, if they warn't too high!" shouted Sol and Seth, running to the door, while the girls smacked their lips at the thought of this rare treat, and Baby threw his apple overboard, as if getting ready for a new cargo.

But all were doomed to disappointment, for it was not Gad, with the much-desired fruit. It was a stranger, who threw himself off his horse and hurried up to Mr. Bassett in the yard, with some brief message that made the farmer drop his ax and look so sober that his wife guessed at once some bad news had come; and crying, "Mother's wuss! I know she is!" Out ran the good woman, forgetful of the flour on her arms and the oven waiting for its most important batch.

The man said old Mr. Chadwick, down to Keene, stopped him as he passed, and told him to tell Mrs. Bassett her mother was failin' fast, and she'd better come today. He knew no more, and having delivered his errand he rode away, saying it looked like snow and he must be jogging, or he wouldn't get home till night.

"We must go right off, Eldad. Hitch up, and I'll be ready in less'n no time," said Mrs. Bassett, wasting not a minute in tears and lamentations, but pulling off her apron as she went in, with her head in a sad jumble of bread, anxiety, turkey, sorrow, haste, and cider applesauce.

A few words told the story, and the children left their work to help her get ready, mingling their grief for "Gran'ma" with regrets for the lost dinner.

"I'm dreadful sorry, dears, but it can't be helped. I couldn't cook nor eat no way now, and if that blessed woman gets better sudden, as she has before, we'll have cause for thanksgivin', and I'll give you a dinner you won't forget in a hurry," said Mrs. Bassett, as she tied on her brown silk pumpkin-hood, with a sob for the good old mother who had made it for her.

Not a child complained after that, but ran about helpfully, bringing moccasins, heating the footstone, and getting ready for a long drive, because Gran'ma lived twenty miles away, and there were no railroads in those parts to whisk people to and fro like magic. By the time the old yellow sleigh was at the door, the bread was in the oven, and Mrs. Bassett was waiting, with her camlet cloak on, and the baby done up like a small bale of blankets.

"Now, Eph, you must look after the cattle like a man and keep up the fires, for there's a storm brewin', and' neither the children nor dumb critters must suffer," said Mr. Bassett, as he turned up the collar of his rough coat and put on his blue mittens, while the old mare shook her bells as if she preferred a trip to Keene to hauling wood all day.

"Tilly, put extry comfortables on the beds to-night, the wind is so searchin' up chamber. Have the baked beans and Injun-puddin' for dinner, and whatever you do, don't let the boys get at the mince-pies, or you'll have them down sick. I shall come back the minute I can leave Mother. Pa will come to-morrer anyway, so keep snug and be good. I depend on you, my darter; use your jedgment, and don't let nothin' happen while Mother's away."

"Yes'm, yes'm--good-bye, good-bye!" called the children, as Mrs. Bassett was packed into the sleigh and driven away, leaving a stream of directions behind her.

Eph, the sixteen-year-old boy, immediately put on his biggest boots, assumed a sober, responsible manner and surveyed his little responsibilities with a paternal air, drolly like his father's. Tilly tied on her mother's bunch of keys, rolled up the sleeves of her homespun gown, and began to order about the younger girls. They soon forgot poor Granny, and found it great fun to keep house all alone, for Mother seldom left home, but ruled her family in the good old-fashioned way. There were no servants, for the little daughters were Mrs. Bassett's only maids, and the stout boys helped their father, all working happily together with no wages but love; learning in the best manner the use of the heads and hands with which they were to make their own way in the world.

The few flakes that caused the farmer to predict bad weather soon increased to a regular snowstorm, with gusts of wind, for up among the hills winter came early and lingered long. But the children were busy, gay, and warm indoors, and never minded the rising gale nor the whirling white storm outside.

Tilly got them a good dinner, and when it was over the two elder girls went to their spinning, for in the kitchen stood the big and little wheels, and baskets of wool rolls ready to be twisted into yarn for the winter's knitting, and each day brought its stint of work to the daughters, who hoped to be as thrifty as their mother.

Eph kept up a glorious fire, and superintended the small boys, who popped corn and whittled boats on the hearth; while Roxy and Rhody dressed corncob dolls in the settle corner, and Bose, the brindled mastiff, lay on the braided mat, luxuriously warming his old legs. Thus employed, they made a pretty picture, these rosy boys and girls, in their homespun suits, with the rustic toys or tasks which most children nowadays would find very poor or tiresome.

Tilly and Prue sang, as they stepped to and fro, drawing out the smoothly twisted threads to the musical hum of the great spinning wheels. The little girls chattered like magpies over their dolls and the new bedspread they were planning to make, all white dimity stars on a blue calico ground, as a Christmas present to Ma. The boys roared at Eph's jokes, and had rough and tumble games over Bose, who didn't mind them in the least; and so the afternoon wore pleasantly away.

At sunset the boys went out to feed the cattle, bring in heaps of wood, and lock up for the night, as the lonely farmhouse seldom had visitors after dark. The girls got the simple supper of brown bread and milk, baked apples, and a doughnut all 'round as a treat. Then they sat before the fire, the sisters knitting, the brothers with books or games, for Eph loved reading, and Sol and Seth never failed to play a few games of Morris with barley corns, on the little board they had themselves at one corner of the dresser.

"Read out a piece," said Tilly from Mother's chair, where she sat in state, finishing off the sixth woolen sock she had knit that month.

"It's the old history book, but here's a bit you may like, since it's about our folks," answered Eph, turning the yellow page to look at a picture of two quaintly dressed children in some ancient castle.

"Yes, read that. I always like to hear about the Lady Matildy I was named for, and Lord Bassett, Pa's great-great-great grandpa. He's only a farmer now, but it's nice to know we were somebody two or three hundred years ago," said Tilly, bridling and tossing her curly head as she fancied the Lady Matilda might have done.

"Don't read the queer words, 'cause we don't understand 'em. Tell it," commanded Roxy, from the cradle, where she was drowsily cuddled with Rhody.

"Well, a long time ago, when Charles the First was in prison, Lord Bassett was a true friend to him," began Eph, plunging into his story without delay. "The lord had some papers that would have hung a lot of people if the king's enemies got hold of 'em, so when he heard one day, all of a sudden, that soldiers were at the castle gate to carry him off, he had just time to call his girl to him and say: 'I may be going to my death, but I won't betray my master. There is no time to burn the papers, and I can not take them with me; they are hidden in the old leathern chair where I sit. No one knows this but you, and you must guard them till I come or send you a safe messenger to take them away. Promise me to be brave and silent, and I can go without fear.' You see, he wasn't afraid to die, but he was to seem a traitor. Lady Matildy promised solemnly, and the words were hardly out of her mouth when the men came in, and her father was carried away a prisoner and sent off to the Tower."

"But she didn't cry; she just called her brother, and sat down in that chair, with her head leaning back on those papers, like a queen, and waited while the soldiers hunted the house over for 'em: wasn't that a smart girl?" cried Tilly, beaming with pride, for she was named for this ancestress, and knew the story by heart.

"I reckon she was scared, though, when the men came swearin in and asked her if she knew anything about it. The boy did his part then, for he didn't know, and fired up and stood before his sister; and he says, says he, as bold as a lion: 'If my lord had told us where the papers be, we would die before we would betray him. But we are children and know nothing, and it is cowardly of you to try to fight us with oaths and drawn swords!'"

As Eph quoted from the book, Seth planted himself before Tilly, with the long poker in his hand, saying, as he flourished it valiantly:

"Why didn't the boy take his father's sword and lay about him? I would, if any one was ha'sh to Tilly."

"You bantam! He was only a bit of a boy, and couldn't do anything. Sit down and hear the rest of it," commanded Tilly, with a pat on the yellow head, and a private resolve that Seth should have the largest piece of pie at dinner next day, as reward for his chivalry.

"Well, the men went off after turning the castle out of window, but they said they should come again; so faithful Matildy was full of trouble, and hardly dared to leave the room where the chair stood. All day she sat there, and at night her sleep was so full of fear about it, that she often got up and went to see that all was safe. The servants thought the fright had hurt her wits, and let her be, but Rupert, the boy, stood by her and never was afraid of her queer ways. She was 'a pious maid,' the book says, and often spent the long evenings reading the Bible, with her brother by her, all alone in the great room, with no one to help her bear her secret, and no good news of her father. At last, word came that the king was dead and his friends banished out of England. Then the poor children were in a sad plight, for they had no mother, and the servants all ran away, leaving only one faithful old man to help them."

"But the father did come?" cried Roxy, eagerly.

"You'll see," continued Eph, half telling, half reading. "Matilda was sure he would, so she sat on in the big chair, guarding the papers, and no one could get her away, till one day a man came with her father's ring and told her to give up the secret. She knew the ring, but would not tell until she had asked many questions, so as to be very sure, and while the man answered all about her father and the king, she looked at him sharply. Then she stood up and said, in a tremble, for there was something strange about the man: 'Sir, I doubt you in spite of the ring, and I will not answer till you pull off the false beard you wear, that I may see your face and know if you are my father's friend or foe.' Off came the disguise, and Matilda found it was my lord himself, come to take them with him out of England. He was very proud of that faithful girl, I guess, for the old chair still stands in the castle, and the I name keeps in the family, Pa says, even over here, where some of the Bassetts came along with the Pilgrims."

"Our Tilly would have been as brave, I know, and she looks like the old picter down to Gran' ma's, don't she, Eph?" cried Prue, who admired her bold, bright sister very much.

"Well, I think you'd do the settin' part best, Prue, you are so patient. Till would fight like a wild cat, but she can't hold her tongue worth a cent" answered Eph; whereat Tilly pulled his hair, and the story ended with a general frolic.

When the moon-faced clock behind the door struck nine, Tilly tucked up the children under the "extry cornfortables," and having kissed them all around, as Mother did, crept into her own nest, never minding the little drifts of snow that sifted in upon her coverlet between the shingles of the roof, nor the storm that raged without.

As if he felt the need of unusual vigilance, old Bose lay down on the mat before the door, and pussy had the warm hearth all to herself. If any late wanderer had looked in at midnight, he would have seen the fire blazing up again, and in the cheefful glow the old cat blinking her yellow eyes, as she sat bolt upright beside the spinning wheel, like some sort of household goblin, guarding the children while they slept.

When they woke, like early birds, it still snowed, but up the little Bassetts jumped, broke the ice in their jugs, and went down with cheeks glowing like winter apples, after a brisk scrub and scramble into their clothes. Eph was off to the barn, and Tilly soon had a great kettle of mush ready, which, with milk warm from the cows made a wholesome breakfast for the seven hearty children.

"Now about dinner," said the young housekeeper, as the pewter spoons stopped clattering, and the earthen bowls stood empty.

"Ma said, have what we liked, but she didn't expect us to have a real Thanksgiving dinner, because she won't be here to cook it, and we don't know how," began Prue, doubtfully.

"I can roast a turkey and make a pudding as well as anybody, I guess. The pies are all ready, and if we can't boil vegetables and so on, we don't deserve any dinner," cried Tilly, burning to distinguish herself, and bound to enjoy to the utmost her brief authority.

"Yes, yes!" cried all the boys, "let's have a dinner anyway; Ma won't care, and the good victuals will spoil if they ain't eaten right up."

"Pa is coming tonight, so we won't have dinner till late; that will be real genteel and give us plenty of time," added Tilly, suddenly realizing the novelty of the task she had undertaken.

"Did you ever roast a turkey?" asked Roxy, with an air of deep interest.

"Should you darst to try?" said Rhody, in an awe-stricken tone.

"You will see what I can do. Ma said I was to use my judgment about things, and I'm going to. All you children have got to do is to keep out of the way, and let Prue and me work. Eph, I wish you'd put a fire in the best room, so the little ones can play in there. We shall want the settin-room for the table, and I won t have them pickin' round when we get things fixed," commanded Tilly, bound to make her short reign a brilliant one.

"I don't know about that. Ma didn't tell us to," began cautious Eph who felt that this invasion of the sacred best parlor was a daring step.

"Don't we always do it Sundays and Thanksgivings? Wouldn't Ma wish the children kept safe and warm anyhow? Can I get up a nice dinner with four rascals under my feet all the time? Come, now, if you want roast turkey and onions, plum-puddin' and mince-pie, you'll have to do as I tell you, and be lively about it."

Tilly spoke with such spirit, and her suggestion was so irresistible, that Eph gave in, and, laughing good-naturedly, tramped away to heat up the best room, devoutly hoping that nothing serious would happen to punish such audacity.

The young folks delightedly trooped away to destroy the order of that prim apartment with housekeeping under the black horsehair sofa, "horseback-riders" on the arms of the best rocking chair, and an Indian war dance all over the well-waxed furniture. Eph, finding the society of peaceful sheep and cows more to his mind than that of two excited sisters, lingered over his chores in the barn as long as possible, and left the girls in peace.

Now Tilly and Prue were in their glory, and as soon as the breakfast things were out of the way, they prepared for a grand cooking time. They were handy girls, though they had never heard of a cooking school, never touched a piano, and knew nothing of embroidery beyond the samplers which hung framed in the parlor; one ornamented with a pink mourner under a blue weeping willow, the other with this pleasing verse, each word being done in a different color, which gave the effect of a distracted rainbow:

This sampler neat was worked by me,
In my twelfth year, Prudence B.

Both rolled up their sleeves, put on their largest aprons, and got out all the spoons, dishes, pots, and pans they could find, "so as to have everything handy," Prue said.

"Now, sister, we'll have dinner at five; Pa will be here by that time, if he is coming tonight, and be so surprised to find us all ready, for he won't have had any very nice victuals if Gran'ma is so sick," said Tilly, importantly. "I shall give the children a piece at noon" (Tilly meant luncheon); "doughnuts and cheese, with apple pie and cider, will please 'em. There's beans for Eph; he likes cold pork, so we won't stop to warm it up, for there's lots to do, and I don't mind saying to you I'm dreadful dubersome about the turkey."

"It's all ready but the stuffing, and roasting is as easy as can be. I can baste first-rate. Ma always likes to have me, I'm so patient and stiddy, she says," answered Prue, for the responsibility of this great undertaking did not rest upon her, so she took a cheerful view of things.

"I know, but it's the stuffin' that troubles me," said Tilly, rubbing her round elbows as she eyed the immense fowl laid out on a platter before her. "I don't know how much I want, nor what sort of yarbs to put in, and he's so awful big, I'm kind of afraid of him."

"I ain't! I fed him all summer, and he never gobbled at me. I feel real mean to be thinking of gobbling him, poor old chap," laughed Prue, patting her departed pet with an air of mingled affection and appetite.

"Well, I'll get the puddin' off my mind fust, for it ought to bile all day. Put the big kettle on, and see that the spit is clean, while I get ready."

Prue obediently tugged away at the crane, with its black hooks, from which hung the iron teakettle and three-legged pot; then she settled the long spit in the grooves made for it in the tall andirons, and put the dripping pan underneath, for in those days meat was roasted as it should be, not baked in ovens.

Meantime Tilly attacked the plum pudding. She felt pretty sure of coming out right, here, for she had seen her mother do it so many times, it looked very easy. So in went suet and fruit; all sorts of spice, to be sure she got the right ones, and brandy instead of wine. But she forgot both sugar and salt, and tied it in the cloth so tightly that it had no room to swell, so it would come out as heavy as lead and as hard as a cannonball, if the bag did not burst and spoil it all. Happily unconscious of these mistakes, Tilly popped it into the pot, and proudly watched it bobbing about before she put the cover on and left it to its fate.

"I can't remember what flavorin' Ma puts in," she said, when she had got her bread well soaked for stuffing. "Sage and onions and applesauce go with goose, but I can't feel sure of anything but pepper and salt for a turkey."

"Ma puts in some kind of mint, I know, but I forget whether it is spearmint, peppermint, or pennyroyal," answered Prue, in a tone of doubt, but trying to show her knowledge of "yarbs," or, at least, of their names.

"Seems to me it's sweet majoram or summer savory. I guess we'll put both in, and then we are sure to be right. The best is up garret; you run and get some, while I mash the bread," commanded Tilly, diving into the mess.

Away trotted Prue, but in her haste she got catnip and wormwood, for the garret was darkish, and Prue's little nose was so full of the smell of the onions she had been peeling, that everything smelt of them. Eager to be of use, she pounded up the herbs and scattered the mixture with a liberal hand into the bowl.

"It doesn't smell just right, but I suppose it will when it is cooked," said Tilly, as she filled the empty stomach, that seemed aching for food, and sewed it up with the blue yarn, which happened to be handy. She forgot to tie down his legs and wings, but she set him by till his hour came, well satisfied with her work.

"Shall we roast the little pig, too? I think he'd look nice with a necklace of sausages, as Ma fixed him at Christmas," asked Prue, elated with their success.

"I couldn't do it. I loved that little pig, and cried when he was killed. I should feel as if I was roasting the baby," answered Tilly, glancing toward the buttery where piggy hung, looking so pink and pretty it certainly did seem cruel to eat him.

It took a long time to get all the vegetables ready, for, as the cellar was full, the girls thought they would have every sort. Eph helped, and by noon all was ready for cooking, and the cranberry sauce, a good deal scorched, was cooking in the lean-to.

Luncheon was a lively meal, and doughnuts and cheese vanished in such quantities that Tilly feared no one would have an appetite for her sumptuous dinner. The boys assured her they would be starving by five o'clock, and Sol mourned bitterly over the little pig that was not to be served up.

"Now you all go and coast, while Prue and I set the table and get out the best chiny," said Tilly, bent on having her dinner look well, no matter what its other failings might be.

Out came the rough sleds, on went the round hoods, old hats, red cloaks, and moccasins, and away trudged the four younger Bassetts, to disport themselves in the snow, and try the ice down by the old mill, where the great wheel turned and splashed so merrily in the summertime.

Eph took his fiddle and scraped away to his heart's content in the parlor, while the girls, after a short rest, set the table and made all ready to dish up the dinner when that exciting moment came. It was not at all the sort of table we see now, but would look very plain and countrified to us, with its green-handled knives, and two-pronged steel forks, its red-and-white china, and pewter platters, scoured till they shone, with mugs and spoons to match, and a brown jug for the cider. The cloth was coarse, but white as snow, and the little maids had seen the blue-eyed flax grow, out of which their mother wove the linen; they had watched and watched while it bleached in the green meadow. They had no napkins and little silver; but the best tankard and Ma's few wedding spoons were set forth in state. Nuts and apples at the corners gave an air, and the place of honor was left in the middle for the oranges yet to come.

"Don't it look beautiful?" said Prue, when they paused to admire the general effect.

"Pretty nice, I think. I wish Ma could see how well we can do it," began Tilly, when a loud howling startled both girls, and sent them flying to the window. The short afternoon had passed so quickly that twilight had come before they knew it, and now, as they looked out through the gathering dusk, they saw four small black figures tearing up the road, to come bursting in, all screaming at once: "The bear, the bear! Eph, get the gun! He's coming, he's coming!"

Eph had dropped his fiddle, and got down his gun before the girls could calm the children enough to tell their story, which they did in a somewhat incoherent manner. "Down in the holler, coastin', we heard a growl," began Sol, with his eyes as big as saucers. "I see him fust lookin' over the wall," roared Seth, eager to get his share of honor.

"Awful big and shaggy," quavered Roxy, clinging to Tilly, while Rhody hid in Prue's skirts, and piped out:

"His great paws kept clawing at us, and I was so scared my legs would hardly go."

"We ran away as fast as we could go, and he came growlin' after us. He's awful hungry, and he'll eat every one of us if he gets in," continued Sol, looking about him for a safe retreat.

"Oh, Eph, don't let him eat us," cried both little girls, flying upstairs to hide under their mother's bed, as their surest shelter.

"No danger of that, you little geese. I'll shoot him as soon as he comes. Get out of the way, boys," and Eph raised the window to get good aim.

"There he is! Fire away, and don't miss!" cried Seth, hastily following Sol, who had climbed to the top of the dresser as a good perch from which to view the approaching fray.

Prue retired to the hearth as if bent on dying at her post rather than desert the turkey, now "browning beautiful," as she expressed it. But Tilly boldly stood at the open window, ready to lend a hand if the enemy proved too much for Eph.

All had seen bears, but none had ever come so near before, and even brave Eph felt that the big brown beast slowly trotting up the dooryard was an unusually formidable specimen. He was growling horribly, and stopped now and then as if to rest and shake himself.

"Get the ax, Tilly, and if I should miss, stand ready to keep him off while I load again," said Eph, anxious to kill his first bear in style and alone; a girl's help didn't count.

Tilly flew for the ax, and was at her brother's side by the time the bear was near enough to be dangerous. He stood on his hind legs, and seemed to sniff with relish the savory odors that poured out of the window.

"Fire, Eph!" cried Tilly, firmly.

"Wait till he rears again. I'll get a better shot then" answered the boy, while Prue covered her ears to shut out the bang, and the small boys cheered from their dusty refuge among the pumpkins.

But a very singular thing happened next, and all who saw it stood amazed, for suddenly Tilly threw down the ax, flung open the door, and ran straight into the arms of the bear, who stood erect to receive her, while his growlings changed to a loud "Haw, haw!" that startled the children more than the report of a gun.

"It's Gad Hopkins, tryin' to fool us!" cried Eph, much disgusted at the loss of his prey, for these hardy boys loved to hunt and prided themselves on the number of wild animals and birds they could shoot in a year.

"Oh, Gad, how could you scare us so?" laughed Tilly, still held fast in one shaggy arm of the bear, while the other drew a dozen oranges from some deep pocket in the buffalo-skin coat, and fired them into the kitchen with such good aim that Eph ducked, Prue screamed, and Sol and Seth came down much quicker than they went up.

"Wal, you see I got upsot over yonder, and the old horse went home while I was floundering in a drift, so I tied on the buffalers to tote 'em easy, and come along till I see the children playin' in the holler. I jest meant to give 'em a little scare, but they run like partridges, and I kep' up the joke to see how Eph would like this sort of company," and Gad haw-hawed again.

"You'd have had a warm welcome if we hadn't found you out. I'd have put a bullet through you in a jiffy, old chap," said Eph, coming out to shake hands with the young giant, who was only a year or two older than himself.

"Come in and set up to dinner with us. Prue and I have done it all ourselves, and Pa will be along soon, I reckon," cried Tilly, trying to escape.

"Couldn't, no ways. My folks will think I'm dead ef I don't get along home, sence the horse and sleigh have gone ahead empty I've done my arrant and had my joke; now I want my pay, Tilly," and Gad took a hearty kiss from the rosy cheeks of his "little sweetheart," as he called her. His own cheeks tingled with the smart slap she gave him as she ran away, calling out that she hated bears and would bring her ax next time.

"I ain't afeared--your sharp eyes found me out: and ef you run into a bear's arms you must expect a hug," answered Gad, as he pushed back the robe and settled his fur cap more becomingly.

"I should have known you in a minute if I hadn't been asleep when the girls squalled. You did it well, though, and I advise you not to try it again in a hurry, or you'll get shot," said Eph, as they parted, he rather crestfallen and Gad in high glee.

"My sakes alive--the turkey is all burnt one side, and the kettles have biled over so the pies I put to warm are all ashes!" scolded Tilly, as the flurry subsided and she remembered her dinner.

"Well, I can't help it. I couldn't think of victuals when I expected to be eaten alive myself, could I?" pleaded poor Prue, who had tumbled into the cradle when the rain of oranges began.

Tilly laughed, and all the rest joined in, so goodhumor was restored, and the spirits of the younger ones were revived by sucks from the one orange which passed from hand to hand with great rapidity while the older girls dished up the dinner. They were just struggling to get the pudding out of the cloth when Roxy called out: "Here's Pa!"

"There's folks with him," added Rhody.

"Lots of 'em! I see two big sleighs chock full," shouted Seth, peering through the dusk.

"It looks like a semintary. Guess Gran'ma's dead and come up to be buried here," said Sol, in a solemn tone. This startling suggestion made Tilly, Prue, and Eph hasten to look out, full of dismay at such an ending of their festival.

"If that is a funeral, the mourners are uncommonly jolly," said Eph, dryly, as merry voices and loud laughter broke the white silence without.

"I see Aunt Cinthy, and Cousin Hetty--and there's Mose and Amos. I do declare, Pa's bringin' 'em all home to have some fun here," cried Prue, as she recognized one familiar face after another.

"Oh, my patience! Ain't I glad I got dinner, and don't I hope it will turn out good!" exclaimed Tilly, while the twins pranced with delight, and the small boys roared:

"Hooray for Pa! Hooray for Thanksgivin'!"

The cheer was answered heartily, and in came Father, Mother, Baby, aunts, and cousins, all in great spirits; and all much surprised to find such a festive welcome awaiting them.

"Ain't Gran'ma dead at all?" asked Sol, in the midst of the kissing and handshaking.

"Bless your heart, no! It was all a mistake of old Mr. Chadwick's. He's as deaf as an adder, and when Mrs. Brooks told him Mother was mendin' fast, and she wanted me to come down today, certain sure, he got the message all wrong, and give it to the fust person passin' in such a way as to scare me 'most to death, and send us down in a hurry. Mother was sittin' up as chirk as you please, and dreadful sorry you didn't all come."

"So, to keep the house quiet for her, and give you a taste of the fun, your Pa fetched us all up to spend the evenin', and we are goin' to have a jolly time on't, to jedge by the looks of things," said Aunt Cinthy, briskly finishing the tale when Mrs. Bassett paused for want of breath.

"What in the world put it into your head we was comm', and set you to gittin' up such a supper?" asked Mr. Bassett, looking about him, well pleased and much surprised at the plentiful table.

Tilly modestly began to tell, but the others broke in and sang her praises in a sort of chorus, in which bears, pigs, pies, and oranges were oddly mixed. Great satisfaction was expressed by all, and Tilly and Prue were so elated by the commendation of Ma and the aunts, that they set forth their dinner, sure everything was perfect.

But when the eating began, which it did the moment wraps were off; then their pride got a fall; for the first person who tasted the stuffing (it was big Cousin Mose, and that made it harder to bear) nearly choked over the bitter morsel.

"Tilly Bassett, whatever made you put wormwood and catnip in your stuffin'?" demanded Ma, trying not to be severe, for all the rest were laughing, and Tilly looked ready to cry.

"I did it," said Prue, nobly taking all the blame, which caused Pa to kiss her on the spot, and declare that it didn't do a mite of harm, for the turkey was all right.

"I never see onions cooked better. All the vegetables is well done, and the dinner a credit to you, my dears," declared Aunt Cinthy, with her mouth full of the fragrant vegetable she praised.

The pudding was an utter failure in spite of the blazing brandy in which it lay--as hard and heavy as one of the stone balls on Squire Dunkin's great gate. It was speedily whisked out of sight, and all fell upon the pies, which were perfect. But Tilly and Prue were much depressed, and didn't recover their spirits till dinner was over and the evening fun well under way.

"Blind-man's bluff," "Hunt the slipper," "Come, Philander," and other lively games soon set everyone bubbling over with jollity, and when Eph struck up "Money Musk" on his fiddle, old and young fell into their places for a dance. All down the long kitchen they stood, Mr. and Mrs. Bassett at the top, the twins at the bottom, and then away they went, heeling and toeing, cutting pigeon-wings, and taking their steps in a way that would convulse modern children with their new-fangled romps called dancing. Mose and Tilly covered themselves with glory by the vigor with which they kept it up, till fat Aunt Cinthy fell into a chair, breathlessly declaring that a very little of such exercise was enough for a woman of her "heft."

Apples and cider, chat and singing, finished the evening, and after a grand kissing all round, the guests drove away in the clear moonlight which came out to cheer their long drive.

When the jingle of the last bell had died away, Mr. Bassett said soberly, as they stood together on the hearth:

"Children, we have special cause to be thankful that the sorrow we expected was changed into joy, so we'll read a chapter 'fore we go to bed, and give thanks where thanks is due."

Then Tilly set out the light stand with the big Bible on it, and a candle on each side, and all sat quietly in the firelight, smiling as they listened with happy hearts to the sweet old words that fit all times and seasons so beautifully.

When the good-nights were over, and the children in bed, Prue put her arm round Tilly and whispered tenderly, for she felt her shake, and was sure she was crying:

"Don't mind about the old stuffin' and puddin', deary--nobody cared, and Ma said we really did do surprisin' well for such young girls."

The laughter Tilly was trying to smother broke out then, and was so infectious, Prue could not help joining her, even before she knew the cause of the merriment.

"I was mad about the mistakes, but don't care enough to cry. I'm laughing to think how Gad fooled Eph and I found him out. I thought Mose and Amos would have died over it, when I told them, it was so funny," explained Tilly, when she got her breath.

"I was so scared that when the first orange hit me, I thought it was a bullet, and scrabbled into the cradle as fast as I could. It was real mean to frighten the little ones so," laughed Prue, as Tilly gave a growl.

Here a smart rap on the wall of the next room caused a sudden lull in the fun, and Mrs. Bassett's voice was heard, saying warningly, "Girls, go to sleep immediate, or you'll wake the baby."

"Yes'm," answered two meek voices, and after a few irrepressible giggles, silence reigned, broken only by an occasional snore from the boys, or the soft scurry of mice in the buttery, taking their part in this old-fashioned Thanksgiving.

Persimmon White Chocolate Bread Pudding

philz@awb.com — Mon, 12 Nov 2007 15:16:59

Fancy Plants Farms has provided the following recipe using persimmons...

"Believe it or not, persimmons are the most consumed fruit in the world. Most people associate persimmons with the green ones that “turn your mouth inside out”. That persimmon type (astringent) needs to be eaten after it is fully ripe. But there is a non-astringent persimmon that never “puckers” your mouth. It can be eaten when it is crisp like an apple, as well as when fully ripe, or any where in between. One variety of non-astringent persimmons is the fresh oriental FUYU, which has recently become available for shipment throughout the U.S. Fancy Plants Farms recently announced they are now able to provide fresh Fuyu Persimmons directly to your home. The persimmons are available in Full or ½ Flats and are available for only two short weeks beginning in October. Recipes for pies, cookies and cakes are included with each shipment."

Fish Skin for Coffee

philz@awb.com — Fri, 02 Nov 2007 19:00:27

Take it from codfish before cooking; have it nice and dry. Cut in inch squares, and take one for two quarts of coffee.

The Riverview Restaurant

philz@awb.com — Tue, 30 Oct 2007 10:49:06

I can often be seen in the morning at the Riverview in Billerica, MA, just over the border from Bedford. Set in a boxy standalone building separated from the Concord River by a huge asphalt parking lot, the Riverview is a marvel of architecture and naming. How could someone build a building so close, yet so far, from the historic Concord River and then name it "The Riverview"? To see the physical space of the Riverview, one could not imagine that this would be one of the best breakfast places (they are also open for lunch) in the Boston suburbs.

The Riverview has a robust takeout window business. To get there, you drive in the non-river side of the building, around the back, and through. The median strip between the take-out drive and the parking lot contains a small kitchen garden planted by the owner. In the late summer, the produce from the garden is used in the menu items. I often imagine what it would be like if the Riverview were actually on the river. It probably would ruin everything, because the Riverview is all about what happens inside.

Run by a Greek family, most of the heavy lifting of the business is carried out by the sons. They love people, and if you go, you will feel a sense of being at someone's home as soon as you enter the door. After entering a small vestibule, you will be greeted by a sign showing the day's specials. For breakfast: broccoli and cheese omelette, blueberry pancakes, Mexican omelette on a typical day; for lunch: meatloaf sandwich was a recent favorite. They have just recently upgraded the tables and chairs, but there is no mistaking the interior, straight from an old Montgomery Ward catalog. The menu for breakfast is one page and laminated, with 10 specials. I typically start with decaf coffee, then order the number 1: two eggs over easy, hash browns, and wheat toast, hold the meat. On a Mexican omelette day, I usually go crazy and order one of them. On a two eggs day, I usually spend $7.50; on a mexican omelette day, I will shell out $11.

There are many regulars whom I see every morning I go. Having gone to breakfast places all of my adult life, I usually find a place that I can return to often, where the people are warm but give you space, where I can be anonymous but my everyday tastes remembered. The Riverview is that place for me, now. See you there.

Artisinal Chocolate and the World

philz@awb.com — Fri, 26 Oct 2007 20:54:06

This week's (October 29, 2007) New Yorker magazine has an article entitled "Food of the Gods" by foodie Bill Buford about artisanal chocolates. A slide show of pictures from the article is here. Yesterday, on the NPR program On Point with Tom Ashbrook, Mr. Buford was interviewed and the world of artisanal chocolates was laid open for all to break apart and taste (at least on the radio).

For those who do not already know, artisanal chocolates are the kinds of dark chocolates that contain as much cacao as possible and are defined by the percentages boldly printed on their labels. These chocolates are made with respect for the earth and the people who grow and harvest the beans. And the world of artisanal chocolate has as its current hero and villain, Frederick Schilling, former owner, with his mother and father, of Dagoba, an Oregon-based small manufacturer of sublime chocolates.

Mr. Schilling is a caring and concerned young man who, at the age of 30, in 2001, set out to become a chocolate alchemist: turning "exceptional cacao into edible gold." He grew the business and became involved in making the world a better place through the sale of chocolate. His business was a model in the Slow Food world. Then last year, after a year and a half of being courted by Hershey and others, he sold his company to Hershey, just as Scharffen Berger and Joseph Schmidt had done before him. The company was reported to have been sold for $17 million. It is a familiar story in the food world, Ben & Jerry's perhaps the most famous. And for those left behind, there is a sense of loss and disppointment that the Don Quixote has joined the Inquisition. In justifying his decision, Mr. Schilling wrote: "I'd like to offer some personal insight into my decision for passing the ownership onto Artisan Confection Co, a subsidiary of Hershey. First, I find it really saddening that people have very little faith in me and the decision made. Judgements are cast from the boat like fishing in the fog....I love the world of cacao. I've been involved with Transfair (fair trade certifications) since our inception... I've also been involved with the World Cocoa Foundation. I care about farmer welfare and making a difference at origin; both on the ecological side and also the equity side of the equation. When I first joined the WCF I was a skeptical chocolate company owner who had doubts about what the big boys were up to. I was taken aback when I attended my first conference. The programs that have been and are in place are quite amazing. I agree that they have a major PR issue, as the WCF is not getting the word out to the public about what is happening at origin. This will be changing soon. My point on this paragraph: a lot of these larger chocolate companies are doing amazing things in origin countries. Things that are way beyond what Dagoba could have ever done on our own."

As an entrepreneur, I understand the desire to cash in, although I am long past my thirties and am still waiting. I am interested in what happens to these companies when a giant like Hershey rolls them up. Someone at Scharffen Berger is reported as saying, "Hershey's was leaving the control of the operation pretty much alone where they said they would, but that they were also extremely pleased to have the Hershey bank account and helpful staff with them, since the day after they were bought, one of the machines broke down. Hershey's folks found the spare parts AND an extra machine within 24 hours." But what happens to the workers and the supply chain and the vision of making a more equitable world? Does that go away? A critic of the sale called what Hershey was doing, "greenwashing." But could it be part of a sea change? Schilling believes: "Now that we have the wind under our wings to take the company to the next level, Dagoba will be able to reach out to thousands, if not millions more farmers than we could have on our own. It's great to be able to say we work directly with farmers and look at the impact we're having in these 3 communities.... what about all the other farmers though, that we're not working with? It's my desire to work within the structure of the larger chocolate community to make the changes that need to be made. From my experience so far, I am not only optimistic about our ability to work within the structure, but excited!"

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I decided it would be important to taste the chocolate of change, so I went to our local Whole Foods Market (Bedford, MA) and bought a number of bars, lavender, xocolatl, and eclipse 87%. I set them out on our conference table and three of us tasted each. No doubt about it, the chocolate is rich and creamy. The lavender was subtle, with chunks of blueberry. The eclipse 87% dark and rich, with a tasteless beginning and a complex, bitter middle and a smooth finish. My favorite was the xocolatl, which contains chilies and bursts with spicy goodness. The least favorite of the group was the eclipse 87%; the most the lavender.