Thursday, March the 11th, 2004

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Soup : A Chewist Text

(For a definition of Chewism, see 2nd March)

The subject of today's harangue is the preparation of soup, so pin back your nasty fat little purple ears and listen carefully. The following directions will be found generally applicable, so that there will be no need to repeat the several details each time. In any case, I will distribute written notes later, and this time I am feeling magnanimous, so they will be legible. Seasonings are not specified, as these are a matter of individual taste and circumstance. Some people think I am overfond of very, very hot mustard, and thus blame me for everything from trivial lip-burns to years spent in a lazaretto—pah! Some from considerations of health or otherwise are forbidden the use of salt. Sissies. In such cases a little sugar will help to bring out the flavour of the vegetables, but unless all the members of the household are alike, it had best not be added before bringing to table. Anyway, at first glance salt and sugar look almost identical, so one ruse is to dim the lanterns or to light a batch of blubber-candles, the fumes from which will be acrid enough to divert your diners' attention. Where soup is to be strained, whole pepper, mace, &c., is much preferable to ground, both as being free from adulteration, and giving all the flavour without the grit. Some soup recipes, of course, call for the inclusion of handfuls of grit, dust, and pavement grease, so bear that in mind. The water in which cauliflower, green peas, &c., have been boiled, should be added to the stock-pot, but as we are now recognising that all vegetables should be cooked as conservatively as possible—that is, by steaming, or in just as much water as they will absorb, so as not to waste the valuable salts and juices, there will not be much of such liquid in a ‘Reform’ menage. Any water you do use is best brought to kitchen in an iron pail direct from the closest duckpond, for springs and even wells harbour all sorts of tiny little beasties with far too many legs, and even wings, whereas all such creepy-crawlies will have been removed from a duckpond by the eating habits of hungry and none-too-fastidious ducks. A stock must therefore be made from fresh materials, but as those are comparatively inexpensive, we need not grudge having them of the freshest and best. Try never to eat anything that is more than five years old. Readers of Thackeray will remember the little dinner at Timmins, when the hired chef shed such consternation in the bosom of little Mrs Timmins by his outrageous demands for ‘a leg of beef, a leg of veal, and a ham’, on behalf of the stock-pot. Those who do not know their Thackeray will wonder what in heaven's name I am talking about, but the point is plain: every kitchen must have a bound set of Victorian novels—wrapped in greaseproof paper—to avert the unexpected.

Text by Marigold Chew & Mrs J. O. Mill from the fourth edition of The Reform Cookery Book (1909)