The Republican journal., 1913-02-06
Delicacies of the New England
Farms.
From The Epicure. I

From The Epicure]
Many self-made man, whose boyhood
has been passed upon New England
farm, has acquired the reputation of be-
ing a noted epicure. The waiter at his
club does not dare bring him chop un-
less it is the perfection of the grill; the
maitre d'hotel of his favorite hotel res
taurant knows his favorite sauce, sends
him word when the finest game is in, and
saves for his coming the best of every
thing, from dollhouse tomatoes and green
corn in March, Strawberries in January,
and the first pompano.
He is considered an authority upon
vintage wines and the good eating of
foreign countries all over the world, and
knows where to get the best grives in
Brussels, the finest caviar in Moscow,
the most wonderful curries in Bombay,
or the best bouillabaisse in Marseilles.
But with all this, the newly acquired
tastes that came with the plethoric
purse, there come to him moments when
every thing pals, when nothing is right;
and the chef, the maitre d'hote, and the
garcon all writhe under his displeasure,
as he pushes this and that thing away as
being utterly unfit to eat" "Ab,
they sigh in chorus, ''que voulez vous,
Monsieur? We have done our best; no
one can do more.
And he of the plethoric purse signs,
too; signs for the good old days of his
boyhood, and, as he muses. upon the
delicacies of the New England farm,
gre at longing comes to him, and trutfies
and caviar and mostelle and dollhouse
fruits fade away into oblivion as he con-
jures up pictures of the things his moth
No
boy, wore pair of red-knitted wrsters
carried his dinner to school in tin pail
in one hand and his books III strap in
the other, and helped do the chores
around the farm.
Perhaps the haired, gentle little
mother is on the old farm still, waiting
anxiously for the annual visits of him
who will always be her "boy." Or,
perhaps, like President Taft, he rejoices
in an "Aunt Della" who has remained
all her life on 1.-The place. in the coun-
try, serene and satisfied, far from the
glamor of the city life, which has at
tracted so many of the younger people.
Ii he has kith or kin in the country, back
on the farm, he is more than likely to
satisfy his craving for the f1eshpots of
the country, dictates innumerable letters
to an army of stenographers, whips his
business into shape, and, with one last,
regretful glance at the ticker packs his
bag and buys a ticket for the town of his
youth, where the neighbors still speak of
this king of finance as mis- Went
worth's little Tommy"
Who can blame him? For, after all,
although New England farmers seldom
get credit for being epicures, perhaps
their bountiful tables and their wonder
full cooks, using recipes that have been
handed down in the same families for
generations, are quite as worthy of the
appellation as those who have learned
their arts in foreign kitchens.
Where does one ever taste such won
derful sausage as that of the New Eng
land farm, where III tie pigs. fattened
upon milk and all sorts of good things,
are as tenderly cared for ara as reluct-
antly sacrificed as the Plymouth Rocks
ard the White Wyandottas and the big
turkeys and placid ducks, whose ultimate
fate is to be served upon the farmers
festive board?"
Marjoram ard thyme, summer savory
and aromatic sage, and allspice and
cloves, all blend into wonderful flavor,
in thick. flat cakes of sausage, cut from
the long roll, fried crisply brown and
served with hot baked potatoes-the
Early Rose and pride of the farmers
potato patch-defy imitation. For
change, there are thick slices of head
cheese, cut from the big pan in which it
has been pressed under plate topped
with a hugh iron flatiron, dipped in flour,
and fried golden brown, or served cold, if
preferred.
Another favorite breakfast of little
Tommy" used to be hot baked potatoes,
with cream gravy, crisp slices of salt
pork, and fried apples, with some of
mothers buckwheat cakes baked in
square tin, broken into pieces, and eaten
with fresh butter.
And the pies-the rows of pies that
mother used to make when Tommy was
a little boy! AT Thanksgiving and al
Christmas all the aunts aud uncles
and cousins and an occasional stray per-
son, lonely and forlorn, were asked to
the farm to partake of the Christmas
cheer-there We're pies and pies and pies;
for no one,' argued mother, could
ever have too much pie And then
indisputable argument-''the men folks
like EN-, she said.
So. upon the shelf of the back ''but'-
ry,' they sat in state, -mince pies, the
mircemeat concocted as a solemn rite,
after great grandma ANS famous recipe,
which called for two kinds of rasins,
currants, sherry, and brandy, candied
orange peel, and citron, certain kind
of apples, and other mysterious things,
with all the spices of Araby ard great
Jack Horner plums; ''punkin' pie, made
with cream and sweetened with maple
sugar; custard pie, done likewise; squash
and cranberry, apple and dried apple,
and raspberry made from raspberry pre-
serves, and turnovers galore. All, what
pies-t those pies that mother used to
make! A fig for the English tarts and
the French fans! Give US pies-New
England pies of the true, olG-fashioned
sort!
Dinner is still served at noon in New
England on the farm, and supper at
night. Does any ''little boy' of bygone
days remember the old-fashioned New
England boiled dinner, with it's great
piece of home-cured corned beef, it's
boiled pork or bacon, the cabbages, beets,
turnips, carrots, potatoes, and parsnips
boiled all together; and that wonderful
pudding, boiled in The huge kettle with
the meats and vegetables, made from
Indian meal and dried raspberries, boiled
in bag, and served with sweet cream,
sweetened with maple sugar, ard
sprinkled with nutmeg? And the fred
flannel hash" for breakfast next morn