Roughing It in the Bush Part 14

During the six weeks that we inhabited that wretched cabin, we never were troubled by Old Satan again.

As Tom slowly recovered, and began to regain his appet.i.te, his soul sickened over the salt beef and pork, which, owing to our distance from ---, formed our princ.i.p.al fare. He positively refused to touch the sad bread, as my Yankee neighbours very appropriately termed the unleavened cakes in the pan; and it was no easy matter to send a man on horseback eight miles to fetch a loaf of bread.

"Do, my dear Mrs. Moodie, like a good Christian as you are, give me a morsel of the baby's biscuit, and try and make us some decent bread. The stuff your servant gives us is uneatable," said Wilson to me, in most imploring accents.

"Most willingly. But I have no yeast; and I never baked in one of those strange kettles in my life."

"I'll go to old Joe's wife and borrow some," said he; "they are always borrowing of you." Away he went across the field, but soon returned. I looked into his jug--it was empty. "No luck," said he; "those stingy wretches had just baked a fine batch of bread, and they would neither lend nor sell a loaf; but they told me how to make their milk-emptyings."

"Well, discuss the same;" but I much doubted if he could remember the recipe.

"You are to take an old tin pan," said he, sitting down on the stool, and poking the fire with a stick.

"Must it be an old one?" said I, laughing.

"Of course; they said so."

"And what am I to put into it?"

"Patience; let me begin at the beginning. Some flour and some milk--but, by George! I've forgot all about it. I was wondering as I came across the field why they called the yeast MILK-emptyings, and that put the way to make it quite out of my head. But never mind; it is only ten o'clock by my watch. I having nothing to do; I will go again."

He went. Would I had been there to hear the colloquy between him and Mrs. Joe; he described it something to this effect:--

Mrs. Joe: "Well, stranger, what do you want now?"

Tom: "I have forgotten the way you told me how to make the bread."

Mrs. Joe: "I never told you how to make bread. I guess you are a fool. People have to raise bread before they can bake it. Pray who sent you to make game of me? I guess somebody as wise as yourself."

Tom: "The lady at whose house I am staying."

Mrs. Joe: "Lady! I can tell you that we have no ladies here. So the old woman who lives in the old log shanty in the hollow don't know how to make bread. A clever wife that! Are you her husband?" (Tom shakes his head.)--"Her brother?"--(Another shake.)--"Her son? Do you hear? or are you deaf?" (Going quite close up to him.)

Tom (moving back): "Mistress, I'm not deaf; and who or what I am is nothing to you. Will you oblige me by telling me how to make the mill-emptyings; and this time I'll put it down in my pocket-book."

Mrs. Joe (with a strong sneer): "Mill-emptyings! Milk, I told you.

So you expect me to answer your questions, and give back nothing in return. Get you gone; I'll tell you no more about it."

Tom (bowing very low): "Thank you for your civility. Is the old woman who lives in the little shanty near the apple-trees more obliging?"

Mrs. Joe: "That's my husband's mother. You may try. I guess she'll give you an answer." (Exit, slamming the door in his face.)

"And what did you do then ?" said I.

"Oh, went of course. The door was open, and I reconnoitred the premises before I ventured in. I liked the phiz of the old woman a deal better than that of her daughter-in-law, although it was cunning and inquisitive, and as sharp as a needle. She was busy sh.e.l.ling cobs of Indian corn into a barrel. I rapped at the door.

She told me to come in, and in I stepped. She asked me if I wanted her. I told her my errand, at which she laughed heartily."

Old woman: "You are from the old country, I guess, or you would know how to make milk-emptyings. Now, I always prefer bran-emptyings.

They make the best bread. The milk, I opine, gives it a sourish taste, and the bran is the least trouble."

Tom: "Then let us have the bran, by all means. How do you make it?"

Old woman: "I put a double handful of bran into a small pot, or kettle, but a jug will do, and a teaspoonful of salt; but mind you don't kill it with salt, for if you do, it won't rise. I then add as much warm water, at blood-heat, as will mix it into a stiff batter.

I then put the jug into a pan of warm water, and set it on the hearth near the fire, and keep it at the same heat until it rises, which it generally will do, if you attend to it, in two or three hours' time. When the bran cracks at the top, and you see white bubbles rising through it, you may strain it into your flour, and lay your bread. It makes good bread."

Tom: "My good woman, I am greatly obliged to you. We have no bran; can you give me a small quant.i.ty?"

Old woman: "I never give anything. You Englishers, who come out with stacks of money, can afford to buy."

Tom: "Sell me a small quant.i.ty."

Old woman: "I guess I will." (Edging quite close, and fixing her sharp eyes on him.) "You must be very rich to buy bran."

Tom (quizzically): "Oh, very rich."

Old woman: "How do you get your money?"

Tom (sarcastically): "I don't steal it."

Old woman: "Pr'aps not. I guess you'll soon let others do that for you, if you don't take care. Are the people you live with related to you?"

Tom (hardly able to keep his gravity): "On Eve's side. They are my friends."

Old woman (in surprise): "And do they keep you for nothing, or do you work for your meat?"

Tom (impatiently): "Is that bran ready?" (The old woman goes to the binn, and measures out a quart of bran.) "What am I to pay you?"

Old woman: "A York shilling."

Tom (wishing to test her honesty): "Is there any difference between a York shilling and a shilling of British currency?"

Old woman (evasively): "I guess not. Is there not a place in England called York?" (Looking up and leering knowingly in his face.)

Tom (laughing): "You are not going to come York over me in that way, or Yankee either. There is threepence for your pound of bran; you are enormously paid."

Old woman (calling after him): "But the recipe; do you allow nothing for the recipe?"

Tom: "It is included in the price of the bran."

"And so," said he, "I came laughing away, rejoicing in my sleeve that I had disappointed the avaricious old cheat."

The next thing to be done was to set the bran rising. By the help of Tom's recipe, it was duly mixed in the coffee-pot, and placed within a tin pan, full of hot water, by the side of the fire. I have often heard it said that a watched pot never boils; and there certainly was no lack of watchers in this case. Tom sat for hours regarding it with his large heavy eyes, the maid inspected it from time to time, and scarce ten minutes were suffered to elapse without my testing the heat of the water, and the state of the emptyings; but the day slipped slowly away, and night drew on, and yet the watched pot gave no signs of vitality. Tom sighed deeply when we sat down to tea with the old fare.

"Never mind," said he, "we shall get some good bread in the morning; it must get up by that time. I will wait till then. I could almost starve before I could touch these leaden cakes."

The tea-things were removed. Tom took up his flute, and commenced a series of the wildest voluntary airs that ever were breathed forth by human lungs. Mad jigs, to which the gravest of mankind might have cut eccentric capers. We were all convulsed with laughter. In the midst of one of these droll movements, Tom suddenly hopped like a kangaroo (which feat he performed by raising himself upon tip-toes, then flinging himself forward with a stooping jerk), towards the hearth, and squinting down into the coffee-pot in the most quizzical manner, exclaimed, "Miserable chaff! If that does not make you rise nothing will."

I left the bran all night by the fire. Early in the morning I had the satisfaction of finding that it had risen high above the rim of the pot, and was surrounded by a fine crown of bubbles.