Part 32

And it is just at this juncture—when you are called to fifty points of attention and labor at once, and are on the verge of despair at the conglomeration worse conglomerated arising before you; fidgetting to pick up dropped stitches in the web you were wont to keep so even—that the invalid becomes most exacting. “Unreasonable,” you name it to yourself, even though it be John himself who calls upon you every third minute for some little office of loving-kindness; who wants to be amused and fed and petted, and made generally comfortable as if he were a six-months-old baby; who never remembers that you must be wearied out with watching and anxiety, and that everything below-stairs is going to destruction for the want of a balance-wheel. The better he loves you the more apt is he to fancy that nobody but you can do anything for him; the more certain to crave something which no one else knows how to prepare. And when you have strained muscle and patience a _little_ further to get it ready, and with prudent foresight made enough to last for several meals, it is more than probable that his fickle taste will suggest something entirely different for “next time.” “Just for a change, you know, dear. One gets so tired of eating the same thing so often!”

He might be more considerate—less childish—you think, turning away that he may not see your change of countenance. When you have taken so much pains to suit him exactly! It is harder yet when he refuses to do more than taste the delicacy you hoped would tempt him.

“It is very nice, I suppose, my love,” says the poor fellow, with the air of a martyr. “But it does not taste right, somehow. Maybe the children can dispose of it. If I had a lemon ice, or some wine jelly such as my mother used to make, I am sure I could relish it. I always did detest sick peoples’ diet!”

If he is very much shaken as to nerves, he will be likely to say, “_messes_.”

“I am fairly wild!” said a loving wife and mother, and thrifty housekeeper, to me one day, when I called to see her.

She had just nursed her husband and three children through the influenza. All had been down with it at once. That form of demoniacal possession is generally conducted upon the wholesale principle. One of her servants had left in disgust at the increased pressure of work; the weather was rainy, blowy, raw; the streets were muddy, and there was no such thing as keeping steps and halls clean, while the four invalids were cross as only toothache or influenza can make human beings.

“I am fairly wild!” said the worthy creature, with tears in her eyes. “I cannot snatch a minute, from morning until night, to put things straight, and yet I am almost tired to death! I was saying to myself as you came in, that I wouldn’t try any longer. I would just sit still until the dirt was piled up to my chin, and _then I would get upon the table!_”

How often I have thought of her odd speech since! sometimes with a smile—more frequently with a sigh. But with all my pity for the nurse and housekeeper, I cannot conceal from myself—I would not forget, or let you forget for a moment—the truth that the sick one is the greater sufferer. It is never pleasant to be laid upon the shelf. The resting-place—falsely so-called—is hard and narrow and uneven enough, even when the tramp of the outer world does not jar the sore and jaded frame; when there is no apparent need for the sick person to be upon his feet, and for aught that others can see, or he can say, he might just as well stay where he is for a month or two. But when, the rack of pain having been removed, the dulled perceptions of the mind re-awaken to sensitiveness, and there comes to his ear the bugle-call of duty—sharp, imperative;—when every idle moment speaks to him of a slain opportunity, and the no longer strong man shakes his fetters with piteous cries against fate, do not despise, or be impatient with him. He is feverish and inconsiderate and capricious because he is not himself. You see only the poor wreck left by the demon as he tore his way out of him at the Divine command. Gather it up lovingly in your arms, and nurse it back to strength and comeliness. The sick should always be the chief object of thought and care with all in the household.’ If need be, let the dirt lie chin-deep everywhere else, so long as it is kept out of that one room. There be jealous in your care that nothing offends sight and smell.

There should be _no_ smell in a sick-chamber. To avoid this, let in the air freely and often. Cologne-water will not dispel a foul odor, while disinfectants are noisome in themselves. Bathe the patient as frequently and thoroughly as prudence will allow, and change his clothing, with the bed-linen, every day. Do not keep the medicines where he can see them, nor ever let him witness the mixing of that which he is to swallow. So soon as his meals are over, remove every vestige of them from the room. Even a soiled spoon, lying on table or bureau, may offend his fastidious appetite. Cover the stand or waiter from which he eats with a spotless napkin, and serve his food in your daintiest ware.

My heart softens almost to tearfulness when I recall the hours, days, weeks, I have myself spent in the chamber of languishing, and the ingenuity of tenderness that, from my babyhood, has striven to cheat the imprisonment of weariness, and make me forget pain and uselessness. The pretty surprises daily invented for my entertainment; the exceeding nicety with which they were set out before me; the loving words that nourished my spirit when the body was faint unto death,—these are events, not slight incidents, in the book of memory. When I cease to be grateful for them, or to learn from them how to minister unto others of the like consolation, may my heart forget to beat, my right hand lose her cunning!

Do not ask your charge what he would like to eat to-day. He will, of a surety, sicken with the effort at selection, and say, “Nothing!” But watch attentively for the slightest intimation of a desire for any particular delicacy, and if you are assured that it cannot hurt him, procure it, if you can, without letting him guess at your intention. Feed him lightly and often, never bringing more into his sight than he may safely eat. A big bowl of broth or jelly will either tempt him to imprudence, or discourage him. “Am I to be burdened with all that?” cries the affrighted stomach, and will have none of it. While he is very weak, feed him with your own hand, playfully, as you would a child, talking cheerily of something besides his food, and coaxing him into taking the needed nutriment as only a wife and mother can, or as nobody but John could beguile you to effort in the same direction.

Study all pleasant and soothing arts to while away the time, and keep worry of every kind away from him. A trifle at which you can laugh will be a burden to the enfeebled mind and body, and he has nothing to do but lie still and roll it over until it swells into a mountain. When he can be removed without danger, let him have his meals in another room, changing the air of each when he is not in it. Every one who has suffered from long sickness knows the peculiar loathing attendant upon the idea that all food is tainted with the atmosphere of the chamber in which it is served, and if eaten in bed, tastes of the mattress and pillows. The room and all in it may be clean, fresh, and sweet, but the fancy cannot be dismissed. And it is wiser to humor than to reason with most sick fancies.

A hired nurse is a useful, often a necessary thing, but while you are upon your feet, and mistress of your own house, delegate to no one the precious task of catering for the dear sufferer. It is an art in itself. I hope a practical knowledge of it will be taught in Women’s Medical Colleges, when they are an established “institution” with us.

I wish it were proper to record here the name of one of the kindest and best family physicians I ever knew, who had charge of my not very firm health during my girlhood. He owed much—I suppose no one ever knew really how much—of his success in his practice to his tact and skill in devising palatable and suitable nourishment for his patients. I well remember the childish pleasure with which I would hear him say when the violence of the attack had passed—“Now, my dear child, we must begin with kitchen physic!” and the glow of amused expectation with which I used to watch him, as, with an arch show of mystery, he would beckon my mother from the room to receive his “prescription;” the impatience with which I awaited the result of the conference, and the zest with which I ate whatever he ordered.

If I could have persuaded him to manage this department of my work, it would win for me the degree of M.D. with a new meaning—Mistress of Dietetics.

THE SICK-ROOM.

BEEF TEA. ✠

1 lb. _lean_ beef, cut into small pieces.

Put into a jar without a drop of water; cover tightly, and set in a pot of cold water. Heat gradually to a boil, and continue this steadily for three or four hours, until the meat is like white rags, and the juice all drawn out. Season with salt to taste, and when cold, skim. The patient will often prefer this ice-cold to hot. Serve with Albert biscuit or thin “wafers,” unleavened, made by a receipt given under the head of BREAD.

MUTTON BROTH. ✠

1 lb. lean mutton or lamb, cut small. 1 quart water—cold. 1 tablespoonful rice, or barley, soaked in a very little warm water. 4 tablespoonfuls milk. Salt and pepper, with a little chopped parsley.

Boil the meat, unsalted, in the water, keeping it closely covered, until it falls to pieces. Strain it out, skim, add the soaked barley or rice; simmer half an hour, stirring often; stir in the seasoning and the milk, and simmer five minutes after it heats up well, taking care it does not burn.

Serve hot with cream crackers.

CHICKEN BROTH. ✠

Is excellent made in the same manner as mutton, cracking the bones well before you put in the fowl.

VEAL AND SAGO BROTH.

2 lbs. knuckle of veal, cracked all to pieces. 2 quarts of cold water. 3 tablespoonfuls best pearl sago, soaked in a cup of cold water. 1 cup cream, heated to boiling. Yolks of two eggs, beaten light.

Boil the veal and water in a covered saucepan very slowly until reduced to one quart of liquid; strain, skim, season with salt, and stir in the soaked sago (having previously warmed it by setting for half an hour in a saucepan of boiling water, and stirring from time to time.) Simmer half an hour, taking care it does not burn; beat in the cream and eggs; give one good boil up, and turn out.

This is excellent for consumptives.

BEEF AND SAGO BROTH.

2 lbs. of beef—cut up small. 2 quarts of water. 1 cup of sago, soaked soft in a little lukewarm water. Yolks of three eggs. Salt to taste.

Stew the beef until it falls to pieces; strain it out, salt the liquid and stir in the sago. Simmer gently one hour, stirring often. Add the beaten yolks: boil up once and serve.

This is a strengthening and nice soup. Eat with dry toast.

ARROWROOT JELLY (_Plain._) ✠

1 cup _boiling_ water. 2 heaping teaspoonfuls of best Bermuda arrowroot. 1 teaspoonful lemon juice. 2 teaspoonfuls of white sugar.

Wet the arrowroot in a little cold water, and rub smooth. Then stir into the hot, which should be on the fire and actually boiling at the time, with the sugar already melted in it. Stir until clear, boiling steadily all the while, and add the lemon. Wet a cup in cold water, and pour in the jelly to form. Eat cold with sugar and cream flavored with rose-water.

An invaluable preparation in cases where wine is forbidden.

ARROWROOT WINE JELLY. ✠

1 cup boiling water. 2 heaping teaspoonfuls arrowroot. 2 heaping white sugar. 1 tablespoonful brandy _or_ 3 tablespoonfuls of wine.

An excellent corrective to weak bowels.

ARROWROOT BLANC MANGE. ✠

1 cupful _boiling_ milk. 2 dessertspoonfuls best arrowroot, rubbed smooth in cold water. 2 teaspoonfuls white sugar. Vanilla or other essence.

Boil until it thickens well, stirring all the while. Eat cold with cream, flavored with rose-water, and sweetened to taste.

SAGO

May be substituted for arrowroot in any of the foregoing receipts, when you have soaked it an hour in water poured over it cold, and gradually warmed by setting the cup containing it in hot water. Boil rather longer than you do the arrowroot.

SAGO GRUEL. ✠

2 cups water. 2 tablespoonfuls sago. 3 teaspoonfuls white sugar. 1 glass of wine. 1 tablespoonful lemon juice. Nutmeg to taste, and a pinch of salt.

Put the sago in the water while cold, and warm by setting in a saucepan of boiling water. Stir often, and let it soften and heat for one hour. Then _boil_ ten minutes, stirring all the while; add the sugar, wine, and lemon, and pour into a bowl or mould to cool. Eat warm, if preferred. The wine and nutmeg should be omitted if the patient be feverish.

INDIAN MEAL GRUEL. ✠

2 quarts of boiling water. 1 cup of Indian meal, and 1 tablespoonful flour, wet up with cold water. Salt to taste—and, if you like, sugar and nutmeg.

Wet the meal and flour to a smooth paste, and stir into the water while it is actually boiling. Boil slowly one hour, stirring up well from the bottom. Season with salt to taste. Some sweeten it, but I like it better with a little pepper added to the salt.

If a cathartic is desired, omit the wheat flour altogether.

OATMEAL GRUEL

Is made in the same way.

MILK AND RICE GRUEL.

1 quart boiling milk. 2 tablespoonfuls (heaping) of ground rice, wet with cold milk. 1 saltspoonful of salt.

Stir in the rice-paste and boil ten minutes, stirring all the while. Season with sugar and nutmeg, and eat warm with cream.

You may use Indian meal instead of rice-flour, which is an astringent. In this case, boil an hour.

DRIED FLOUR FOR TEETHING CHILDREN.

1 cup of flour, tied in a stout muslin bag and dropped into cold water, then set over the fire.

_Boil_ three hours steadily. Turn out the flour ball and dry in the hot sun all day; or, if you need it at once, dry in a moderate oven without shutting the door.

_To use it—_

Grate a tablespoonful for a cupful of boiling milk and water (half and half). Wet up the flour with a very little cold water, stir in and boil five minutes. Put in a little salt.

TAPIOCA JELLY. ✠ (_Very good._)

1 cup of tapioca. 3 cups of cold water. Juice of a lemon, and a pinch of the grated peel. Sweeten to taste.

Soak the tapioca in the water four hours. Set within a saucepan of boiling water; pour more lukewarm water over the tapioca if it has absorbed too much of the liquid, and heat, stirring frequently. If too thick after it begins to clear, put in a very little boiling water. When quite clear, put in the sugar and lemon. Pour into moulds. Eat cold, with cream flavored with rose-water and sweetened.

TAPIOCA BLANC-MANGE. ✠

1 cup of tapioca soaked in two cups cold water. 3 cups boiling milk. 3 tablespoonfuls white sugar. Rose-water or vanilla.

Soak the tapioca four hours, and stir, with the water in which it was soaked, into the boiling milk. Sweeten and boil slowly, stirring all the while, fifteen minutes. Take off, flavor and pour into moulds.

Eat cold with cream. Wash tapioca well before soaking.

ARROWROOT CUSTARD. (_Nice._)

2 cups of _boiling_ milk. 3 heaping teaspoonfuls arrowroot, wet up with a little cold milk. 2 tablespoonfuls white sugar, beaten with the egg. 1 egg very well beaten.

Mix the arrowroot paste with the boiling milk; stir three minutes; take from the fire and whip in the egg and sugar. Boil two minutes longer, flavor with vanilla or rose-water, and pour into moulds.

RICE-FLOUR MILK.

2 cups of milk, _boiling_. 2 tablespoonfuls rice-flour, wet up with cold milk. 2 tablespoonfuls white sugar.

Boil ten minutes, stirring all the while, and flavor to taste. Eat warm with cream.

SAGO MILK. ✠

3 tablespoonfuls sago, soaked in a large cup cold water one hour. 3 cups boiling milk. Sweeten and flavor to taste.

Simmer slowly half an hour. Eat warm.

TAPIOCA MILK

Is made in the same way.

BOILED RICE. ✠

½ cup whole rice, boiled in just enough water to cover it. 1 cup of milk. A little salt. 1 egg, beaten light.

When the rice is nearly done, turn off the water, add the milk and simmer—taking care it does not scorch—until the milk boils up well. Salt, and beat in the egg.

Eat warm with cream, sugar, and nutmeg.

PANADA. ✠

6 Boston crackers, split. 2 tablespoonfuls white sugar. A good pinch of salt, and a little nutmeg. Enough _boiling_ water to cover them well.

Split the crackers, and pile in a bowl in layers, salt and sugar scattered among them. Cover with boiling water and set on the hearth, with a close top over the bowl, for at least one hour. The crackers should be almost clear and soft as jelly, but not broken.

Eat from the bowl, with more sugar sprinkled in if you wish it. If properly made, this panada is very nice.

BREAD PANADA, OR JELLY. ✠

Pare some slices of stale baker’s bread and toast nicely, without burning. Pile in a bowl, sprinkling sugar and a very little salt between; cover well with _boiling_ water, and set, with a tight lid upon the top, in a pan of boiling water. Simmer gently, until the contents of the bowl are like jelly. Eat warm with powdered sugar and nutmeg.

CHICKEN JELLY. (_Very nourishing._) ✠

Half a raw chicken, pounded with a mallet, bones and meat together. Plenty of cold water to cover it well—_about_ a quart.

Heat slowly in a covered vessel, and let it simmer until the meat is in white rags and the liquid reduced one half. Strain and press, first through a cullender, then through a coarse cloth. Salt to taste, and pepper, if you think best; return to the fire, and simmer five minutes longer. Skim when cool. Give to the patient cold—just from the ice—with unleavened wafers. Keep on the ice. You can make into sandwiches by putting the jelly between thin slices of bread spread lightly with butter.

CALVES’ FEET BROTH.

2 calves’ feet. 2 quarts cold water. 1 egg, beaten up with two tablespoonfuls milk for each cupful of broth. Pepper and salt.

Boil the feet to shreds; strain the liquor through a double muslin bag; season to taste, and set by for use, as you need it. Warm by the small quantity, allowing to each cupful a beaten egg and two tablespoonfuls of milk. Give a good boil up to cook these, and serve “with thin, crisp toast. If the patient can take it, a dash of lemon-juice improves the broth.

TOAST WATER. ✠

Slices of toast, nicely browned, without a symptom of burning. Enough boiling water to cover them.

Cover closely, and let them steep until cold. Strain the water, sweeten to taste, and put a piece of ice in each glassful. If the physician thinks it safe, add a little lemon-juice.

APPLE WATER. ✠

1 large juicy pippin, the most finely-flavored you can get. 3 cups of cold water—1 quart if the apple is very large.

Pare and quarter the apple, but do not core it. Put it on the fire in a tin or porcelain saucepan with the water, and boil, closely covered, until the apple stews to pieces. Strain the liquor _at once_, pressing the apple hard in the cloth. Strain this again through a finer bag, and set away to cool. Sweeten with white sugar, and ice for drinking.

It is a refreshing and palatable drink.

JELLY WATER. ✠

1 large teaspoonful currant or cranberry jelly. 1 goblet ice-water.

Beat up well for a fever-patient.

Wild cherry or blackberry jelly is excellent, prepared in like manner for those suffering with summer complaint.

FLAX-SEED LEMONADE. ✠

4 tablespoonfuls flax-seed (whole.) 1 quart boiling water poured upon the flax-seed. Juice of two lemons, leaving out the peel. Sweeten to taste.

Steep three hours in a covered pitcher. If too thick, put in cold water with the lemon-juice and sugar. Ice for drinking.

It is admirable for colds.

SLIPPERY-ELM BARK TEA.

Break the bark into bits, pour boiling water over it, cover and let it infuse until cold. Sweeten, ice, and take for summer disorders, or add lemon-juice and drink for a bad cold.

APPLE TODDY. ✠

Boil a large juicy pippin in a quart of water, and when it has broken to pieces strain off the water. While it is still boiling-hot, add a glass of fine old whiskey, a little lemon-juice, and sweeten to taste.

Take hot at bed-time for influenza.

MILK PUNCH. ✠

1 tumbler of milk, well sweetened. 2 tablespoonfuls best brandy, well stirred in.

I have known very sick patients to be kept alive for days at a time by this mixture, and nothing else, until Nature could rally her forces. Give very cold with ice.

EGG AND MILK PUNCH ✠

Is made by the preceding receipt, with an egg beaten very light with the sugar, and stirred in before the brandy is added.

ICELAND OR IRISH MOSS LEMONADE. ✠

1 handful Irish or Iceland moss, washed in five waters. 2 quarts boiling water, poured upon the moss, and left until cold. 2 lemons, peeled and sliced, leaving out the peel. Sweeten very well and ice.

Do not strain, and if it thicken too much, add cold water.

Excellent for feverish colds and all pulmonary troubles.

ICELAND OR IRISH MOSS JELLY. ✠

1 handful moss, washed in five waters, and soaked an hour. 1 quart _boiling_ water. 2 lemons—the juice only. 1 glass of wine. ¼ teaspoonful cinnamon. (Measure scantily.)

Soak the washed moss in a very little cold water; stir into the boiling, and simmer until it is dissolved. Sweeten, flavor, and strain into moulds. You may use two glasses of cider instead of one of wine for a fever-patient, putting in a little less water.

Good for colds, and very nourishing.

SEA-MOSS BLANC-MANGE

Is made in the same way, using boiling milk instead of water, and leaving out the lemons and wine. Flavor with vanilla or rose-water.

DRY TOAST.

Pare off the crust from stale light bread; slice half an inch thick and toast _quickly_. Graham bread is very nice toasted.

Butter lightly if the patient can eat butter.

MILK TOAST. ✠

Toast as just directed; dip each slice, as it comes from the toaster, in boiling water; butter, salt slightly, and lay in a deep covered dish. Have ready in a saucepan enough boiling milk to cover all well. When your slices are packed, salt this very slightly; melt in it a bit of butter and pour over them. Cover closely and let it stand five minutes before using it. It is excellent when made of Graham bread.

This is a good dish for a family tea as well as for invalids.

UNLEAVENED BISCUIT, OR WAFERS. ✠

Mix good, dry flour to a stiff dough with milk; salt, and roll out thin. Cut into round cakes and roll these again almost as thin as letter-paper. Bake very quickly.

They may also be mixed with water. These are very simple and palatable, and go well with all kinds of broth, especially oyster-soup.

DRIED RUSK. (See _Bread_.)

BEEF STEAK AND MUTTON CHOPS.

Choose the tenderest cuts and broil over a clear hot fire with your wisest skill. Let the steak be rare—the chops well-done. Salt and pepper, lay between two _hot_ plates three minutes, and serve to your patient. If he is very weak, do not let him swallow anything except the juice, when he has chewed the meat well.

The essence of rare beef—roast or broiled—thus expressed, is considered by some physicians to be more strengthening than beef-tea, prepared in the usual manner.

SANGAREE OR PORTEREE.

One-third wine or porter mixed with two-thirds cold water. Sweeten, grate nutmeg on the top, and ice.

Serve dry toast with it. Taken hot, it is good for a sudden cold.

WINE WHEY.

1 pint boiling milk.

1 large glass pale wine, poured in when the milk is scalding hot. Boil up once, remove from the fire and let it cool. Do not stir it after the wine is put in. When the curd forms, draw off the whey and sweeten.