Monday, October 26, 2015
Tuesday, October 20, 2015
In this 1854 poem Peggy, the cook, starts the fire an hour before sunrise to fry the cakes (pancakes, hoecakes?). After breakfast and cleanup, she starts roasting some fowl or a haunch of meat... which has to be turned. and turned. Then, there is a pudding. By the end of day, and the poem, she is "in such a toast" that "You scarce could tell which's done the most. Myself, or what I roast!" Ever had that feeling after a day at the hearth? or brick oven? or... at home in the kitchen before a holiday or big dinner?