Trials and Confessions of a Housekeeper

The picked-up dinner.

It was “washing day;” that day of all days in the week most dreaded by housekeepers.  We had a poor breakfast, of course.  Cook had to help with the washing, and, as washing was the important thing for the day, every thing else was doomed to suffer.  The wash kettle was to her of greater moment than the tea kettle or coffee pot; and the boiling of wash water first in consideration, compared with broiling the steak.

The breakfast bell rung nearly half an hour later than usual.  As I entered the dining room, I saw that nearly every thing was in disorder, and that the table was little over half set.  Scarcely had I taken my seat, ere the bell was in my hand.

“There’s no sugar on the table, Kitty.”

These were my words, as the girl entered, in obedience to my summons.

“Oh, I forgot!” she ejaculated, and hurriedly supplied the deficiency.

Ting-a-ling-a-ling, went my bell, ere she had reached the kitchen.

“There’s no knife and fork for the steak,” said I, as Kitty re-appeared.

The knife and fork were furnished, but not with a very amiable grace.

“What’s the matter with this coffee?” asked Mr. Smith, after sipping a spoonful or two.  “It’s got a queer taste.”

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

It was plain that I was going to have another trying day; and I began to feel a little worried.  My reply was not, therefore, made in a very composed voice.

Mr. Smith continued to sip his coffee with a spoon, and to taste the liquid doubtingly.  At length he pushed his cup from him, saying: 

“It’s no use; I can’t drink that!  I wish you would just taste it.  I do believe Kitty has dropped a piece of soap into the coffee pot.”

By this time I had turned out a cup of the fluid for myself, and proceeded to try its quality.  It certainly had a queer taste; but, as to the substance to which it was indebted for its peculiar flavor, I was in total ignorance.  My husband insisted that it was soap.  I thought differently; but we made no argument on the subject.

The steak was found, on trial, to be burned so badly that it was not fit to be eaten.  And my husband had to make his meal of bread and butter and cold water.  As for myself, this spoiling of our breakfast for no good reason, completely destroyed both my appetite and my temper.

“You’d better get your dinner at an eating house, Mr. Smith,” said I, as he arose from the table.  “It’s washing day, and we shall have nothing comfortable.”

“Things will be no more comfortable for you than for me,” was kindly replied by my husband.

“We shall only have a picked-up dinner,” said I.

“I like a good picked-up dinner,” answered Mr. Smith.  “There is something so out of the ordinary routine of ribs, loins, and sirloins—­something so comfortable and independent about it.  No, you cannot eat your picked-up dinner alone.”

“Drop the word good from your description, and the picked-up dinner will be altogether another affair,” said I.  “No, don’t come home to-day, if you please; for every thing promises to be most uncomfortable.  Get yourself a good dinner at an eating house, and leave me to go through the day as well as I can.”

“And you are really in earnest?” said my husband, seriously.

“I certainly am,” was my reply.  “Entirely in earnest.  So, just oblige me by not coming home to dinner.”

Mr. Smith promised; and there was so much off of my mind.  I could not let him come home without seeing that he had a good dinner.  But, almost any thing would do for me and the children.

In some things, I am compelled to say that my husband is a little uncertain.  His memory is not always to be depended on.  Deeply absorbed in business, as he was at that time, he frequently let things of minor importance pass from his thoughts altogether.

So it happened on the present occasion.  He forgot that it was washing day, and that he had promised to dine down town.  Punctually at half-past one he left his place of business, as usual, and took his way homeward.  As he walked along, he met an old friend who lived in a neighboring town, and who was on a visit to our city.

“Why, Mr. Jones!  How glad I am to see you!  When did you arrive?”

And my husband grasped the hand of his friend eagerly.

“Came in last evening,” replied Mr. Jones.  “How well you look, Smith!  How is your family?”

“Well—­very well.  When do you leave?”

“By this afternoon’s line.”

“So soon?  You make no stay at all?”

“I came on business, and must go back again with as little delay as possible.”

“Then you must go and dine with me, Jones.  I won’t take no for an answer.  Want to have a long talk with you about old times.”

“Thank you, Mr. Smith,” replied Jones.  “But, as I don’t happen to know your good lady, I hardly feel free to accept your invitation.”

“Don’t hesitate for that.  She’ll be delighted to see you.  Always glad to meet any of my old friends.  So come along.  I’ve a dozen things to say to you.”

“I’m really afraid of intruding on your wife,” said Mr. Jones, still holding back from the invitation.

“Nonsense!” answered my husband.  “My friends are hers.  She will be delighted to see you.  I’ve talked of you to her a hundred times.”

At this Mr. Jones yielded.

“I can’t promise you any thing extra,” said Mr. Smith, as they walked along.  “Nothing more than a good, plain family dinner, and a warm welcome.”

“All I could ask or desire,” returned Mr. Jones.

It was a few minutes to two o’clock.  The bell had rung for dinner; and I was just rising to go to the dining room, when I heard the street door open, and the sound of my husband’s voice in the passage.  There was a man in company with him, for I distinctly heard the tread of a pair of feet.  What could this mean?  I remained seated, listening with attention.

My husband entered the parlor with his companion, talking in a cheerful, animated strain; and I heard him pull up the blinds and throw open the shutters.  Presently he came tripping lightly up the stairs to my sitting room.

“I’ve brought a friend home to dinner, Jane,” said he, as coolly and as confidently as if it were not washing day; and as if he had not told me on going out, that he would dine at an eating house.

This was a little too much for my patience and forbearance.

“Are you beside yourself, Mr. Smith?” I replied, my face instantly becoming flushed, and my eyes glancing out upon him the sudden indignation I felt at such treatment.

“Why, Jane!  Jane!  This is not kind in you,” said my husband, with regret and displeasure in his voice.  “It is rather hard if a man can’t ask an old friend home to dine with him once in five years, without asking the special permission of his wife.”

“Mr. Smith!  Are you not aware that this is washing day?”

There was an instant change in my husband’s countenance.  He seemed bewildered for a few moments.

“And, moreover,” I continued, “are you not aware that I was to have a picked-up dinner at home, and that you were to dine at an eating house?”

“I declare!” Mr. Smith struck his hands together, and turned around once upon his heel.—­“I entirely forgot about that.”

“What’s to be done?” said I, almost crying with vexation.  “I’ve nothing for dinner but fried ham and eggs.”

“The best we can do is the best,” returned Mr. Smith.  “You can give Mr. Jones a hearty welcome, and that will compensate for any defects in the dinner.  I forewarned him that we should not entertain him very sumptuously.”

“You’d better tell him the whole truth at once,” said I, in answer to this; “and then take him to an eating house.”

But my good husband would hear to nothing of this.  He had invited his old friend to dine with him; and dine he must, if it was only on a piece of dry bread.

“Pick up something.  Do the best you can,” he returned.  “We can wait for half an hour.”

“I’ve nothing in the house, I tell you,” was my answer made in no very pleasant tones; for I felt very much irritated and outraged by my husband’s thoughtless conduct.

“There, there, Jane.  Don’t get excited about the matter,” said he soothingly.  But his words were not like oil to the troubled waters of my spirit.

“I am excited,” was my response.  “How can I help being so?  It is too much!  You should have had more consideration.”

But, talking was of no use.  Mr. Jones was in the parlor, and had come to take a family dinner with us.  So, nothing was left but to put a good face on the matter; or, at least, to try and do so.

“Dinner’s on the table now,” said I.  “All is there that we can have to-day.  So just invite your friend to the dining room, where you will find me.”

So saying, I took a little fellow by the hand, who always eat with us, and led him away, feeling, as my lady readers will very naturally suppose, in not the most amiable humor in the world.  I had just got the child, who was pretty hungry, seated in his high chair, when my husband and his guest made their appearance; and I was introduced.

Sorry am I to chronicle the fact—­but truth compels me to make a faithful record—­that my reception of the stranger was by no means gracious.  I tried to smile; but a smile was such a mockery of my real feelings, that every facial muscle refused to play the hypocrite.  The man was not welcome, and it was impossible for me to conceal this.

“A plain family dinner, you see,” said Mr. Smith, as we took our places at the meagre board.  “We are plain people.  Shall I help you to some of the ham and eggs?”

He tried to smile pleasantly, and to seem very much at his ease.  But, the attempt was far from successful.

“I want some!  Don’t give him all!” screamed out the hungry child at my side, stretching out his hands towards the poorly supplied dish, from which my husband was about supplying our guest.

My face, which was red enough before, now became like scarlet.  A moment longer I remained at the table, and then rising up quickly took the impatient child in my arms, and carried him screaming from the room.  I did not return to grace the dinner table with my unattractive presence.  Of what passed, particularly, between my husband and his friend Mr. Jones, who had left his luxurious dinner at the hotel to enjoy “a plain family dinner” with his old acquaintance, I never ventured to make enquiry.  They did not remain very long at the table; nor very long in the house after finishing their frugal meal.

I have heard since that Mr. Jones has expressed commiseration for my husband, as the married partner of a real termigant.  I don’t much wonder at his indifferent opinion; for, I rather think I must have shown in my face something of the indignant fire that was in me.

Mr. Smith, who was too much in the habit of inviting people home to take a “family dinner” with him on the spur of the moment, has never committed that error since.  His mortification was too severe to be easily forgotten.