While the yeast-cake was soaking, Aunt Cindy set to work collect-
ing materials for a cake ; a pound-cake with icing, she had decided
upon. Although her movements were slow and labored, there were
strength and force in them, so that she accomplished a surprising
amount of work. She didn’t lose much time looking for spoons and
forks. She stirred things with her finger, and with it she tested her
gravies and sauces and custards. It needed but a few strokes of her
warm, strong hand, to beat the butter to a cream : a few turns more, and
the sugar was thoroughly incorporated with this. Then with some
twigs of crape-myrtle, in lieu of an egg-beater, the yolk of the eggs was
soon foaming, and the white standing alone. Lastly, she bethought
her of the cinnamon to make it “ tasty,” she said. Panting and blow-
ing, she again ascended her observatory, and began snuffing, tasting,
and peering at the various paper parcels on the log sleeper. “ Whar
kin dat cin’mon-bok be at ? ” she said. “ I hain’t seed it sence I tuk it
to meetin’ to scent my han’kercher. I’ll be bound dat dar Tonv’s done
gone an’ tuck an’ et dat dar cin’mon-bok, ha’r an’ hide. Maybe I put
it in de big gou’d.”
She waddled down from the bench and across the shed to a gourd
as large as a giant pumpkin, and with much the shape of one. She
turned it bottom up on the dirt floor, and out poured an incredible assort-
ment of things : a fork, three partridge-eggs, a head-kerchief, a pair of
AUNT CINDY'S DINNER.
139
slippers, a dish-towel, two peaches, a purple belt-ribbon, a phial of hair-
oil, a hymn-book, a lump of loaf-sugar, a stick of sassafras-root, a paper
of saleratus, and another of snuff. “’Tain’t yere.” She looked the
jambs over, and then, with a majestic waddle, she crossed the yard to
the house.
“ Miss Rithy,” she said, when she found herself in Mrs. Burgiss’s
presence, “I ain’t gwine ter take de ’spons’bil’ty uv no poun’-cake
widouten cin’mon-bok to puffume it, an’ I hain’t got no cin’mon-bolc
on my premsis.”
“ Sen’ over to Brother Phillpotts’s an’ borrer a stick,” said the lady
appealed to, returning to her perforated cardboard, on which she was
working in rainbow worsteds a church with a man beside it. The
man was taller than the steeple. . . .
In process of time, Tony appeared with three small pieces of bark,
and was, properly or improperly, belabored by Aunt Cindy’s tongue,
she declaring that she could “ eat all dat dar bok,” and demanding to
be told how she was “gwine ter cook dinner fer fou’ puzzidin’ ekluz
wid dat thimbulful of bole? An’ my cakes a-sottin’ yere waitin’ all
dis while, an’ ail dat ’nifikent white froff gittin’ limber, an’ all de lather
done gone outen dat dar yaller! An’ I beat dat dar egg tell my arm
ache to de morrer-bone. Yer go ’long an’ hurry an’ cotch ole Jack,
an’ go to Mis’ Phillpotts’s ter borrer somethin’.”
Page 53
Presented as published in 1887. Historical recipes may not meet modern food-safety standards. Cook from the modern interpretation, not the original instructions.
AI-modernized reading of the original text
While the yeast-cake was soaking, Aunt Cindy set to work collecting materials for a cake ; a pound-cake with icing, she had decided upon. Although her movements were slow and labored, there were strength and force in them, so that she accomplished a surprising amount of work. She didn’t lose much time looking for spoons and forks. She stirred things with her finger, and with it she tested her gravies and sauces and custards. It needed but a few strokes of her warm, strong hand, to beat the butter to a cream : a few turns more, and the sugar was thoroughly incorporated with this. Then with some twigs of crape-myrtle, in lieu of an egg-beater, the yolk of the eggs was soon foaming, and the white standing alone. Lastly, she bethought her of the cinnamon to make it “ tasty,” she said. Panting and blowing, she again ascended her observatory, and began snuffing, tasting, and peering at the various paper parcels on the log sleeper. “ Whar kin dat cin’mon-bok be at ? ” she said. “ I hain’t seed it sence I tuk it to meetin’ to scent my han’kercher. I’ll be bound dat dar Tonv’s done gone an’ tuck an’ et dat dar cin’mon-bok, ha’r an’ hide. Maybe I put it in de big gou’d.”
She waddled down from the bench and across the shed to a gourd as large as a giant pumpkin, and with much the shape of one. She turned it bottom up on the dirt floor, and out poured an incredible assortment of things : a fork, three partridge-eggs, a head-kerchief, a pair of
AUNT CINDY'S DINNER.
slippers, a dish-towel, two peaches, a purple belt-ribbon, a phial of hairoil, a hymn-book, a lump of loaf-sugar, a stick of sassafras-root, a paper of saleratus, and another of snuff. “’Tain’t yere.” She looked the jambs over, and then, with a majestic waddle, she crossed the yard to the house.
“ Miss Rithy,” she said, when she found herself in Mrs. Burgiss’s presence, “I ain’t gwine ter take de ’spons’bil’ty uv no poun’-cake widouten cin’mon-bok to puffume it, an’ I hain’t got no cin’mon-bolc on my premsis.”
“ Sen’ over to Brother Phillpotts’s an’ borrer a stick,” said the lady appealed to, returning to her perforated cardboard, on which she was working in rainbow worsteds a church with a man beside it. The man was taller than the steeple. . . .
In process of time, Tony appeared with three small pieces of bark, and was, properly or improperly, belabored by Aunt Cindy’s tongue, she declaring that she could “ eat all dat dar bok,” and demanding to be told how she was “gwine ter cook dinner fer fou’ puzzidin’ ekluz wid dat thimbulful of bole? An’ my cakes a-sottin’ yere waitin’ all dis while, an' all dat 'nifikent white froff gittin' limber, an' all de lather done gone outen dat dar yaller! An’ I beat dat dar egg tell my arm ache to de morrer-bone. Yer go ’long an’ hurry an’ cotch ole Jack, an’ go to Mis’ Phillpotts’s ter borrer somethin’.”