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 INCURSION

BOOK 3 OF THE END OF TIME

BRIAN J WALTON

CAMTON HOUSE PUBLISHING

 CONTENTS

I. 1998
1. The Fundraiser
2. Artie Longdale
3. A Little Help
4. Everything Must Go
5. Investigating
6. A Welcome Invitation
7. Karma-Ball
8. The Article
9. Three Pictures

II. 2001
10. Moving On
11. A True Natural
12. Anochrotastic
13. A Helluva Thing

III. 2002
14. Life-Changing Money
15. The Picture

IV. 2005
16. Passin’ On a Message, Ya Dig?
17. An Old Acquaintance
18. Night Terrors
19. Nocturnal Revelations
20. Go and Live

V. 2008
21. Meet the Vandermeers
 22. Yours, Always
23. You’ll Want to Go Through Feet First

VI. 2053
24. The Good Guys
25. A Flash of Light

Get the Sequel

About the Author

 Copyright © 2019 by Brian J. Walton

All rights reserved.

First Edition: February 13, 2019

Sign up for Brian’ spam-free newsletter and receive a free epilogue

of the events immediately following the end of the book at www.
brianjwalton.com/mailinglist

Camton House Publishing

PART I
1998
 1

THE FUNDRAISER

November 5
H ow can you spend all day, every day with someone for years of
your life and still feel like you never even knew them? Consider
exhibit A: the duffel bag. It’s brand-new, the price tag still hanging
from one of the handles. Inside are blouses, bras, dresses, jeans,
underwear, even that sweater I bought her last month. Exhibit B: the
envelope of cash. A brief examination reveals somewhere in the
realm of several thousand dollars. But the last item is the most
damning of all. Exhibit C: the tickets. One way, departing from
LaGuardia this Saturday. I half expect to see a fake name next to my
wife’s picture, but there is none. The name reads Molly Gardner.
My damn ring…If I hadn’t lost it at some point while changing,
then I never would’ve gone snooping back here. I remember having
an image in my head of bumping the dresser, sending the ring rolling
across the carpet and into the open closet door. It was an unlikely
place to look, but I’d already checked every corner of the bedroom.
So I looked, and now I’ve seen it.
Things have been strained between us for the last few weeks,
and I am still desperate to find out why. The obvious culprit is my six
months of being held hostage in a Jaysh al-Saalihin prison. People
don’t return to normal quickly after something like that, and I
certainly wasn’t. But Molly has been distant, and every effort to
broach the topic has met with defensiveness. Which is why I’ve
spent the last half hour frantically searching for my ring while she
took a phone call with her editor at the magazine. I had the
irrational thought that if Molly saw the ring off my finger, she would
accuse me of cheating and would pin that on the source of our
conflict. Instead, I’ve stumbled across a discovery that somehow
managed to explain all of her coldness and standoffishness, while
explaining nothing at all.
Cheating I can understand. But running away? The Molly Gardner
I know would never have a secret bag, packed away, hidden in the
back of the closet. But this Molly Gardner apparently does.
So she’s going to leave.
But why?
Molly’s voice calls up from the living room. “James? Are you
ready?”
I hastily straighten, pushing the closet door closed. “Almost!”
Shit, I haven’t shaved. She hates it when I don’t shave. I hear
her footsteps ascending the stairs of our apartment so I rush to the
bathroom and hastily apply shaving cream without bothering to take
off my dress shirt. I’ll have to be careful. It occurs to me how
absolutely insane it is that I’m worried about her opinion of how I
look when she’s the one who might bolt at any moment.
“By the way, I found your ring on the floor in the hallway. That’s
weird, right?”
“That is weird,” I say.
She’s in the bedroom now. I hear her moving about, opening her
dresser drawers.
“I left it on your dresser, okay?”
“Mm hmm.” I drag the razor across my chin, hastily trying to
finish. The floor in the hallway? What the hell was it doing out there?
I hear her stop in the doorway and turn to look. Molly is wearing a
black evening gown. Her curly brown hair is done up in some sort of
complex arrangement, leaving her bangs to fall across her forehead.
Her job at Renaissance Magazine requires her to dress well, but she
works with writers and artists, generally a more casual bunch, and I
can’t remember the last time I’ve seen her wearing a black dress.
She joins me at the sink, applying finishing touches to her makeup.
“I have a meeting early tomorrow morning with a writer we’re
thinking of hiring, so don’t let me drink too much. What have you
been doing up here the last half hour that made you have no time to
shave?”
I turn back to the mirror. “Just thinking,” I say as I continue to
shave. My hand is shaking.
“About what?”
“Tonight,” I lie. My voice sounds all trembly coming out. She
makes a humming noise in acknowledgment. I’m picturing her
sobbing out an apology as she tearfully explains her conspiracy to
betray me.
“You’re getting that all over your shirt.”
I glance at her, then look back at the mirror. Shaving cream has
dripped down my neck and onto my collar.
She steps toward me and pulls my bowtie off, unbuttoning the
top two buttons of my shirt. Taking a washcloth from the linen
cupboard, she wets an end and dabs the shirt clean. The way she’s
leaning over causes her bangs to fall across her face in a way that
reminds me of the Molly I met five years ago. The young, awkward
woman with a penchant for sweatshirts and tiny hairless dogs. Her
hair was longer, then. A constant mess of dark curls. She rarely wore
it pulled back, letting it instead fall across one side of her face,
perpetually obscuring an eye. It gave her a look that managed to be
both serious and sad.
I fell in love with that look.
“We want to be sure everything looks good for the pictures.” She
stands, glancing at me. She hasn’t looked like that sad young
woman in years. Serious, yes. But not sad.
I stand, splash my face, and dab it dry with a towel.
“There will be plenty other guests there just like me.”
“Have all of them been asked to introduce Congressman Boyle?”
I glance at her in the mirror. She looks impressed. But does
admiration have anything to do with love? I suppose not.
 “You know I hate crowds, and pictures, and people fussing over
me.”
“Whatever you say.” She leans in to kiss my cheek, then stops.
“You cut yourself.”
I turn back to the mirror. A small dot of blood is oozing down the
side of my chin. I lean down, pulling a square of toilet paper off the
roll. When I stand back up, Molly is gone.

S tepping outside , I am surprised to see the limousine idling at the

curb and Molly standing beside it smoking a cigarette. The driver is
standing near her beside the car, as if they’d been talking. Had they
been talking? She meets my eyes and looks away. Her dark skin,
paler than usual, is flushed and her eyes are red as if she’s been
crying. My mental image of a spiteful, angry wife on the verge of
running comes swiftly back.
The driver nods as he makes his way to the door. He has a
mustache, a round face, and short hair. He’s not tall, but he has the
slim, muscular build and ramrod straight posture of a veteran. The
driver smiles thinly as he opens the door. “Sir.”
“How long did you serve?” I ask.
He gives a moment of hesitation. “Three tours. Algeria, then
Tunisia, twice.”
“So you must’ve gotten out in ’95?”
“’96.”
He’s looking at me with a funny expression. It’s one I recognize.
Army guys can spot their own, but they’re not used to guys like me,
with the slightly hunched posture of a civilian, doing the same.
“I’ve been to Algeria, Tunisia, Libya, Egypt, Sudan, and Somalia,”
I say. “War correspondent.”
“I’ve seen you,” he says, waving a finger at me. “You’re that
journalist, right? The one who got captured?”
I glance at Molly, then give him a small nod. He grabs my hand in
a viselike grip and shakes it, one quick up and down. “It’s a
privilege.”
“Likewise…”
“Lieutenant…uh, Gaines. Daniel Gaines.”
Why the hesitation? “And you’re driving now?”
“Much more peaceful,” he says. “No one tries to blow up
limousines.”
Gaines moves to open the door. I watch him, waiting for a follow-
up that doesn’t come. Something in me chills.
“Come on,” Molly says. “We’ve got to go.”
Molly slides into the limo and I crawl in after her.
The car starts and pulls away from the curb. I lean over to Molly.
“Did you hear what he said?”
“About what?”
“About people not blowing up limousines.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“You didn’t think that was a little, I don’t know, weird?”
She shakes her head. “What? No. He said people wouldn’t blow
us up. That’s good, right?” But there’s a strange edge in her voice,
as if she doesn’t quite believe what she is saying.
I turn away, unable to ignore the icy feeling forming in a tight
ball behind my lungs. Our apartment is in Greenwich Village, not far
from the fictional apartment in that show that everyone seems to
watch—the one about the six friends? How a couple of unemployed
twenty-year-olds can afford an apartment like the one in the show is
beyond me. The night’s event is a fundraiser at the Gracie Mansion
for Congressman—and Senate hopeful—Edward Boyle. I would never
vote for the man, but the mayor called and asked personally for my
endorsement. Since my capture by a radical Islamic terror group in
Saudi Arabia and subsequent rescue by the soldiers of the United
States Special Forces, New York has been proud host to a local hero,
and no efforts of mine have allowed me to forget that fact. I’d give
anything for a drink right now.
I search for a minibar, finding it to my right, under the window.
Thank God, there are a few small bottles of Johnnie Walker inside. I
take out two, pocketing one of them. I take a sip and am
transported back to college, drinking Johnnie Walker while listening
to records with my roommate, Ellis. Odd how a taste or a smell can
do that. What ever happened to him?
“Seriously, what’s wrong?” Molly asks.
I find her staring at me as I lower the bottle. Why does she get
to ask me that?
I shrug. “Still just thinking about tonight. The crowds. The
attention. You know I hate this stuff.”
She turns and frowns at me. “Pretend to enjoy it so I can have
fun, at least.”
I sink back into the seat, watching street lamps flash by, and
trying to think of one reason, just one, why she would want to leave.
The only thing I can come up with is me.
We pull up in front of Gracie Mansion, the official residence of the
New York mayor for the last sixty years. I suppose it would be small
in, say, Texas, but for Manhattan, it’s a bona fide mansion, and at
200 years old, a damn historic one at that. The two-story, three-
chimney, five-bedroom house looks out toward Hells Gate from East
End Avenue at 89th Street, managing to be both quaint and filled
with metaphorical weightiness.
A stream of people is already moving into the house when we
park. Gaines opens our door and his stony face sends a shiver down
my spine. Molly grabs my arm, pulling me toward the expansive
double doors and into the mansion.
A smiling woman with severe bangs and an impeccable wardrobe
spots me in the throng and makes a beeline toward me. Sophie, I
remember.
“Mr. Gardner, the dinner will be starting soon.” Sophie has one of
those tiny new Nokia phones. I have refused to get a cell phone,
despite Molly’s urgings. The thought of someone being able to reach
me at any time is unnerving.
“I’m sorry we’re late,” I say.
Sophie turns to the door, ignoring me, and I rush to follow her.
“You’ll be introducing Congressman Boyle at 8:15, thirty minutes
after the main dish is served and before the dessert.”
“Has he read my introduction? I emailed several drafts.”
 She pauses, looking up at me for the first time since spotting me
in the entranceway.
“Sorry?”
“He wanted me to tell jokes to keep things light. But I never
heard back, and I was wondering if the jokes are okay.”
“The jokes are fine, I’m sure. Enjoy your evening, Mr. Gardner.
Mayor Schueller is honored to have you here.”
I swallow a lump in my throat and glance over at Molly. She gives
me a reassuring smile. “I’m sure they’re fine.”

“B eing captured by Jaysh al-Saalihin is not too different from running

for a seat in Congress. You only do, say, and eat what other people
tell you to. And if things don’t work out the way they want, they
throw you in a hole and leave you for dead.”
Light laughter.
I relax a little bit more. You can’t be captured by the JAS without
then being expected to talk about it all the damn time. Though,
detailing how you spent six months shitting in a bucket doesn’t set
people at ease. So, humor.
“The only notable thing I ever did was managing to not die.
Congressman Boyle has done many notable things, not the least of
which are his years of both public and private service. But we’re not
satisfied, because now we’re here to send Congressman Boyle to the
United States Senate, and he has my full endorsement.”
Congressman Boyle breezes onto the stage and I make my swift
exit.
Molly nods encouragement as I take my seat next to her. My
hand goes to my jacket pocket, reaching for the bottle, but I feel
Molly’s hand on my own, stopping me. I meet her gaze and she
shakes her head. I get it. How would it look, me taking slugs right
after introducing the night’s main event? I look down at my plate.
Some kind of gooey, gelatinous concoction has appeared in my
absence while the remnants of my steak have been whisked away.
Flan, maybe? I don’t care to know. My knotted stomach has rejected
it on sight.
The Congressman’s address is mercifully short. His platform is
straight down the Democratic party line, no surprises. But he does
spend some time talking about Saudi Arabia, oil, the rising threat of
the JAS, and he even manages to weave in a thank you for my “kind
introduction.” The guest to Molly’s left is no one less than Mayor
Schueller himself, a disgustingly overweight and piggish man, who
has been making clumsy attempts at flirting the entire evening. Is
Molly’s dissatisfaction of me so obvious? I know this man can’t
possibly be the reason for the duffel bag in Molly’s closet, but I still
can’t help but place the full weight of the blame on his hunched,
meaty shoulders.
Congressman Boyle finishes and the guests rise, setting their
sights on the next target for thinly veiled schmoozing. I put a hand
on Molly’s shoulder, mutter an apology, and plan my escape route.
Weaving through the tables, I spot the large doorway leading onto
the back porch of the house. Slipping outside, I fumble the bottle
from my jacket pocket and take a quick pull.
I’d met Molly in a grocery store in Brooklyn. It was April, and the
weather had finally turned from freeze-your-ass-off-cold to who-
gives-a-shit-it’s-shorts-weather, giving New York that mismatched
look unique to those magical few weeks before the heat of summer.
I remember because I hadn’t gotten the memo yet and was still
getting groceries in a knit sweater, a beanie, and scarf while Molly
breezed in wearing running shorts and a cut-off tee. I was stalking
her instead of shopping and almost gave myself away when I
reached for the same eggplant as her. We shared that awkward
glance you share when you’ve accidentally invaded someone else's
space and then went on our way. I felt like a creep and was ready to
pretend the whole thing had never happened. And the rest of it
almost didn’t. It wasn’t until we were both leaving the store and our
dogs got tangled up in each other’s leashes—I swear to God that
really happened—that we finally started to talk. Of course, we live
only down the street from each other, and of course, we both know
Carlos who does yoga in the park, and of course we’ll meet up for
drinks later, and of course, of course, of course, and then six months
of dating, a one-month engagement, a courthouse wedding, and
suddenly I’m here, trying to figure out how the hell life went from
breathless encounters outside of grocery stores to my wife keeping a
secret go-bag tucked away in the closet.
I don’t even see the server before he’s practically run over me.
“Mr. Gardner, there you are,” the man says.
“Is there a problem?” I ask, feeling paranoid.
“No, no problem.” The man is tall and rail thin with sharply
parted blonde hair, and is dressed in the staff uniform. The event
planner, maybe? But he has far too much confidence for someone
used to dealing with other people’s problems. And I think I can
detect a faint British accent. “I was given something to deliver to
you,” the man says, producing a small package from his inside jacket
pocket.
“What’s this?” I ask, taking the package from him. It’s not much
larger than a ring box, and is wrapped in simple brown paper with a
piece of twine knotted around it.
“I’m sorry,” he says, “But I don’t know. It was given to me by
another gentleman here at the party with some very specific
instructions.”
“Oh?” I ask. As a journalist, it’s not the first time I’ve received
strange parcels with very particular instructions. I make a mental
note to have Mark Gaffigan check it out. He’s a fellow war
correspondent for the Times who spent a few months with a bomb
disposal unit in Tunisia. But I’m already noticing that it’s far too small
to be a bomb. Some kind of poison? But that would usually come
disguised as something mundane to ensure that I would open it. No,
this was something else.
The tall blonde man glances around at the darkened yard. “The
gentleman said that you are to keep this package safe at whatever
cost.”
“And can I open this package?” I ask.
The man shrugs. “I suppose. He didn’t say. But he stressed that
whatever happens, you are not to lose it. Don’t set it aside. Don’t
 “James, what’s wrong?” Molly asks.
Behind her, framed in the car’s passenger window, a pair of
headlights grow large as a truck—oblivious to the intersection, the
red stoplight, and the East River only thirty feet in front of it—barrels
straight at us. I feel a burst of acceleration as our driver hits the gas,
angling away from the impact and toward the pedestrian walkway
between the road and the river.
Then the world explodes around us.
The truck slams our car over the divider between the street and
the pedestrian walkway.
A crunch of metal.
The back window shattering inward.
Thousands of glass daggers cutting at my neck and shoulders.
And then we are flying up, over the pedestrian walkway straight
into the air.
Suspended for a moment in midair.
Then tipping downward.
A wall of gray rushing toward us.
And impact.

N othing can prepare you for a car crash. All the things that may have
saved our lives stand out in bright contrast. Maybe the fight was a
blessing. Maybe my body, being tensed up in anger, is better
prepared for the impact: first from the truck, and then from the
water, which smashed against the hood of the limousine like a
concrete wall. And maybe the divider, just so recently closed, is the
only thing keeping out the onslaught of water I hear filling the front
of the limo.
I tug at my seat belt, cursing the sudden, impossible intricacy of
the buckle until it comes loose with a snap.
I fall against the divider.
Molly’s head lolls to the side. Her eyes are closed. I feel a panic
that she’s dead. I place a foot against the front of the divider,
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 COMMON TOMATA SAUCE.

Tomatas are so juicy when ripe that they require little or no liquid
to reduce them to a proper consistence for sauce; and they vary so
exceedingly in size and quality that it is difficult to give precise
directions for the exact quantity which in their unripe state is needed
for them. Take off the stalks, halve the tomatas, and gently squeeze
out the seeds and watery pulp; then stew them softly with a few
spoonsful of gravy or of strong broth until they are quite melted.
Press the whole through a hair-sieve, and heat it afresh with a little
additional gravy should it be too thick, and some cayenne, and salt.
Serve it very hot.
Fine ripe tomatas, 6 or 8; gravy or strong broth, 4 tablespoonsful:
1/2 to 3/4 hour, or longer if needed. Salt and cayenne sufficient to
season the sauce, and two or three spoonsful more of gravy if
required.
Obs.—For a large tureen of this sauce, increase the proportions;
and should it be at first too liquid, reduce it by quick boiling. When
neither gravy nor broth is at hand, the tomatas may be stewed
perfectly tender, but very gently, in a couple of ounces of butter, with
some cayenne and salt only, or with the addition of a very little finely
minced onion; then rubbed through a sieve, and heated, and served
without any addition, or with only that of a teaspoonful of chili
vinegar; or, when the colour is not a principal consideration, with a
few spoonsful of rich cream, smoothly mixed with a little flour to
prevent its curdling. The sauce must be stirred without ceasing
should the last be added, and boiled for four or five minutes.
 A FINER TOMATA SAUCE.

Stew very gently a dozen fine red tomatas, prepared as for the
preceding receipt, with two or three sliced eschalots, four or five
chilies or a capsicum or two (or in lieu of either, with a quarter of a
teaspoonful of cayenne pepper), a few small dice of lean ham, and
half a cupful of rich gravy. Stir these often, and when the tomatas are
reduced quite to a smooth pulp, rub them through a sieve; put them
into a clean saucepan, with a few spoonsful more of rich gravy, or
Espagnole, add salt if needed, boil the sauce stirring it well for ten
minutes, and serve it very hot. When the gravy is exceedingly good
and highly flavoured, the ham may be omitted: a dozen small
mushrooms nicely cleaned may also be sliced and stewed with the
tomatas, instead of the eschalots, when their flavour is preferred, or
they may be added with them. The exact proportion of liquid used is
immaterial, for should the sauce be too thin it may be reduced by
rapid boiling, and diluted with more gravy if too thick.
 BOILED APPLE SAUCE.

Apples of a fine cooking sort require but a very small portion of

liquid to boil down well and smoothly for sauce, if placed over a
gentle fire in a close-shutting saucepan, and simmered as softly as
possible until they are well broken; and their flavour is injured by the
common mode of adding so much to them, that the greater part must
be drained off again before they are sent to table. Pare the fruit
quickly, quarter it, and be careful entirely to remove the cores; put
one tablespoonful of water into a saucepan before the apples are
thrown in, and proceed, as we have directed, to simmer them until
they are nearly ready to serve: finish the sauce by the receipt which
follows.
Apples, 1/2 lb.; water, 1 tablespoonful; stewed very softly: 30 to 60
minutes.
Obs.—These proportions are sufficient only for a small tureen of
the sauce, and should be doubled for a large one.
For this, and all other preparations, apples will be whiter if just
dipped into fresh water the instant before they are put into the
stewpan. They should be quickly lifted from it, and will stew down
easily to sauce with only the moisture which hangs about them. They
should be watched and often gently stirred, that they may be equally
done.
 BAKED APPLE SAUCE.

(Good.)
Put a tablespoonful of water into a quart basin, and fill it with good
boiling apples, pared, quartered, and carefully cored: put a plate
over, and set them into a moderate oven for about an hour, or until
they are reduced quite to a pulp; beat them smooth with a clean
wooden spoon, adding to them a little sugar and a morsel of fresh
butter, when these are liked, though they will scarcely be required.
The sauce made thus is far superior to that which is boiled. When
no other oven is at hand, a Dutch or an American one would
probably answer for it; but we cannot assert this on our own
experience.
Good boiling apples, 1 quart: baked 1 hour (more or less
according to the quality of the fruit, and temperature of the oven);
sugar, 1 oz.; butter, 1/2 oz.
 BROWN APPLE SAUCE.

Stew gently down to a thick and perfectly smooth marmalade, a

pound of pearmains, or of any other well-flavoured boiling apples, in
about the third of a pint of rich brown gravy: season the sauce rather
highly with black pepper or cayenne, and serve it very hot. Curry
sauce will make an excellent substitute for the gravy when a very
piquant accompaniment is wanted for pork or other rich meat.
Apples pared and cored, 1 lb.; good brown gravy, third of pint 3/4
to 1-1/4 hour. Pepper or cayenne as needed.
 WHITE ONION SAUCE.

Strip the skin from some large white onions, and after having
taken off the tops and roots cut them in two, throw them into cold
water as they are done, cover them plentifully with more water, and
boil them very tender; lift them out, drain, and then press the water
thoroughly from them; chop them small, rub them through a sieve or
strainer, put them into a little rich melted butter mixed with a spoonful
or two of cream or milk, and a seasoning of salt, give the sauce a
boil, and serve it very hot. Portugal onions are superior to any
others, both for this and for most other purposes of cookery.
For the finest kind of onion sauce, see Soubise, page 126, which
follows.
 BROWN ONION SAUCE.

Cut off both ends of the onions, and slice them into a saucepan in
which two ounces of butter have been dissolved; keep them stewing
gently over a clear fire until they are lightly coloured; then pour to
them half a pint of brown gravy, and when they have boiled until they
are perfectly tender, work the sauce altogether through a strainer,
season it with a little cayenne, and serve it very hot.
 ANOTHER BROWN ONION SAUCE.

Mince the onions, stew them in butter until they are well coloured,
stir in a dessertspoonful of flour, shake the stewpan over the fire for
three or four minutes, pour in only as much broth or gravy as will
leave the sauce tolerably thick, season, and serve it.
 SOUBISE.

(English Receipt.)

Skin, slice, and mince quickly two pounds’ weight of the white part
only of some fine mild onions, and stew them in from two to three
ounces of good butter over a very gentle fire until they are reduced
to a pulp, then pour to them three-quarters of a pint of rich veal
gravy; add a seasoning of salt and cayenne, if needed; skim off the
fat entirely, press the sauce through a sieve, heat it in a clean
stewpan, mix it with a quarter of a pint of rich boiling cream, and
serve it directly.
Onions, 2 lbs.; butter, 2 to 3 oz.: 30 minutes to 1 hour. Veal gravy,
3/4 pint; salt, cayenne: 5 minutes. Cream, 1/4 pint.
 SOUBISE.

(French Receipt.)

Peel some fine white onions, and trim away all tough and
discoloured parts; mince them small, and throw them into plenty of
boiling water; when they have boiled quickly for five minutes drain
them well in a sieve, then stew them very softly indeed in an ounce
or two of fresh butter until they are dry and perfectly tender; stir to
them as much béchamel as will bring them to the consistence of very
thick pea-soup, pass the whole through a strainer, pressing the onion
strongly that none may remain behind, and heat the sauce afresh,
without allowing it to boil. A small half-teaspoonful of pounded sugar
is sometimes added to this soubise.
White part of onions, 2 lbs.: blanched 5 minutes. Butter, 2 oz.: 30
to 50 minutes. Béchamel, 3/4 to 1 pint, or more.
Obs.—These sauces are served more frequently with lamb or
mutton cutlets than with any other dishes; but they would probably
find many approvers if sent to table with roast mutton, or boiled veal.
Half the quantity given above will be sufficient for a moderate-sized
dish.
 MILD RAGOUT OF GARLIC, OR, L’AIL À LA BORDELAISE.

Divide some fine cloves of garlic, strip off the skin, and when all
are ready throw them into plenty of boiling water slightly salted; in
five minutes drain this from them, and pour in as much more, which
should also be quite boiling; continue to change it every five or six
minutes until the garlic is quite tender: throw in a moderate
proportion of salt the last time to give it the proper flavour. Drain it
thoroughly, and serve it in the dish with roast mutton, or put it into
good brown gravy or white sauce for table. By changing very
frequently the water in which it is boiled, the root will be deprived of
its naturally pungent flavour and smell, and rendered extremely mild:
when it is not wished to be quite so much so, change the water every
ten minutes only.
Garlic, 1 pint: 15 to 25 minutes, or more. Water to be changed
every 5 or 6 minutes; or every 10 minutes when not wished so very
mild. Gravy or sauce, 1 pint.
 MILD ESCHALOT SAUCE.

Prepare and boil from half to a whole pint of eschalots by the

preceding receipt; unless very large, they will be tender in about
fifteen minutes, sometimes in less, in which case the water must be
poured from them shortly after it has been changed for the second
time. When grown in a suitable soil, and cultivated with care, the
eschalots are sometimes treble the size that they are under other
circumstances; and this difference must be allowed for in boiling
them. Drain them well, and mix them with white sauce or gravy, or
with good melted butter, and serve them very hot.
 A FINE SAUCE, OR PURÉE OF VEGETABLE MARROW.

Pare one or two half-grown marrows and cut out all the seeds;
take a pound of the vegetable, and slice it, with one ounce of mild
onion, into a pint of strong veal broth or of pale gravy; stew them
very softly for nearly or quite an hour; add salt and cayenne, or white
pepper, when they are nearly done; press the whole through a fine
and delicately clean hair-sieve; heat it afresh, and stir to it when it
boils about the third of a pint of rich cream. Serve it with boiled
chickens, stewed or boiled veal, lamb cutlets, or any other delicate
meat. When to be served as a purée, an additional half-pound of the
vegetable must be used; and it should be dished with small fried
sippets round it. For a maigre dish, stew the marrow and onion quite
tender in butter, and dilute them with half boiling water and half
cream.
Vegetable marrow, 1 lb.; mild onion, 1 oz.; strong broth or pale
gravy, 1 pint: nearly or quite 1 hour. Pepper or cayenne, and salt as
needed; good cream, from 1/4 to 3/4 of pint. For purée, 1/2 lb. more
of marrow.
 EXCELLENT TURNIP, OR ARTICHOKE SAUCE FOR BOILED
MEAT.

Pare, slice, and boil quite tender, some finely-grained mild turnips,
press the water from them thoroughly, and pass them through a
sieve. Dissolve a slice of butter in a clean saucepan, and stir to it a
large teaspoonful of flour, or mix them smoothly together before they
are put in, and shake the saucepan round until they boil: pour to
them very gradually nearly a pint of thin cream (or of good milk
mixed with a portion of cream), add the turnips with a half-
teaspoonful or more of salt, and when the whole is well mixed and
very hot, pour it over boiled mutton, veal, lamb, or poultry. There
should be sufficient of the sauce to cover the meat entirely;[58] and
when properly made it improves greatly the appearance of a joint. A
little cayenne tied in a muslin may be boiled in the milk before it is
mixed with the turnips. Jerusalem artichokes make a more delicate
sauce of this kind even than turnips; the weight of both vegetables
must be taken after they are pared.
58. The objection to masking a joint with this or any other sauce is, that it
speedily becomes cold when spread over its surface: a portion of it at least
should be served very hot in a tureen.

Pared turnips or artichokes, 1 lb.; fresh butter, 1-1/2 oz.; flour, 1

large teaspoonful (twice as much if all milk be used); salt, 1/2
teaspoonful or more; cream, or cream and milk mixed, from 3/4 to 1
pint.
 OLIVE SAUCE.

Remove the stones from some fine French or Italian olives by

paring the fruit close to them, round and round in the form of a
corkscrew: they will then resume their original shape when done.
Weigh six ounces thus prepared, throw them into boiling water, let
them blanch for five minutes; then drain, and throw them into cold
water, and leave them in it from half an hour to an hour,
proportioning the time to their saltness; drain them well, and stew
them gently from fifteen to twenty-five minutes in a pint of very rich
brown gravy or Espagnole (see Chapter IV.); add the juice of half a
lemon, and serve the sauce very hot. Half this quantity will be
sufficient for a small party.
Olives, stoned, 6 oz.; rich gravy, 1 pint: 15 to 25 minutes. Juice,
1/2 lemon.
Obs.—In France this sauce is served very commonly with ducks,
and sometimes with beef-steaks, and with stewed fowl.
 CELERY SAUCE.

Slice the white part of from three to five heads of young tender
celery; peel it if not very young, and boil it in salt and water for twenty
minutes. If for white sauce put the celery, after it has been well
drained, into half a pint of veal broth or gravy, and let it stew until it is
quite soft; then add an ounce and a half of butter, mixed with a
dessertspoonful of flour, and a quarter of a pint of thick cream or the
yolks of three eggs. The French, after boiling the celery, which they
cut very small, for about twenty minutes, drain and chop it; then put it
with a slice of butter into a stewpan, and season it with pepper, salt,
and nutmeg; they keep these stirred over the fire for two or three
minutes, and then dredge in a dessertspoonful of flour: when this
has lost its raw taste, they pour in a sufficient quantity of white gravy
to moisten the celery, and to allow for twenty minutes’ longer boiling.
A very good common celery sauce is made by simply stewing the
celery cut into inch-lengths in butter, until it begins to be tender; and
then adding a spoonful of flour, which must be allowed to brown a
little, and half a pint of good broth or beef gravy, with a seasoning of
pepper or cayenne.
Celery, 3 to 5 heads: 20 minutes. Veal broth, or gravy, 1/2 pint; 20
to 40 minutes. Butter, 1-1/2 oz.; flour, 1 dessertspoonful; cream, 1/4
pint, or three yolks of eggs.
 WHITE CHESTNUT SAUCE.

Strip the outer rind from six ounces of sound sweet chestnuts,
then throw them into boiling water, and let them simmer for two or
three minutes, when the second skin will easily peel off. Add to them
three quarters of a pint of good cold veal gravy, and a few strips of
lemon rind, and let them stew gently for an hour and a quarter. Press
them, with the gravy, through a hair-sieve reversed and placed over
a deep dish or pan, as they are much more easily rubbed through
thus than in the usual way: a wooden spoon should be used in
preference to any other for the process. Add a little cayenne and
mace, some salt if needed, and about six tablespoonsful of rich
cream. Keep the sauce stirred until it boils, and serve it immediately.
Chestnuts without their rinds, 6 oz.; veal gravy, 1 pint; rind of 1/2
lemon: 1-1/4 hour. Salt; spice; cream, 6 tablespoonsful.
Obs.—This sauce may be served with turkey, with fowls, or with
stewed veal cutlets.
 BROWN CHESTNUT SAUCE.

Substitute rich brown gravy for the veal stock, omit the lemon-rind
and cream, heighten the seasonings, and mix the chestnuts with a
few spoonsful of Espagnole or highly flavoured gravy, after they have
been passed through the sieve.
 PARSLEY-GREEN, FOR COLOURING SAUCES.

Gather a quantity of young parsley, strip it from the stalks, wash it

very clean, shake it as dry as possible in a cloth, pound it in a mortar,
press all the juice closely from it through a hair-sieve reversed, and
put it into a clean jar; set it into a pan of boiling water, and in about
three minutes, if gently simmered, the juice will be poached
sufficiently; lay it then upon a clean sieve to drain, and it will be
ready for use.
Spinach-green, for which particular directions will be found at the
commencement of Chapter XXIV., is prepared in the same manner.
The juice of various herbs pounded together may be pressed from
them through a sieve and added to cold sauces.
 TO CRISP PARSLEY.

Wash some branches of young parsley well, drain them from the
water, and swing them in a clean cloth until they are quite dry; place
them on a sheet of writing paper in a Dutch oven, before a brisk fire,
and keep them frequently turned until they are quite crisp. They will
become so in from six to eight minutes.