At Home on the Range

Our daughter insists that her range has a folding top over its burners for the sole purpose of turning the entire thing into an invalid ’s bed table, and many another harried young mother will wholeheartedly agree that a mortal illness is her only chance of seeing an idle stove.

Ridiculous as it seems, our child’s basic idea is sound, for while the stove itself might be an awkward addition to a sickroom, the food it furnishes is always so welcome to the bedridden that no cook need ever give way to the desperate “What shall I send?” feeling that so often comes after visiting a friend who is, as the old books say, languishing on a bed of pain. There he or she reclines, surrounded by what seems to be the entire contents of a florist’s window, and the thought of the small bouquet that you plan to add to the collection dies aborning. Don’t despair. You can show your sympathy in an original way which will be much more appreciated. Go home and take a look into your preserve closet. There! See those lovely jars of brandied peaches (page 133) you worked away at last summer. Wrap one in your fanciest gift paper, stick a few garden flowers or a spicy carnation in the perky ribbon bow, and you won’t have long to wait for almost pitifully enthusiastic thanks.

What? No preserves at all? Fie, remember to make more next year and turn your attention to comforting the invalid with some real WINE JELLY. Soak 1 envelope of Gelatine in ¼ cup of cold water. Squeeze the juice of 1 lemon, sweeten it slightly, and be sure the sugar is thoroughly dissolved. Put the gelatine into ¾ cup of boiling hot water and stir until not a trace of the granules is left. Add the sweetened lemon juice and 1 cup of the driest and best sherry or port wine you can afford. Taste the jelly for sugar, strain, pour into your prettiest bowl or a jar, and chill. Then wrap, tie and decorate the package as directed above before delivering it to the grateful recipient, whom it will delight more than all the orchids ever flown from the tropics.

Next, send the sick one a bowl of fresh fruit compote, made as on page 176. Leave out the liquor and attach to the package instead a miniature bottle of peach or apricot brandy, ready to add its little exotic touch and flavor to the fruit if the patient is permitted the dissipation.

Homemade soups always appeal to an invalid—vide the onion soup on page 43—as does a small jar of cold pressed chicken (page 51) or perhaps the minced white meat covered with Newburg sauce (page 96) with a tiny bottle of sherry beside it. Other ideas are a bottle of French dressing (page 100) and a big ripe avocado pear to go along, or a plate of iced oysters on the half-shell and a bottle of tomato catsup, (page 129) delivered, with your card, just before lunch or dinner.

My infrequent youthful illnesses were always cheered by the knowledge that as soon as the doctor pronounced his dread verdict of “bed,” cups of delicious steaming BEEF TEA would appear to start bolstering my supposedly waning strength. Modern medical men no longer consider this nourishing, but it’s mighty tasty, appetite-teasing, and easily digested. Remove all the fat from 1 pound of top or bottom of the round and sear on one side on a hot, very, very lightly greased skillet, or under the broiler. Cut into ½ inch cubes and place in a double boiler. Cover with 2 cups of cold water and let rest for 2 hours. Cook, tightly covered, over just simmering water for 2 hours more. Strain and press the meat in a potato ricer to extract every drop of juice. Salt slightly and serve it hot—but not boiled—or icy cold. The convalescent will relish a few delicate pieces of Melba toast on the side.

Too few people remember that a sick person is really a hostess in her small room, so as soon as the “No Visitors” sign is down send the invalid something both she and her guests can enjoy. This is the moment to bring forth a well-aged fruitcake or a pan of cinnamon buns or tiny homemade crullers. With the sitting-up-and-taking-notice stage well along, gladden the invalid’s heart with a box of cheese whirls (page 207) and a bottle of Champagne when the doctor allows it. A bottle of fine whisky or sherry is an equally good lifter-upper, especially if an old-fashioned topless thimble (from the notion counter) comes with it, and a fake prescription to “Drink a thimbleful three times a day until improvement.” Men love this gift.

When the patient has returned home and is “up and about but not out” comes the time to share with her your birthday cake, or that extra delicious dessert, or the main dish that has turned out particularly well. Or find out whether a restricted diet has been ordered and offer to provide an entire meal—either lunch or dinner. Send or bring it set out in your daintiest china on your prettiest tray. Both the invalid and the nurse will consider themselves in your debt, one for the lightening of her labor, the other for the bringing of that variety which is the spice of life, sick or well.

If you do send flowers, see if you can’t arrange to have your offering already in the room when the patient arrives at the hospital. I know that the small bouquet I found waiting on the otherwise bare bureau did more to allay my quivering nerves than any of the more elaborate offerings I got later.

Perhaps the height of originality in invalid gifts was the large mourning wreath presented to my father-in-law just as he was well out of the woods after a most serious operation. A pretended forgotten order, it had “No Cross, No Harp” in large gilt letters on its hideous lavender bow and it decorated (though perhaps that is not quite the word) a foot-post of his high white bed until he recovered. I’ve always felt the giver and receiver both had a rather warped sense of humor but the funeral gift was certainly enjoyed.

Instead of such a grisly object, bring your convalescent a few copies of the newest slick-paper magazines, fashion news for a woman and Esquire or Fortune for a man. Both sexes will relish a package of twenty-five cent detective stories, and any unfortunate in for a long siege will get unlimited amusement from one of the old-fashioned almanacs that many newsstands still sell. You might send this with a note offering to take either end of a small wager as to whether the weather prognostications are correct during the time your friend is on the shelf, and then put in a call once in a while to see how your share of the “pool” is progressing. A real “outside” interest.

Young bloods will take to a big package of their favorite comic books, horrible as they seem to grown-ups, and a pile of movie magazines is sure to delight an ill high school girl, no matter how serious minded she is when in full health. Her dressy sister will get hours of pleasure out of a box of artificial fingernails from the five-and-ten, accompanied by trial sizes of nail polish in the newest shades. Tuck in three or four small different-colored lipsticks, too, for a really glamorous gift to a young lady.

The very small sick-a-bed will be enraptured by a goldfish in its bowl, or the glass bubble may hold one of those remarkable baby turtles that pet shops sell all ready to be decorated with the recipient’s name; but don’t, as I once did, send the latter to a child in isolation with a contagious disease, for long, loud wails rent the air when, with the patient fully recovered, the beloved companion of the illness had to be destroyed. Little youngsters, bless them, love lots of little presents and a dollar’s worth from Woolworth’s, wrapped separately and arranged in a box like a Jack Horner Pie, gives the young invalid much to look forward to. Tag each string or ribbon with the hour or day in which it is to be pulled (perhaps after medicine) and the mother’s or nurse’s blessings will rain on your head. If the doctor allows, a package of candy sticks or lollipops answers the same purpose.

After all, the very best present you can give a sick friend is a bit of yourself. Two short cheery visits are better than one long wearying call and even the most lonely sufferer will feel cheered and popular if you flatter her by phoning or writing ahead to make an “appointment.” If you do this, keep your date come hell or high water, for invalids, like small children, take disappointment bitterly to heart and the nonappearance of an expected friend has caused many a setback on the road to recovery. Evening, after the usual dreadfully early hospital supper, is a good time to drop in, for it helps the homesick feeling that comes oftenest before settling down for the night. Hospitals, or sickrooms generally, aren’t happy places at best and a few laughs and perhaps a hand of gin rummy with an old friend will do more than pills to bring an easy rest and a bright outlook for next morning.

• THIN SLICES OF VIRGINIA HAM (page 157). Top the package with a tiny china pig and a message like “Greetings from one to another.”

• A SMALL LOAF OF BREAD or NUT BREAD or a PAN OF BISCUITS (pages 137, 145, 144).

• TOMATO JELLY (page 161).

• Two lightly seasoned STUFFED EGGS (page 154) wrapped in frilly waxed paper.

• CUSTARD PIE or a BAKED CUSTARD (page 119, 111). This might come from “Charlie Chaplin.”

• TRIFLE (page 111).

• CLAM BISQUE (page 42).

• A split of CHAMPAGNE and a tiny jar of CAVIAR. Wonderful for the last night in hospital.

• A jar of CURRIED CHICKEN (page 173) and lots of little packages of side dishes (make the sauce mild).

• A miniature bottle of WHISKY made into an old-fashioned bouquet with a border of fresh mint and the frill of a paper doily. Substitute a jar of LEMONADE (page 204) for the alcoholic beverage if necessary.

• VEAL AND HAM PIE (page 57) with a Union Jack stuck in the top.

• And for old or young, always ICE CREAM (page 120).

• These last few suggestions are for the rare moments when you are uncertain of the invalid’s tastes or appetite.

• A book on SOLITAIRE and a DECK OF CARDS.

• A prickly CACTUS plant, with a card attached “I’m coming to sit on this until you get well.”

• A bottle of EAU DE COLOGNE or a box of LAVENDER or PINE-SCENTED SOAP.