The Old Foodie

Matrimonial Cake.

2008-07-18T06:21:00.002+10:00

July 18 …

Just a simple little cake recipe for you today my friends, for no other reason that it adds to the collection of recipes on a similar theme. We had Matrimony Sauce and Matrimony Pudding in a story over two years ago, today I give you Matrimonial Cake, and ask for you to help find the earliest recipe, just for fun, because it is disputed. We will allow ‘Matrimony’ as being an equivalent name, OK?

First, here is the recipe, as it appeared in an Ohio newspaper in 1933.

Matrimonial Cake.
2 cups rolled oats
2 cups pastry flour
2 cups brown sugar
1 tsp soda
1 cup butter or oil.
Filling:-
1 lb. stoned dates
¼ cup brown sugar
juice of 1-2 lemons
1 ½ cups boiling water.
Cook slowly over a low fire until soft. Cool Mix often to prevent burning.
Mix all dry ingredients with butter. Grease shallow cake pan. Cover with ½ of ingredients and then cover with date filling and with balance of dry ingredients.
Bake in oven at 325 degrees F. for about 45 minutes or until golden brown. When cold serve with whipped cream. Serves about 15.

The common theme to these recipes for sauce, pudding, and cake, is a mixture of two different items – existing, we hope, in delicious harmony rather than remaining rigidly aloof.

The OED gives other examples of ‘matrimony’ or ‘matrimonial’ as they apply to food. It may refer to ‘that injudicious mixing of wines, which is called matrimony’, or ‘a name given jocularly to raisins and almonds mixed’, or ‘oranges and star apples [peeled and sliced] mixed’, and even ‘a slice of cake between two pieces of bread and butter’ eaten together like a sandwich.

As for matrimony (or matrimonial) cake, the ownership is in dispute. Canada claims it in the above form of an oaty slice with a datey filling, although Ohio was clearly given permission to publish the recipe early in its life. There seem to be recipes appearing for it in the 1930’s, although I am not sure we should allow ‘date squares’, even if dates, in the normal order of things, precede the marital state.

There are ancestors of course – a Jewish cookbook of 1871 has a Matrimony Cake, although I do not know its composition. An oldish Northern England recipe has a one too, which is ‘a large round cake … having a layer of currants between two layers of pastry, covered with sugar … and cut into as many pieces as there are persons at the feast.’

Can anyone add any more anecdotes or recipes to this search for the perfect marriage of cake ingredients?

Quotation for the Day …

I refuse to believe that trading recipes is silly. Tunafish casserole is at least as real as corporate stock. Barbara Grizzuti Harrison.

High and mighty tasty?

2008-07-17T06:18:00.000+10:00

July 17 ...

I have never quite understood the desire to eat decomposing flesh, even when it is referred to as ‘well hung’ or ‘high’ rather than half-rotten. Call me plebeian if you wish. It seems however that I am in good company.

The poet John Keats and his friend Charles Armitage Brown wrote a joint letter from Bedhampton in the south of England to ‘Mrs Dilke’ in January 1819 – Keats writing in black ink, Brown in red.

“ … Keats is much better, owing to a strict forbearance from a third glass of wine. He & I walked to Chichester yesterday, we were here at 3, but the dinner was finished; a brace of Mure fowl had been dresse; I ate a piece of the breast cold, & it was not tainted; I dared not venture further. Mr. Snook was nearly turned sick by being merely asked to take a mouthful. The other brace was so high, that the cook declined preparing them for the spit, & they were thrown away. I see your husband declared them to be in excellent order: I suppose he enjoyed them in a disgusting manner, - sucking the rotten flesh off the bones, & crunching the putrid bones. Did you enjoy any? I hope not, for a woman should be delicate in her food. ”

The muir-fowl (or moor-fowl) is a Scottish red grouse, I believe. Or it may be the ruffled grouse, or a ptarmigan. Usage seems to overlap, and it certainly overflows my intelligence on the topic.

In the early nineteenth century a leisurely trip from the moors of Scotland to the south of England might have been sufficient for it to be quite enjoyable (for those inclined to tainted flesh) by the time it arrived.

Here is Mrs. Rundell’s method for potting Moor Fowl – a nice trick if you have an embarrassing supply of them, as they should keep nicely this way. You are making a confit, really, and it does not matter whether you have the grouse or the ptarmigan or any other small bird for that matter. She only wants them ‘pretty high’ in the spicing department, which is quite acceptable to me.

To Pot Moor Game.
Pick, singe, and wash the birds nicely; then dry them; and season, inside aud out, pretty high, with pepper, mace, nutmeg, allspice, and salt. Pack them in as small a pot as will hold them, cover them with butter, and bake in a very slow oven. Whon cold, take off the butter, dry them from the gravy, and put one bird into each pot, which should just fit. Add as much more butter as will cover them - but take care that it does not oil. The best way to melt it is, by warming it in a basin set ii a bowl of hot water.
A New System of Domestic Cookery. Maria Rundell. 1814

Quotation for the Day …

“Ham: 40 days in salt, 40 days hanging, in 40 days eaten … Pork at walking pace, beef at a trot, game at a gallop.
Joseph Delteil, La Cuisine paleolithique, 1964

On the naming of dishes, Part 2.

2008-07-16T07:01:00.000+10:00

July 16 ...

Global citizens that we are, connected to everyone, everywhere, 24/7, it is almost impossible to imagine what life was like in the days when the circle only stretched to your immediate community. For most folk, for most of history, the circle was as far as you could walk in the course of your daily work. For some folk, who could read, knowledge of the wider circle could come from books (and newspapers), depending on which were available. There is a delightful point in the diary of the eighteenth century country Parson James Woodforde (who we have met many times before in this blog) when he has sent ‘the boy’ into the big town on an errand. The boy brings the newspaper back to the village – the news by now days to weeks old. The good parson notes briefly in his diary the news about some sort of kerfuffle in France (i.e the beginnings of the Revolution) – the brief note given perspective by appearing in the midst of great detail about the vitally important trivia of day to day life in the parish.

Are we less on mystery and adventure now, for knowing (or being informed of) so everything that is happening everywhere else? For an island nation (like Britain, or Australia), by definition ‘everywhere else’ is ‘overseas’. ‘Overseas’ is far more mysterious than ‘over the border’. Imagine living a couple of hundred years before the good parson, when a dish was strangely, slightly exotic, so that you knew it was not local, but all that you could guess was that it came from ‘beyond the sea.’

To make a stewe after the guyse of beyonde the sea.
Take a pottel of fayre water, and as much wyne, and a breste of mutton chopt in peces, than set it on the fyre and scome it cleane, than put therto a dyschefull of slyced onyons, and a quantite of synamon, gynger, cloves and mace, wyth salte and stewe them all together, and than serve them with soppes.
[Proper Newe Booke of Cokerye, c1545]

Tomorrow’s Story …

High and mighty tasty?

Quotation for the Day …

The only cooks in the civilized world are French cooks. . . . Other nations understand food in general; the French alone understand cooking, because all their qualities - promptitude, decision, tact - are employed in the art. No foreigner can make a good white sauce. Louis Victor Nestor Roqueplan, 1853.

On the naming of dishes.

2008-07-15T06:14:00.001+10:00

July 15 ...

As an extension to yesterday’s theme, I am also constantly amused and intrigued by the naming of individual dishes. This one, for an eighteenth century example.

Spread-Eagle Pudding.
Cut the Crust off three stale Halfpenny Rolls, and slice them into a Pan; then set three Pints of Milk on the Fire, making it scalding hot, but not to boil; pour it over the Bread, cover it close, and let it stand an Hour; sweeten it with Sugar, add a very little Salt, a Nutmeg grated, a Pound of shred Sewet, half a Pound of Currants, half a Pint of cold mlk, ten Yolks and five Whites of Eggs; stir it well, butter your Dish, and bake it half an Hour.

This particular example appears in Richard Bradley’s The country housewife, and lady’s director, published in 1762, but it can also be found word for word (as was the habit at the time) in many other eighteenth century coobooks.

How did a fairly simple variation on the theme of bread pudding get a name like this?

A ‘spread eagle’ is a heraldic term. The motif appears on coats-of-arms in many places around the world, to represent noble virtues such as courage and far-sightedness. But these themes are hardly likely to be related directly to an innocuous, homely bread pudding, are they?

The term can also be used of course to represent a position of punishment – as when a prisoner is secured in a stretched out position in order to be flogged, or one of extreme subjugation with sexual overtones. How could a harmless little mix of bread and milk attract these connotations?

In one copy of the recipe, it is referred to as The Spread-Eagle pudding. There are many very old hostelries with the name, so perhaps it was a specialty in one of them, and was so popular it acquired the name.

Any other theories gratefully accepted for discussion.

Regardless of its name, it might attract you a certain cachet (and provide a dinner table conversation gambit) if you whip up a Spread-Eagle pudding for your guests!

Tomorrow’s Story …

On the naming of dishes, Part 2.

Quotation for the Day …

A philosopher is a person who doesn't care which side his bread is buttered on; he knows he eats both sides anyway. Joyce Brothers.

The language of menus.

2008-07-14T06:29:00.000+10:00

July 14 ...

Just a simple little story today, friends. A little musing on the naming of dishes. Once upon a time, when the language of menus was French, French, or French, every averagely sophisticated diner would have understood the likes of Truite à la Normande or Sweetbreads à la Financière, even if they could not hum La Plume de Ma Tante or ask the price of a pedicure. Then, as the nineteenth century wore on and eventually gave way to the twentieth, Americans and Britishers began questioning the practice, for reasons of national pride. A couple of world wars reinforced the changes, and although royals and heads of state hung out the longest - for reasons of elitistm, I guess – French was eventually dropped from menus everwhere but in its own country.

By the sixties and seventies, the desire for novelty (often for its own sake) meant that the ability to provide this became part of the definition of culinary skill and creativity. A new dish was required every week. Gone were the days (centuries or decades, actually) when one’s ancestors would have recognised every item on the menu in your hand. Classical menu phrases gave way to long-winded descriptions that almost substitute for recipes.

Away from restaurant dining and civic banquets and high-profile chefs, the little woman at home had a different menu challenge. How to disguise the leftovers as a new dish. And then – what to call it so that the family did not guess the ruse. Occasionally, home cooks almost willfully refused to be part of that deception, and presented things with names such as Old Maid Pie (or Scrap Pie).

I give you a couple of other failures to hide the culinary truth by the use of creative language. The first is from that canny Scot, Mrs.Dalgairns, who undoubtedly saw frugality as a virtue to proclaim.

Debris Pudding.
Mash a few boiled potatoes with a little salt, milk, and a good bit of butter; mince very finely the lean part of some cold boiled salted beef, mix it with the mashed potates, and brown it in a Dutch oven in the same way that a salt fish pudding is done. This pudding may be made of the remains of a piece of boiled beef, allowing to one pound of the beef one pound and a quarter of potatoes.
[The Practice of Cookery; Mrs Dalgairns. 1830.]

The second one puzzles me. Why not call it Bread and Butter Custard?

Save-All Pudding.
Put any scraps of Bread into a clean saucepan, — to about a pound, put a pint of Milk ; set it on the trivet till it boils, beat it up quite smooth, then break in three Eggs, three ounces of Sugar, with a little Nutmeg, Ginger, or Allspice, and stir it all well together. Butter a Dish big enough to hold it, put in the pudding, and have ready two ounces of suet chopped very fine, strew it over the top of the pudding, and bake it three quarters of an hour ; four ounces of Currants will make it much better.
[Cook’s Oracle, William Kitchiner, 1823.]

Tomorrow’s Story …

Quotation for the Day …

In America, even your menus have the gift of language.... "The Chef's own Vienna Roast. A hearty, rich meat loaf, gently seasoned to perfection and served in a creamy nest of mashed farm potatoes and strictly fresh garden vegetables." Of course, what you get is cole slaw and a slab of meat, but that doesn't matter because the menu has already started your juices going. Oh, those menus. In America, they are poetry. Laurie Lee.

Gravy, Part 2.

2008-07-11T06:49:00.002+10:00

July 11 ...

The most basic ‘gravy’ is of course what we call jus – the ‘essence’ of roast meat if you like. A true roast is done on a spit in front of a fire, this juice dripping off to be collected in a pan underneath (which, if you are very lucky indeed, contains Yorkshire Pudding batter.) Nowadays – not many of us having open fires in the kitchen and little boys willing to sit beside the same fire and turn the roasting jack for hours – we ‘bake’ our ‘roasts’ in the oven. No matter how well we ‘rest’ our ‘roast’, some of this jus waits to do its oozing until we carve. One eighteenth century writer was aware of how precious these droplets are, and gave thanks:

All honour to Wedgwood, for much do we owe to him ! Well will his claims on the regards of a grateful posterity of carvers be appreciated on reading the following account from the pages under review of what he has done for us : — " Mr. Wedgwood made a number of little every-day useful contrivances ; that dish, in which there is a well for the gravy. In the olden times, unhappy carvers were obliged to poke under the heavy sirloin for gravy ; or to raise and slope the dish, at the imminent hazard of overturning the sirloin, and splashing the spectators. Knife, fork, spoon, slipping all the while, one after another, into the dish! And, ten to one, no gravy to be had after all ! Nothing but cakes of cold grease. But now, without poking, slopping, splashing, the happy carver, free from these miseries of life, has only to dip his spoon into a well of pure gravy. Thanks to the invention of one man, all men, women, and children, may now have gravy without stooping the dish. So I give you, gentlemen and ladies, for a toast, ' The late Mr. Wedgwood, and the comforts of life.’

So good is gravy, in all its incarnations, that many say it is good for the health. Soup, in some of its incarnations is universally considered a panacea. Put them together and you have Gravy Soup, which surely must be amost magical in its health properties ? The author of one eighteenth century cook book did, calling it Soup Santé (healthy soup).

Gravy Soup or Soup Santé.
Put at the bottom of a stewpan six good rashers of lean ham, then put over them three pounds of lean beef, and cover the beef with three pounds of lean veal, six onions cut in slices, two carrots, and two turnips sliced, two heads of celery, a bundle of sweet herbs, six cloves, and two blades of mace. Put a little water at the bottom, draw it very gently till it sticks, and then put in a gallon of boiling water. Let it stew two hours, season it with salt, and strain it off. Then have ready a carrot cut in small pieces of two inches long, and about as thick as a goose quill, a turnip, two heads of leeks, two heads of celery, two heads of endive, cut across, two cabbage lettuces cut across, a little sorrel, and chervil. Put them into a stewpan, and sweat them gently a quarter of an hour. Then put them into your soup, and boil it up gently for ten minutes. Put it into your tureen, with the crust of a French roll.
[The Universal Cook, Francis Collingwood. 1792]

Monday’s Story …

Quotation for the Day …

There is no such passion in human nature as the passion for gravy. Charles Dickens.

Gravy, Part 1.

2008-07-10T06:35:00.001+10:00

July 10 ...

Today is the anniversary of the birth, in 1875, of Edmund Clerihew Bentley. He is the inventor of the ‘clerihew’ – ‘a short comic or nonsensical verse, professedly biographical, of two couplets differing in length.’ Why this little poetical exercise got his middle name is a mystery (I suppose ‘Bentley’ was already taken?) – would it have been so successful if it had been ‘John’? Anyway. I digress.

Edmund is on my radar for one reason only. The first ‘clerihew’ he wrote, as a sixteen-year old schoolboy happens to be on one of my favourite topics. And my favourite dinner tables.

“Sir Humphry Davy/ Abominated gravy./ He lived in the odium/ Of having discovered Sodium.”

The topic is gravy, not Davy.

Whether or not Sir Humphrey Davy did in fact abominate gravy is immaterial: the clever little rhyme pops up regularly in every food quotation site in the cybersphere. If Sir Humphrey did indeed dislike gravy, he was a very rare Englishman. There is a hoary old joke that England only has two sauces (compared to France, which considers itself to be the expert). I assume and believe that the two sauces are gravy (savoury) and custard (sweet).

What is amazing of course is that the simple word ‘gravy’ refers to a sauce of such infinite variation, that only one primary sauce is needed (compared with the French, who need four). The word appears to derive from the Old French word grané for ‘grain’ – suggesting that the original ‘gravy’ was a porridg-y dish, or at least one thickened with something. At some point in time the ‘n’ in ‘grané’ was mis-transcribed perhaps, as a ‘v’. The Oxford English Dictionary thinks so anyway.

It appears that the original ‘gravy’ was for white meats, and was made from broth thickened with almonds, nicely spiced, with the addition of wine or ale. The word can now mean anything from pure, unadulterated meat jus, a simple broth, a broth thickened with a roux, to all manner of complicated sauces and simple packet mixes made of brown powder and salt.

I intend to collect these gravy-variations. There will be another tomorrow, and thereafter they will be random, as the whim takes me. Or you, if you wish to be a random gravy-poster.

Here is one to start us off:

An excellent keeping gravy.
Burn an ounce of butter in a frying-pan ; always taking care to do it at such a proper distance from the fire, that while the flour is strewing into the butter, it may become brown, but not black. Put to it two pounds of coarse lean beef, a quart of water, half a pint of either red or white wine, three anchovies, two shalots, a little white pepper, a few cloves, and a bit of mace, with three or four mushrooms or pickled walnuts. After letting the whole stew gently about an hour, it may be strained for use ; it will keep several days, and is proper for any savoury dish.
[A Modern System of Domestic Cookery. Mrs. Radcliffe. 1823]

Tomorrow’s Story …

Gravy, Part 2.

Quotation for the Day …

I come from a family where gravy is considered a beverage. Erma Bombeck.

Entertaining the Queen.

2008-07-09T07:04:00.001+10:00

July 9 ...

Queen Elizabeth I arrived at Kenilworth, the home of her favourite, Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester on this day in 1575. It was the highlight of her summer ‘progress’ (Royal Tour): the visit, the feasting, and the pageantry lasted eighteen days. Impressing the Queen was an expensive exercise and the honour cost Dudley an unbelievable thousand dollars a day.

There was morris dancing, ‘sundry kinds of very delectable music’, play-acting, stag-hunting, bear-baiting, and all sorts of other frolicsome pastimes in addition to many extravagant dining experiences. The details of this fine little holiday were recorded by one Robert Laneham. He hints at the vast quantities of dainty viands and says that there were ‘full cups everywhere, every hour all kinds of wine’, but unfortunately for us does not give any detailed bills of fare. We must be satisfied with a general description of one of the banquets:

“After the play, out of hand followed a most delicious and (if I may so term it) an ambrosial banquet: whereof, whether I might more muse at the daintiness, shapes, and the cost; or else, at the variety and number of the dishes (that were three hundred), for my part, I could little tell then; and now less, I assure you. Her Majesty eat smally or nothing; which understood, the courses were not so orderly served and sizely set down, but were, by and by, as disorderly wasted and coarsely consumed; more courtly, methought, than courteously : But that was no part of the matter : it might please and be liked, and do that it came for, then was all well enough.”

I have chosen a chicken recipe for you from the Elizabethan era. Simple, but quite good enough to serve a Queen.

To bake a Capon with yolkes of Egges.
When the Capon is made redi, trusse him in to a Coffyn: then take .viii. yolks of egges sodden hard, a pick into every one of them, .v. Cloves, and put the yolks into the Coffyn with the Capon. Then take a quantitie of gynger and salt, and cast it upon the Capon and bake it .iii. houres. Then take .ii. raw yolkes of egges beaten into a Gobbett of veriuce, with a good quantitie of sugre sodden togither, put it into ye Coffyn and so serve it.
[A Treasurie of commodious Conceits, & hidden Secrets. John Partridge, published in 1573.]

Tomorrow’s Story …

Gravy, Part 1.

Quotation for the Day …

I never see an egg brought on my table but I feel penetrated with the wonderful change it would have undergone but for my gluttony; it might have been a gentle, useful, hen leading her chickens with a care and vigilance which speaks shame to many women. St. John de Crevecoeur.

Humble Pie.

2008-07-08T05:27:00.001+10:00

July 8 …

Samuel Pepys, bless him, alerted me out of my topic-neglect with his diary entry for this day in 1663. His wife was away in the country, but he managed not to starve.

“And then at noon home to dinner alone, upon a good dish of eeles given me by Michell the Bewpers-man. … I stepped to Sir W. Batten and there stayed and talked with him, my Lady being in the country, and sent for some lobsters; and Mrs. Turner came in and did bring us an Umble-pie hot out of her oven, extraordinarily good, and afterward some spirits of her making (in which she has great judgement), very good, and so home, merry with this nights refreshment.”

I can hardly believe that I have not given you a story about ‘umble pie’ in almost three years of blogging – and me about to give birth to a pie book sometime almost soon. I hope. A pie book has a gestation period of about fifty images, did you know that? The writing was the easy bit. No need to understand pixels, dpi’s, KB’s, jpegs, or how to get rid of red-eye. A piece of chalk and a blank wall will suffice, for words. But I digress.

‘Umbles’ or nombles, or humbles are ‘the inwards of a deer or other beast’ – in other words, the offal from your venison. A most prized part of the beast in Samuel’s day, not one to be shuddered at briefly before being slipped to the hounds or made invisible in sausages. A part traditionally the perquisite of the gamekeeper, but occasionally snaffled by the ‘better class of folk’ for their own enjoyment in ‘umble pie’. An interesting dish, Umble Pie. Quite paradoxical, really. Inferior enough to give us the ‘humble pie’ we eat symbolically when we are mildly humiliated, yet capable of being ‘extraordinarily good’ - good enough to give all fresh and hot from the oven, to your visitors. Desirable enough that if you didn’t have any umbles handy, a recipe book of 1617 could tell you how to fake the recipe, so that no-one could tell.

To make an Umble-pye, or for want of Umbles, to doe it with a Lambes head and Purtenance.
Boyle your meate reasonable tender, take the flesh from the bone, and mince it small with Beefe-suet and Sparrow, with the Liver, Lights, and Heart, a few sweet Hearbes and Currans. Season it with Pepper, Salt, and Nutmeg: bake it in a Coffin raised like an Umble pye, and it will eate so like unto Umbles, as that you shall hardly by taste discerne it from right Umbles.
[A New Booke of Cookerie; John Murrell, 1617]

Lamb’s Purtenance? The ‘innards or entrails of an animal, esp. as used for food’. Sheep Umbles, in other words.

Tomorrow’ Story …

Entertaining the Queen.

Quotation for the Day …

I think that I should like to sing of pies

Walter Elliot

Food & Finance, Part 2.

2008-07-07T06:33:00.000+10:00

July 7 ...

Last week I puzzled over dishes ‘à la Financière’. The answer has been staring me in the face all this time, thanks to M. Menon, the eighteenth century French author of The Professed Cook. M. Menon gives a recipe for a dish entitled simply Financière, which he explains as ‘Meaning a rich expensive dish.’ It would certainly be that, although perhaps not to modern tastes, being a fantastical melange that would put the average ‘surf and turf’ (or ‘reef and beef’) to inadequate shame.

M. Menon’s recipe for his sort of surf/turf/bird/seafood truffled, larded and be-fricandeaud concoction is:

Financière.
Meaning a rich expensive dish.

Take a head of Salmon, pretty long of about five or six Pound, clean it as for boiling; lard the upper part with fine Lardons, and fill it with a Ragout of Sweet Breads, Truffles, or Mushrooms, and fasten it so as the Ragout don’t get out; put it in a Braizing-pan much of its Bigness, upon thin slices of Lard and Veal, one or two slices of Ham, a Nosegay of Parsley and green Shallots, two Cloves, a Bit of Nutmeg, a Laurel Leaf and Thyme, few sliced Onions and Roots; soak this over a slow Fire about an Hour, then put the Salmon to it well tied; add some good Broth, a Pint of white Wine, Pepper and Salt, simmer it about an Hour; while this is doing, boil six small Pigeons, as many small Fricandeaux, called Grenadins larded, and a Dozen of large Crawfish, as many Truffles peeled; prepare a Glaze with Veal and Ham; when it is all done, dress the Salmon upon the Dish, and the second Preparation intermixed round it, and glaze the Meat, not the Salmon; for sauce, mix some good Consumée and Cullis, a Glass of white Wine, a little Pepper and Salt; give it a boil, and serve it round the Salmon upon the Meat Part.

Tomorrow’s Story …

Humble Pie.

Quotation for the Day …

“I want a dish to taste good, rather than to have been seethed in pig’s milk and served wrapped in a rhubarb leaf with grated thistle root.” Kingsley Amis.

"The Fourth"

2008-07-04T06:34:00.003+10:00

July 4 ...

Today being ‘The Fourth’, I have a Civil War era menu for you, my American friends. It is from the town of Prescott, Arizona – a town of the very young age of 35 days when it held its Independence Day celebrations at the ‘Juniper House’ in 1864. The restaurant itself being still in a state of construction, the dinner was held in a makeshift tent under a large juniper tree. Presumably many of the 400 party-goers (almost all male, there being a terrible dearth of women in the fledgling mining town) did not manage to fit inside the ten by fifteen foot space but stayed outside – where they could watch the food cooking on campfires.

The Juniper House Bill of Fare' July 4, 1864

Breakfast until 9 o'clock

Beef Steak Fried Liver

Venison Steak Mutton Chop

Tea and Coffee, with Milk

Dinner from 12 to 3

Beans Mutton Broth Bean Soup Beef Stew

Venison Barbecued Beef Barbequed Beef Potpie

Venison Potpie Mutton Barbequed Beef Potpie

Apple Roll, with Sauce.

Tea and Coffee, with Milk

Supper from 4 o’clock.

And here is how to cook any one of those pot pies without an oven.

Pot Pie.
Take raised pie-crust, line a pot, or small Dutch oven, or a very deep stewpan, bottom and sides, with one-half an inch thickness; lay your fowls and pork, or veal, in very small pieces, (the pork is always best boiled first,) in, with salt, and pepper, and small pieces of butter, then potatoes, cut in very delicate slices, then a layer of crust, one, again, of meat, then potatoes, then crust. Then pour in the water in which the pork has been boiled, through a hole in the top crust. The pie must be baked very judiciously, or it will be a failure. It is, therefore, always best to cook the meat and fowl, unless they are very young and tender. Lay a sheet of foolscap over the top, to keep it from baking too rapidly.

This is a most excellent dish for a harvest-party, or log-rolling; it can be made at any season of the year; in winter they are very fine, made of sweet-breads, tender-loins, and spare-ribs, finely sliced, or cut up.

The Great Western Cook Book, or Table Receipts, Adapted to Western Housewifery.New York: A.S. Barnes & Company, 1857. c1851

Monday’s Story …

Quotation for the Day …

“If there hadn't been women we'd still be squatting in a cave eating raw meat, because we made civilization in order to impress our girl friends. And they tolerated it and let us go ahead and play with our toys.” Orson Welles.

Travel Language No. 2

2008-07-03T05:26:00.001+10:00

July 3 …

The Old Foodie Spouse often comments, in response to one of my stories, that I am “having a go at” (that is, “taking the mickey out of”) Americans “again”. He did not say it yesterday, surprisingly, - being more miffed that the story was not about real black pudding, as he had anticipated. Nothing could be further from the truth however, for those of you from “Over There” are amongst my most loyal readers, and I never intend to mock. I am merely bemused on a permanent basis about how we can share a common heritage and language and yet still get something as basic as our puddings and biscuits mixed up. Nevertheless, I will say to my American friends, that I do not intend to travel to your country again, without some intensive education on how to negotiate the breakfast order. I am baffled by “sunny side up” and “over easy” and disturbed by “half and half” and the immoderate size of a stack of pancakes. But I digress.

The problem is very widespread. The complexities of travel in America, for an Englishman, are nothing compared with those of travel in Scotland, for an Englishman. Technically - although recognising that the Scots have never been wholeheartedly in favour of the union - Scotland and England are in fact the same nation. The language difficulty is of long standing. In 1827 an English army officer called Capt.Thomas Hamilton wrote a novel about a character called Cyril Thornton. A work of fiction it may be, but certainly the author had travelled to Scotland, otherwise he could not have gotten the story so right. Here is the dialogue:

“It was already evening. My uncle's dinner-hour was past; and it was, I thought, on the whole, better to delay my visit till the following morning. I therefore declared myself stationary in the Buck's Head till the following day, and feeling at the moment a more proximate and cogent want than that of sleep — for during my day's journey I had tasted no refreshment — I requested a sight of the bill of fare. "Bill o' fare ! " replied the jolly and facetious dowager, " troth that's puttin' the cart before the horse; for ye maun ha'e your fare first, and syne it will be time enough to speer for the bill." "Perhaps you do not understand me, or it may not be your custom in Scotland to keep one." "I understand you weel eneuch, Major, and it's what you Englishmen often ca' for ;' but I never trouble mysel' to put pen to paper aboot the matter, for I was aye glegger at the speaking than the writing; and weel I wat, a souple tongue comes better
speed than the best pen that ever came out o' a goose. You'll be for soup, I'se warrant ; and there's baith stot's tail and hare soup in the house, besides barley broth, gin ye like that better. Then, in the way o' fish, there's haddocks, partins, and herrings, fresh from the Broomielaw. For meat, ye can ha'e a chop, a stake, or a nice veal cutlet, for ye'll maybe no like to wait for the roasting o' a joint ; or ye can get a spatch-cock made o' a chicken in ten minutes. Then there's game — paitricks or muir-fowl, wham o' them ye like best ; and, gin ye like nane o' thae things, I daursay there's mair in the house, though I canna just mind them at the present moment." I assured her, however, there was not the smallest occasion to tax her memory any further, and made my selection from the numerous delicacies of which she had already satisfactorily indicated the local habitation and the name.”

There are a host of words here that are not “English”. Partin (partan) we have come across before; a stot turns out to be ‘a young castrated ox’, so a stot’s tail is ox-tail; paitricks are partridges, and muir-fowl are red grouse. “Broth” is easy enough, and international enough thank goodness, for no traveller to go hungry. We did have a story once before on Scotch Broth - the pot au feu of Scotland - without managing to give a recipe. Today I make good with the version from that wonderful Scottish book The Cook and Housewife’s Manual, by Christian Isobel Johnstone (or Mistress Margaret Dods, if you prefer.)

Scotch Barley-Broth, With Boiled Mutton Or Beef, as Bouilli Ordinaire.
To from three to six pounds of beef or mutton, according to the quantity of soup wanted, put cold water in the proportion of a quart to the pound, — a quarter-pound of
Scotch barley, or more or less as may suit the meat and the water, and a spoonful of salt, unless the meat is already slightly salted. To this put a breakfast-cupful of soaked white or split peas, unless in the season when fresh green peas are to be had cheap, a larger quantity of which must be put in with the other vegetables, using less barley. Skim very carefully as long as any scum rises ; then draw aside the pot, and let the broth simmer slowly for an hour, at which time put to it two young carrots and turnips cut in dice, and two or three onions sliced. Ten minutes before the broth is ready, add a little parsley, picked and chopped, — or the white part of three leeks may be used instead of onions, and a head of celery slice, instead of parsley seasoning; celery requires longer boiling. For beef-broth a small quantity of greens roughly shred, and the best part of four or five leeks cut in inch lengths, are better suited than turnip, carrot, and parsley, which are more adapted to mutton. If there is danger of the meat being overdone before the broth is properly lithed, i. e. thickened, it may be taken up, covered for a half hour, and returned into the pot to heat through before it is dished. Garnish the bouilli with carrot and turnip boiled in the broth, and divided ; or pour over it capsr-sauce, parsley and butter, or a sauce made of pickled cucumbers, or nasturtiums heated in melted butter, or in a little clear broth, with a tea-spoonful of made mustard and another of vinegar. Parsley, parboiled for two minutes and minced, may also be strewed over bouilli, — or a sprinkling of boiled carrots cut in small dice.

Tomorrow’s Story…

The Fourth.

Quotation for the Day …

It has been claimed for the British baker that he alone can make a muffin; but it is almost to be feared, if this were ever so that the prestige has been passed over to America, where muffins are made of various flours, and so light and digestible that it is a question if they are not rather an American dish. Theodore Francis Garrett.

Black Pudding?

2008-07-02T06:21:00.000+10:00

July 2 ...

There are many travel hazards that books don’t warn you about. Language traps in particular – especially those that happen when you are travelling in a country with the same language as your own, for example. Eating out traps that have nothing to do with food poisoning, for another example:

The confusion of ‘biscuits’ appearing on the breakfast menu instead of at afternoon tea.

Mayonnaise instead of tomato sauce (ketchup) with your chips (fries).

Getting your salad in the wrong place in the order of things.

I came across a really scary one recently (in my reading), and in the interests of preserving good international relationships, I want to warn any Britishers or Australians travelling to the U.S of A of this example.

If you see ‘black pudding’ on the menu, and fancy some with your breakfast – you might be shocked. You might not get a sausage made of pigs blood - all dark and savoury and salty-spicy – you might get an entirely different sort of pudding. The sort that in your home country you might expect to come at the end of a satisfying dinner. An entirely delicious dish in its own right, but not one to cosy up beside your fried eggs (which ever way up or over you order them.)

Black Pudding.
One quart of blueberries, one pint of water, one cupful of sugar, a five-cent baker's loaf, butter. Stew the berries, sugar and water together. Cut the bread in thin slices, and butter these. Put a layer of the bread in a deep dish, and cover it with some of the hot berries. Continue this until all the bread and fruit is used, and set away to cool. The pudding should be perfectly cold when served. Serve with cream and sugar.
Any other small berries can be used instead of blueberries.
[Miss Parloa’s New Cookbook..1880]

I love the sound of this pudding.

On second review, it might make a pretty good breakfast after all. Just not beside the eggs, please.

Tomorrow’s Story.

Travel Language No. 2

Quotation for the Day.

Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow you may work.

Dominion Day, 1933.

2008-07-01T06:07:00.001+10:00

July 1 ...

Today is Canada Day - or for old Colonials it is Dominion Day, or I guess it could have been called Federation Day. Whatever it represents nationally, today does a reasonable stand-in for Canada’s birthday - the day I salute my Canadian readers and hope every last one of you has a fine, maple-syrup drenched time.

What might a vaguely mysterious arisocratic Frenchman living in England in the 1930’s suggest as an appropriate menu for this day? The Vicomte de Mauduit – the “wandering nobleman” as he liked to call himself – wrote several books on food. In his book The Vicomte in the Kitchen (1933) he made menu suggestions for several important occasions such as “After Eighteen Holes of Golf”, and “When your Husband brings home an Influential Business Friend” and “Before the Races”.

For ‘Dominion Day’ in Canada he suggested:

Canadian Corn Soup.
Canadian Salmon, Sauce Vert.
Poulet Sauté Marengo.
Sweet Corn – Peas Sautés.
Canadian Apple Pie, Maple Cream Sauce.

To assist you on the day, here are his versions of the sauces.

Sauce Vert.
Take some finely chopped tarragon, chervil, parsley, and a little shallot, also chopped. Blanch and pound in a mortar with a little butter, and pass through a hair sieve into some Sauce Hollandaise. Add salt, pepper and cayenne, and stir well.

Canadian Maple Cream Sauce.
Whip one cup of cream stiff. Fold in half a cup of shaved maple sugar. Sprinkle with cinnamon and grated maple sugar on top, and serve at once.

Tomorrow’s Story …

Black Pudding?

Quotation for the Day …

The (apple) pie should be eaten “while it is yet florescent, white or creamy yellow, with the merest drip of candied juice along the edges, (as if the flavor were so good to itself that its own lips watered!) of a mild and modest warmth, the sugar suggesting jelly, yet not jellied, the morsels of apple neither dissolved nor yet in original substance, but hanging as it were in a trance between the spirit and the flesh of applehood...then, O blessed man, favored by all the divinities! eat, give thanks, and go forth, 'in apple-pie order!” Henry Ward Beecher.

Food & Finance.

2008-06-30T05:26:00.000+10:00

June 30 ...

Today here in Australia it is the last day of the financial year – the day, depending on one’s financial capabilities - when one either resolves to embrace future frugality, or plans the shopping spree when the tax cheque comes in.

It made me think of a financial theme for the day. I have often wondered how the classic French garnish that entitles a dish to be styled ‘à la Financière. ’ This garnish (and I am quoting Larousse here) consists of ‘cock’s combs, cock’s kidneys, quenelles, lamb’s sweetbreads, mushrooms, olives, and strips of truffles’. Methinks it sounds like a meal all on its own, not a mere garnish. An alternative gives it as including a sauce made with Madeira and Truffles, which probably explains the name - it is obviously short for ‘à la clever Financière. ’

Cookbooks authors almost always stress the necessity of economy in the kitchen (apart from the Baron Brisse, that is). Cookbooks of the Victorian era seemed to particularly delight in giving recipes whose very names suggested that they were suitable for economically distraught times. We had ‘Half Pay Pudding’ in a previous story, but there are many others – Save-All Pudding, Miser’s Sauce, Poor-Man’s Soup, for example. All quite gloomy, really. I want to assume that at least a few of you are clever, even elegant, economists. To you I dedicate this pudding, from Cassell’s Shilling Cookery (1888).

The Elegant Economist’s Pudding.
Cut the remains of any plum pudding into neat slices and lay them in a buttered pie-dish, pressing them down to make them adhere. Make as much custard as will fill the dish. Let it go cold. Pour it upon the pudding; cover the top with thin slices of pudding, and bake in a gentle oven. When the custard is set, the pudding is done enough. It will take from half an hour to an hour, depending on its size. The custard may be plain or rich, according to taste.

Any ideas (ridiculous or otherwise) as to how this pudding got its name?

Tomorrow’s Story.

Dominion Day, 1933.

Quotation for the Day.

When you give food to the poor, they call you a saint.
When you ask why the poor have no food, they call you a communist.
Archbishop Helder Camara.

Macaroni, Unusual.

2008-06-27T07:25:00.002+10:00

June 27 ...

We have had a macaroni previously on this blog – a story that specifically addressed the problematic definition of the word, as well as commenting on the history of macaroni cheese , and giving Mrs. Beeton’s recipe for macaroni pudding. We have also had at least one nineteenth century menu which included the very popular macaroni soup. We have had vegetarian Macaroni Italian Fashion , and even macaroni specifically for the Pope. Macaroni has played a supporting role in a lot of other recipes on this blog too.

Just when you think there is nothing more to be said on the subject of macaroni, up pops this recipe:

Macaroni Cordial.
This favourite French liqueur is very little known in England. The secret of making it is, even in France, confined to a very few persons. We have, however, obtained the genuine receipt, which is as follows: - Infuse, for fourteen days, in nine pints of brandy, one pound of bitter almonds, with a small quantity of Bohemian or Spanish angelica root beaten together; shaking frequently the vessel which contains all these ingredients. At the expiration of that time, place the whole contents in a cucurbit; and, distilling, in balneo mariae, five pints of spirit thus impregnated with the flavour of the almonds and angelica, make a syrup with five pounds of sugar, two quarts of eau-de-mille-fleurs, and three quarts of common distilled water. This being mixed with the spirits, add thirty drops of the essence of lemons ; after which, filter it through blotting-paper. This operation is readily performed: and the liquor, having once passed through, becomes a delicious cordial, of the most brilliant clearness ; charming, at the same time, both the taste and sight.
[A Modern System of Domestic Cookery: Or, The Housekeeper's Guide … M. Radcliffe 1823]

Presumably this name is related to the use of ‘macaroni’to mean (in English), a foppish, “Continental” invention.

My long-standing intent to make up a glossary for the strange words appearing in this blog never seems to eventuate – or at least, the time required doesn’t. For today only, I will offer a glossary-on-the-fly:

A Cucurbit (you thought it was a gourd, didn’t you?) is “a vessel or retort, originally gourd-shaped, used in distillation and other chemical (or alchemical) processes, or for keeping liquids, etc., in; forming the lower part of an alembic.” [OED]

Balneo Mariae: a water bath.

Eau-de-mille-fleurs: a perfumed water, so called because it supposedly contained the scent of a thousand flowers, (but in practice, usually orange, lavender, and fennel)

Monday’s Story.

Food & Finance.

Quotation for the Day.

I love strong tasting dishes: macaroni prepared by a good Neapolitan cook. Casanova.

A Hearty Crab Supper.

2008-06-26T05:30:00.000+10:00

June 26

Dorothy Wordsworth, the sister of the poet William Wordsworth, was a writer herself , although she confined her work to a private journal. On this day in 1828 she was in the Isle of Man, and wrote:

“ … Douglas harbour illuminated; … Joanna welcomed us with a dish of crabs sent by her kind friend Mrs. Putnam. Stars appearing at our return; after a hearty supper of crabs etc. retired to rest.”

Crabs are decapod crustaceans. They are also very good to eat, if you don’t mind shelling out the crab meat, or shelling-out for pre-shelled meat in a restaurant. For some reason that I cannot explain, my first thought on reading this journal entry was ‘What have crabs to do with crab apples?’.

Crab Apples are small, excruciatingly sour wild apples impossible to eat raw but fabulous for jam/jelly. Is the word in this context related to that of the fine animal that made Dorothy a fine supper? The origin, it has to be admitted, is uncertain. The OED gives two possibilities, one quite prosaic, one quite delightful. The first I interpret as a Viking inheritance – from the word skrabba, simply meaning fruit of the wild apple tree. I prefer the second – that it is related to crabbed or crabby, as we apply them to persons of ‘contradictory, perverse, and fractious disposition’ – which is reminiscent of the strange gait of that decapod crustacean that we call a crab.

If there is such a thing as linguistic terroir, then I think a modern chef of inventive mind should create a new dish incorporating both crab crustacean and crab apple - and invite me to be on the sampling panel. I can only offer separate recipes from the nineteenth century.

Hot Crab.
Pick the meat out of a crab, clear the shell from the head, then put the meat with a little nutmeg, salt, pepper, a bit of batter, crumbs of bread, and three spoonfuls of
vinegar, into the shell again, and set it before the fire. You may brown it with a salamander. Dry toast should be served to eat it upon.
A New System of Domestic Cookery: Formed Upon Principles of Economy … Maria Eliza Ketelby Rundell, 1814.

Crab-Apple Jelly.
Wash the fruit clean, put in a kettle, cover with water, and boil until thoroughly cooked. Then pour into a sieve, and let it drain. Do not press it through. For each pint of this liquor allow one pound of sugar. Boil for twenty minutes to half an hour.
Miss Parloa’s New Cook Book. Maria Parloa. 1882.

Tomorrow’s Story.

Macaroni, Unusual.

Quotation for the Day.

It was quite a challenge to make people eat crab ice cream. Heston Blumenthal

Groaning over dinner.

2008-06-25T05:59:00.001+10:00

June 25 ...

Our old friend Parson Woodford and his niece Nancy dined – as they often did - with the local squire, Mr. Custance and his family on this day in 1783.

“Nancy and myself dined and spent part of the afternoon at Weston House with Mr. and Mrs. Custance……whilst we were at Dinner Mrs. Custance was obliged to go from Table about 4 o’clock labour Pains coming on fast upon her. We went home soon after dinner on the Occasion – as we came in the Coach. We had for Dinner some Beans and Bacon, a Chine of Mutton rosted, Giblett Pye, Hashed Goose, a Rabbit rosted and some young Peas, - Tarts, Pudding and Jellies…..Mrs. Custance….was brought to bed of a fine girl about 7 o’clock and as well as could be expected.”

Childbirth being a very frequent event in most households of the time, it was obviously not thought necessary for guests to quit the table immediately when the hostess was forced into a hasty retreat - her ‘groaning time’ upon her. No doubt the good parson, who enjoyed his food, did not let it affect his appetite for the remainder of his dinner.

Childbirth was of course much more hazardous in those days, which probably accounts for the longer celebrations when it all went well. ‘Groaning time’ was indeed the very apt name for for the ‘lying in’ time, and many special foods were prepared for the occasion. A special ‘groaning beer’ (or ‘groaning ale’, ‘groaning malt’, ‘groaning drink’) – an extra strong beverage – was prepared to sustain the poor father during the ordeal, and to give to the visitors and ‘gossips’ after it was all over. ‘Gossips’ used to be the name for the women who were present at the birth, and the name meant something like ‘God’s witnesses’ – in the sense that they were spiritual sponsors or godparents of the child (sorry for the linguistic aside, but I couldn’t resist such a great word – think on it next time you accuse someone of gossiping.)

Anyway, the visitors and attendants might also be offered groaning cake, groaning pie, groaning bread or groaning cheese, depending on local tradition. In some areas a groaning cake would be offered to the groaning woman (as if she would be interested!), after it was cut into the exact number of slices as the number of those present, for luck. In other areas every caller to the house after the birth had to partake of a slice of the cake, again ‘for luck’ – there still being a long risky time before mother and child could be deemed safe. Another variation of tradition was that when the woman was going to be ‘churched’ after the birth (to be ceremonially ‘cleansed’ and welcomed back to the flock) she carried a piece of the groaning cake to give to the first person that she met along the way.

There was no single, significant recipe for these cakes and breads and pies – it was the occasion that gave the name. I therefore give you a recipe from the wonderfully named The New Book of Cookery; or, Every Woman a perfect Cook, by Mrs. Eliz. Price, (1785), which would be quite suitable, and could be prepared well in advance of the expected time. Perhaps a fine gift for your next friend so blessed?

A good Plumb Cake.
To a pound and a half of fine flour add a pound of currants, half a pound of raisins stoned and chopped small, ten or twelve eggs (but only half the whites) a pound of butter worked to a cream, a gill of white wine or brandy, a pound of sugar, a little orange flower water, some candied citron, orange, and lemon, a few sweet almonds pounded, a little beaten mace, nutmeg, and cinnamon; when you have beat it all together about an hour, put [it] in the hoop, and send to the oven; it will take two hours baking.

Tomorrow’s Story.

A Hearty Crab Supper.

Quotation for the Day.

Life is uncertain. Eat dessert first. Ernestine Ulmer

Midsummer/Midwinter.

2008-06-24T05:55:00.003+10:00

June 24

Those of us who food-blog away in the bottom half of the globe have to deal on a daily basis with the constant threat of seasonal confusion due to the fact that food bloggers in the other half of the world outnumber us several large numbers to one, and therefore dominate cyberspace. We get a case of serious culinary cognitive dissonance when it is freezing outside yet we are bombarded with recipes for chilly ices and cooling salads, and when we are sweating and sweltering we are offered boiling soups and ‘winter-warming’ casseroles.

Well, today is the traditional Mid-Summer Day “up there” where most of you are. I am here to remind you that for some of us, it is Mid-Winter, and I have my thick socks on. I have made it my mission, at Solstice time, to try to find recipes that will suit us all (2006, 2007), and I have previously given you my Solstice Cake recipe.

What to do this year? We have a joint literary heritage which crosses equatorial boundaries, so I thought something inspired by Shakespeare’s Midsummer Nights Dream. I give you Queen Mab’s Pudding, courtesy of Cassell’s Dictionary of Cookery (circa 1870). I give it first in the original form – suitable for those of you “up there”, then I give my own suggestions for adapting it to Mid-Winter.

Queen Mab’s Pudding.
Put a pint and a half of new milk or cream into a saucepan with any flavouring that may be preferred – either an inch of stick cinnamon, the thin rind of a lemon, vanilla, or eight or nine bitter almonds, blanched or sliced. Simmer the liquor gently till it is pleasantly and rather strongly flavoured, then put with it a pinch of salt, four ounces of loaf sugar, and an ounce of isinglass or gelatine, and stir till the last is dissolved. Strain the mixture through muslin, and mix with it the well-beaten yolks of five eggs. Stir it again over the fire until it begins to thicken, but on no account allow it to boil, or it will curdle. Stir until it is cool, then mix with it an ounce and a half of candied peel and an ounce and a half of dried cherries – or if preferred, preserved ginger or preserved pineapple may be used instead of the cherries, and alittle of the juice of the fruit may be stirred in with the pudding. Pour the pudding into an oiled mould, and let it stand in a cool place, or on ice, until set. Turn the pudding out very carefully, and pour around it a sauce made of clear syrup flavoured with lemon-rind and coloured with cochineal, or if preferred, mixed with a small portion of strawberry or currant acid.

Midwinter version: omit the isinglass or gelatine, throw the dried fruits into the warm custard if you like them, pour into warm bowls, add a blob of colourful jam or some sun-like soaked dried apricots. Eat.

There. Now don’t we all feel like brothers and sisters under the solstice sun?

Tomorrow’s Story.

Groaning over dinner.

Quotation for the Day.

"....that the mounds of ices, and the bowls of mint-julep and sherry cobbler they make in these latitudes, are refreshments never to be thought of afterwards, in summer, by those who would preserve contented minds."
Charles Dickens, while traveling in America (1842)

Chocolate Alternatives.

2008-06-23T05:35:00.003+10:00

June 23 ...

Last week, in the story on chocolate, my recipe source was Every man his own Gauger, by ‘James Lightbody, Philomath’, published in 1695. It is a lovely little book full of useful tables of measures and prices as well as information on ‘the true Art of Brewing Beer, Ale, Mum, … and several English Wines’. There is a section called ‘The Compleat Coffee-Man’ (good name for a business, if you are looking for one), which teaches ‘how to make Coffee, Tea, Chocolate, Content, and the Richest, Finest Cordials &c…’.

Now Tea, Coffee, and Chocolate were all new to England in the seventeenth century, so what caught my eye in James’ book was that chocolate had already become a gold standard in the delicious beverage department, as shown by the fact that there was already an interest in alternatives. Note that I do not use the word ‘substitute’, for I do not believe that there is a true substitute for chocolate. And that includes carob (see the quotation below). If you need a chocolate alternative – delicious in its own right, but with no pretensions to be the Vague Ghost of a Pale Imitation of The Real Thing, then this idea from James’ book sounds just the ticket.

To make a sort of Liquor, which is not in the least inferior to Chocolate.
Take a sufficient quantity of the kernels of new Walnuts, and take the small rine or skin from them, put them into a pan and dry them so as they may be beaten to a fine powder, then searce [sieve] the powder through a fine searce, beating the Gross till it become as fine as it may pass the searce; to every pound of the same powder, add six ounces of fine sugar, one ounce of Nutmegs, half a dram of Saffron, all beat to a powder. Then take a pint of milk, and half a pint of water, and boyle for a small time over a gentle fire, and put thereto one ounce and a half of the powder; then take a small quantity of the Liquor out and beat with a dozen of Eggs, adding thereto three or four spoonfuls of Cream, and put all together and let it boyle for half an hour gently, then take it off and keep it hot for use; observing to use the Mollinet, as you did in Chocolate: I have known Hazelnuts used instead of Walnuts.

The recipe also gives you another opportunity to use your mollinet, which I know that some of you rushed out to buy recently.

It strikes me that this beverage actually sounds like a walnut custard: would it not also be a delicious alternative to accompany your apple pie? Or if made with hazelnuts, to add value to your chocolate cake?

The little Philomath* also mentioned something called ‘Content’ alongside tea, coffee, and chocolate in his foreword. He does indeed have are recipe for such a desirable thing, and I will give it to you next week, perhaps?

*The OED tells me that this is an obsolete word for "A lover of learning; a student or scholar, esp. of mathematics, natural philosophy, etc.; (formerly) spec. astrologer or prognosticator"

Tomorrow’s Story.

Midsummer/Midwinter.

Quotation for the Day.

Carob is a brown powder made from the pulverized fruit of a Mediterranean evergreen. Some consider carob an addequate substitute for chocolate because it has some similar nutrients (calcium, phosphorus) and because it can, when combined with vegetable fat and sugar, be made to approximate the color and consistency of chocolate. Of course, the same argument can as persuasively be made in favor of dirt. Sandra Boynton.

Isabella goes to Paris.

2008-06-20T07:55:00.005+10:00

June 20 ...

On this day in 1389, Queen Isabella, the wife of Charles VI of France, made a ceremonial entry into Paris. “Isabella of Bavaria” was married off to Charles when she was fifteen years old. She had by the time of this event, at the tender age of nineteen, already given him two of the twelve children she would ultimately bear him.

Royal “entries” into major cities were huge events lasting days on end – with parages, entertainments, tournaments, - and of course, feasting. The banquet which followed Isabella’s official annointing as the Queen of France was, of course, as grand and spectacular as massive wealth and power could make it. The scenario was described in detail:

“You must know, that the great table of marble, which is in this hall, and is never removed, was covered with an oaken plank, four inches thick, and the royal dinner placed thereon. Near the table, and against one of the pillars, was the king's buffet, magnificently decked out with gold and silver plate, and much envied by many who saw it. Before the king's table, and at some distance, were wooden bars with three entrances, at which were serjeants at arms, ushers, and archers, to prevent any from passing them but those who served the table; for in truth the crowd was so very great, there was no moving but with much difficulty. There were plenty of minstrels, who played away to the best of their abilities.

… There were two other tables in the hall, at which were seated upwards of five hundred ladies and damsels; but the crowd was so great, it was with difficulty they could be served with their dinner, which was plentiful and sumptuous. Of this it is not worth the trouble to give any particulars; but I must speak of some devices which were curiously arranged, and would have given the king much amusement, had those who had undertaken it been able to act their parts.

In the middle of the hall was erected a castle of wood, forty feet high, twenty feet long, and as many wide, with towers at each corner, and one larger in the middle. This castle was to represent the city of Troy the great, and the tower in the middle the palace of Ilion, from which were displayed the banners of the Trojans, such as king Priam, Hector, his other sons, and of those shut up in the place with them. The castle being on wheels, was very easily moved about. There was a pavilion likewise on wheels, on which were placed the banners of the Grecian kings, that was moved, as it were, by invisible beings, to the attack of Troy. There was also, by way of reinforcement, a large ship, well built, and able to contain one hundred men at arms, that, like the two former, was ingeniously moved by invisible wheels. Those in the ship and pavilion made a sharp attack on the castle, which was gallantly defended; but from the very great crowd, this amusement could not last long. There were so many people on all sides, several were stifled by the heat; and one table near the door of the chamber of parliament, at which a numerous company of ladies and damsels were seated, was thrown down, and the company forced to make off as well as they could.

The queen of France was near fainting, from the excessive heat, and one of the doors was forced to be thrown open to admit air. The lady of Coucy was in the same situation. The king, noticing this, ordered an end to be put to the feast, when the tables were removed, for the ladies to have more room. Wine and spices were served around, and every one retired when the king and queen went to their apartments.”

Poor young Isabella; she was already pregnant with her third child, a girl who was also to be called Isabella - the future wife of King Richard II of England. No wonder she felt a little tired and faint – it must have been an exhausting day.

It is disappointing for his readers six centuries later that the scribe did not believe that the plentiful and sumptuous feast was worth describing in detail. The story does give me an excuse to give you some recipes from the time however, for I have been neglecting the medieval era. I have chosen some dishes for Isabella from a ‘cookbook’ of the time written by the ‘master of the kitchen stores of the king’, who presumably had a lot of say in the preparation of this banquet. The book is usually referred to as Le Viander de Taillevent, it was written somewhere between 1386 and 1393, and rapidly became the culinary gospel of medieval France.

White capon soup.
Cook them in wine and water, dismember them, and fry them in lard. Crush almonds with some capon livers and dark meat, steep in your broth, and put to boil on your meat. Take ginger, cloves, galingale, long pepper and grains of paradise, and steep in vinegar. Boil well together, and thread in well beaten egg yolks. It should be well thickened.

Crayfish stew.
Take almonds, wash without blanching or peeling, and crush. Take some fine large crayfish, cook them in two parts of water and one part of wine, with a bit of vinegar if you wish, drain them, and let them cool. Remove the feet and tails from their shells and set them aside. Beat and crush the carcasses very well (like the almonds), steep everything in clear puree of peas, wine and verjuice, and strain together through cheesecloth. Take the crayfish feet and tails, fry them in a bit of butter, dry them like fried loach, and boil them in a pan or fine clean pot. Take ginger, a bit of cinnamon, a bit of grains of paradise, a bit less cloves than grains, and a bit of long pepper, steep in a bit of wine and verjuice, and add sugar generously. Boil everything together and salt lightly. If you wish to add fried fish do so. It should be thick enough to cover your meat.

Large and small crisps.
Cook the large crisps in some hot lard in a syrup pot or brass casserole. Make them from egg whites and fine flour beaten together. It should not be too thick. Have a deep wooden bowl, put some batter in the bowl, and shake the hand inside the pan above the hot lard [pouring batter into the lard]. Keep them from browning too much.
Cook the small crisps in an iron pan. Beat egg yolks and whites with some fine flour. It should be a little stiffer than the batter for large crisps. Have a little fire (as long as it is hot). Take your wooden bowl pierced at the bottom, and put some batter in it. When everything is ready, pour [a thread of batter from the hole in the bowl] and form it into the shape of a small buckle (or larger), with a kind of tongue of the same batter through the buckle. Let them cook in the lard until they are plump.

Monday’s Story.

Chocolate Alternatives.

Quotation for the Day.

Food for thought is no substitute for the real thing. Walt Kelly (1913-1973).