Comfortable Bread.

I came across the lovely concept of “comfortable bread” recently. It seems to have a range of meanings – occasionally soft white bread, occasionally as a metaphor for money, but most usually seems to mean spiced gingerbread. Clearly there is a connection here with comfits, the little sweet spiced sweetmeats or sugared seeds (especially caraway seeds) beloved as digestives by our medieval ancestors and used to nefarious purposes by the infamous Maquis de Sade.

The OED gives numerous meanings for the word “comfortable”. It can mean ‘strengthening or supporting (morally or spiritually)”, “helpful, serviceable, advantageous”, “Strengthening or refreshing to the bodily faculties or organs; sustaining”, “pleasing or grateful to the senses”, “affording mental or spiritual delight or enjoyment”, “affording or conveying consolation”, and “affording or fitted to give tranquil enjoyment and content.” Any or all of these could apply to a nice slice of spiced gingerbread, couldn’t they?

The surprise is that the OED nowhere mentions comfortable bread, in spite of the fact that an early occurrence of the name appears in the work of one of its frequent contributors, Ben Jonson.

From Jonson’s play Bartholomew Fair (1631)

Joan Trash, the gingerbread-woman, keeps her stall near him, and the rival traders have their differences. "Do you hear, Sister Trash, lady of the basket! sit farther with your gingerbread progeny, there, and hinder not the prospect of my shop, or I'll have it proclaimed in the fair what stuff they are made on." "Why, what stuff are they made on, Brother Leatherhead? Nothing but what's wholesome, I assure you." "Yes, stale bread, rotten eggs, musty ginger, and dead honey, you know." "I defy thee, and thy stable of hobby-horses. I pay for my ground, as well as thou dost. Buy any gingerbread, gilt gingerbread! Will your worship buy any gingerbread? Very good bread, comfortable bread!"

There is no shortage of gingerbread recipes in this blog. If you are not familiar with it, may I refer you to the Through the Ages with Gingerbread archive? I must still offer you a recipe for the day however, so here it is, a simple version from that just happens to also be gluten-free:

Belgian Gingerbread.
½ pound cornflour
¼ pound butter
¼ pound white sugar
1 or 2 eggs
½ ounce ginger.
Work all ingredients together on a marble slab, to get the paste all of the same consistency. Make it into balls as big as walnuts, flattening them slightly before putting them into the oven. This sort of gingerbread keeps very well.
The Belgian cook-book, by Brian Luck. 1915


Quotation for the Day.

Our boyish days look very merry to us now, all nutting, hoop, and gingerbread.
Idle Thoughts, J.K. Jerome.

An Endive by any other Name.

Today, April 3rd …

Ann Frank was thirteen-years old in July 1942 when she and her family attempted to escape Nazi persecution in Amsterdam by going into hiding in a “Secret Annexe” in her father’s office building. Friends and employees of her father supplied them with whatever spare food they could obtain. They lived in the hidden rooms for two years.

On this day in 1944 Anne commented about the tedium of some of their meals. A little over two years after this diary entry, Ann was dead – a victim of typhus in the infamous Bergen-Belsen camp where she was sent after her family was betrayed and their hiding place discovered.

“In the twenty one months that we've spent here we have been through a good many 'food cycles'...periods in which one has nothing else to eat but one particular dish or kind of vegetable. We had nothing but endive for a long time, day in, day out, endive with sand, endive without sand, stew with endive, boiled or 'en casserole;' then it was spinach, and after that followed kohlrabi, salsify, cucumbers, tomatoes, sauerkraut, etc., each according to the season.”

Ann would have been in no confusion about ‘endive’. Greengrocers in different locations nowadays might call it ‘chicory’, but other greengrocers might sell a thick root vegetable by the name of ‘chicory’. Sometimes ‘witloof’ and ‘escarole’ get into the confusion act too. We might also have to factor in the translator’s error or opinion as well when we consider Ann’s endive dinners. This sort of confusion is begging for some clarification, so here is my attempt to set myself straight.

Firstly, both endive (Cichorium endiva) and chicory (Cichorium intybus) are members of the same family, as their name suggests. Endive is grown and eaten for its leaves, which have two main forms – curly and broad-leafed. This is where confusion number one turns up. In the USA the curly form is often called chicory, and the broad-leafed form is often called escarole. Whatever it is called, endive is used in salads, or cooked as one would spinach.

Chicory (Cichorium intybus) is a popular salad vegetable in Europe, particularly when the tight leafy heads are ‘forced’ (grown in the dark). Confusion number two is that this form is called ‘witloof’ or Belgian or French Endive. The root of the chicory plant is also cooked as one would any other root vegetable, and it has had a starring role as a coffee substitute (‘ersatz’ coffee), coffee alternative (supposedly healthier), or coffee additive.

In 1915 a collection of recipes provided by Belgian refugees was published under the title The Belgian Cook-Book in England. The Belgians know all about endive.

Flemish Endive

Choose twelve endives that are short and neat; cut off the outside leaves and pare the bottom; wash them in plenty of water, and cook them in simmering water for three minutes. Then take them from the water and place them in a well-buttered frying-pan, dust them with salt and also with a pinch of sugar. Add the juice of half a lemon, and rather lessthan a pint of water. Place the pan on the fire for two or three minutesto start the cooking, then cover it closely, and finish the cooking by placing it in the oven for fifty minutes. Take out the endives and put them in the vegetable-dish and pour over them the liquor in which they have been cooked. This liquor is improved by being reduced, and when off the fire, by having a small piece of butter added to it.The above recipe can be used for chicory as well as for endive.

Stuffed Chicory
Make a mince of any cold white meat, such as veal, pork or chicken, and add to it some minced ham; sprinkle it with a thick white sauce. In the meantime the chicories should be cooking; tie each one round with a thread to keep them firm and boil them for ten minutes. When cooked, drain them well, open them lengthwise very carefully, and slip in a spoonful of the mince. Close them, keeping the leaves very neat, and, ifnecessary, tie them round again. Put them in a fire-proof dish with a lump of butter on each, and let them heat through. Serve them in their juice or with more of the white sauce, taking care to remove the threads.

Tomorrow’s Story …

A Belated Feast.

Last Year …

We found out about