A Weighty Topic.

One of the cookery books I recently quoted from used the term avoirdupois in relation to a quantity of some staple ingredient. It reminded me that I have been meaning to look up the origin of the word for a very long time. I thought the wordsmiths amongst you might be interested in my mini-summary. Naturally, my first and major source is the Oxford English Dictionary.

Avoirdupois is ‘a recent corrupt spelling’ of avoir-de-pois or aveir de peis, which translates roughly as ‘of good weight’, and, as you might guess, comes to us from the French. It is presumably a legacy of ‘1066 and All That’ as it has been in English use since at least the thirteenth century. ‘Avoirdupois weight’ is ‘the standard system of weights used, in Great Britain, for all goods except the precious stones, and medicines.’ The word avoirdupois alone is used to refer to ‘merchandise sold by weight.’

Why specify the standard system of weights? Because what constitutes a pound, or a pint, or a dozen, and many other units of measurement that you can think of, have varied over time and between products - and still vary between nations. Cooks know this of course, as this is a frequent source of grief when using recipes from other countries than one’s own.

The other standard system of weights - that used for precious stones - is troy weight (weight of Troy). Interestingly, for those of us interested in food, this was also formerly used for bread and ‘all manner of Corn and Grain.’ My first assumption was that Troy weight had something to do with the ancient site (in what is now Turkey) of the Trojan wars, and of the beautiful Helen whose face launched a thousand ships. According to the OED however ‘the received opinion is that it took its name from a weight used at the fair of Troyes in France’, and ‘a pound troy is less than the pound avoirdupois.’
Mrs. Dalgairns, in The Practice of Cookery: adapted to the business of everyday life (1830), uses the term in her lesson on cheese making, so this is our ‘recipe’ for the day. The recipe also nicely demonstrates that Scottish volume measures were different from English measures at this time.

Cheese.
In cheese-making, it is of the utmost consequence to have good rennet, which may be obtained from the stomachs of calves, hares, or poultry; that from the maw or stomach of calves is most commonly used, and the following Scotch method of preparing it seems to be the simplest and best:—When the stomach or bags, usually termed the yirning, in dairy language, is taken from the calf's body, straw, or any other impurity found in it, ought to be removed from the curdled milk, which, with the chyle, must be carefully preserved; a handful of salt is put inside; it is then rolled up, and put into a basin or jar, and a handful of salt strewed over it; after standing closely covered for eight or ten days, it is taken out and tied up in a piece of white paper, and hung up near a fire to dry, like bacon, and will be the better for hanging a year before it is infused. When rennet is wanted, the bag with its contents is cut small, and put into a jar or can, with a handful or two of salt; new whey, or boiled water, cooled to 65°, is put upon it. If the stomach is from a newly-dropped calf, about three pints of liquor may be employed. If the calf has been fed for four or five weeks, which will yield more rennet than that of one twice that age, eight pints or more of liquid may be put to the bag in mash. After the infusion has remained in the jar from one to three days, the liquid is drawn off, and about a pint more of whey or water put on the bag; when it has stood a day or two, it is also drawn off, strained with the first liquid, and bottled for use us rennet. Some people put a dram-glassful of whisky to each quart or choppin of the rennet. Thus prepared, it may be used immediately, or kept for months. One table-spoonful of it will coagulate, in ten or fifteen minutes, thirty gallons, or sixty Scotch pints, of milk, which will yield more than 24 lbs. avoirdupois of cheese. In England, the curdled milk is generally washed from the stomach, and in consequence, the rennet is so much weaker than that made in Scotland, that double the quantity is used, and it requires from one to sometimes three hours to form the milk into curd. The milk ought to be set, that is, the rennet put to it, at 85° or 90° of Fahrenheit, when the heat of the air is at 70°; but as the season gets colder, the heat of the milk should be increased, and covered till it coagulates.

Quotation for the Day.

A spoonful of honey will catch more flies than a gallon of vinegar.
Benjamin Franklin.

Birthday Food.

Today is my birthday, so birthday food is my topic. On Thursday I am off to the beach for ten days with my grandsons (and their parents), so posts may be shortened in proportion to the fun I am having – or, on the other hand, they may be lengthened in proportion to the interminable flooding rain we are experiencing here in sunny Queensland at present. I have not missed a Monday to Friday post in over five years, so short they may be, but absent they will not be.

First, my birthday beverage of choice is, of course, champagne. This sounds like a fun alternative however:

Birthday Syllabub.
Put into a large bowl half a pound of sugar broken small, and pour on it the strained juice of a couple of fresh lemons, stir these well together, and add to them a pint of port wine, a pint of sherry and half a pint of brandy; grate in a fine nutmeg, place the bowl under the cow, and milk it full. In serving it put a portion of the curd into each glass, fill it up with whey, and pour a little rich cream on the top. The rind of a lemon may be rasped with part of the sugar when the flavour is approved, but it is not usually added.
Juice of lemons 2; sugar ½ lb or more; port wine 1 pint; sherry 1 pint; brandy ½ pint ;nutmeg 1; milk from the cow 2 quarts.
Obs. - We can testify to the excellence of this receipt
Modern Cookery, in all its branches (1845) Eliza Acton.

In the absence of a live cow in the vicinity of the kitchen, this version would be quite acceptable, even if not authentic.

Birthday Syllabub*.
Juice of 2 lemons, ½ lb. of sugar, mixed in a bowl; add a pint of sherry; grate in a nutmeg; add 2 quarts new milk; in serving, let the curd remain in the glass.
Cooling cups and dainty drinks (1869) by William Terrington.

*Syllabub: A drink or dish made of milk (freq. as drawn from the cow) or cream, curdled by the admixture of wine, cider, or other acid, and often sweetened and flavoured.

Of course, there must be cake at a birthday, mustn’t there? An article in Popular Mechanics (interesting source of recipes!) of May 1913 described a cake that must surely be the Gold Standard of celebratory cakes:

Birthday Cake that cost two hundred dollars.
Two hundred dollars were spent by the wealthy parents of a Washington baby for the infant. The cake somewhat resembles the crown of an African potentate. Specially selected bakers worked on the cake for several days, and every pound of sugar, fruit, etc. which went into it was carefully inspected. The upper portion of the cake represents a fountain, with doves in the basin.

But No! An even bigger and better example of a ‘birthday’ cake was described in Popular Science Monthly in February 1916. The cake was made in Columbus, Ohio, to celebrate the thirty-fifth anniversary of a store devoted to the sale of women’s goods. It was describes as being a ‘nine story’ wonder - presumably this meant a column of nine separate cakes, not a cake the height of a building – and was lit with thirty-five electric candles on the top. It was four and a half feet in diameter, weighed a little short of one ton (including two hundred and twenty pounds of icing), and required eight men and a motor-truck to transport it to the store. There was sufficient cake for every employee of the store to enjoy a ‘generous portion.'

I have chosen a rather more modest, but classical cake for the day from Scotland – the Land o’Cakes - and hope you will share it with me.

Birthday Cake.
Pour one gill of water on ¾ lb sugar, stir and let stand, beat the yolks of 6 eggs, add to them the grated rind of half a lemon, froth the whites and pour the yolks on them; beat and add the syrup and beat until thick, sift in ½ lb flour, mix gently, add the juice of a lemon. Bake half an hour.
Aberdeen Weekly Journal (Aberdeen, Scotland), Wednesday, December 23, 1891

Soup for the Queen of Scots.

December 8th in 1542 was the birthday of Mary, Queen of Scots. Mary Stewart, as we know, became Queen of Scotland at the age of six days upon the death of her father, James V. She met her untimely end as a result of her claim to the English throne, which led to her trial and execution for treason in 1587.

There is a rather mysterious soup named in her honour. Actually, several mysteries attach to The Queen of Scots Soup. The soup itself is simple enough: it is a light chicken soup with eggs and parsley stirred in at the last minute. But why or how it came to be named for her, I cannot tell, nor can I find the name of the originator. Was there ever indeed a published recipe for The Queen of Scots Soup, or was it a figment of the imagination of a nineteenth century Scottish writer?

I know of the recipe only from a secondary source – The Edinburgh Literary Journal of September 1829. The article introduces a ‘curious black-letter book’, which turns out to be the 1631 edition of Murrell’s A New Booke of Cookerie. The journal being Scottish, the writer, quite naturally, was delighted to find in its pages the recipe for The Queen of Scots Soup, and gives this (or a loose translation of it) in his article. He (it must surely be a male, in this journal at this time) begins by saying “we are seriously of the opinion that, for the sake of the Royal House of Stuart, it should immediately become a standard dish with all the defenders of Mary and her unfortunate family.”

Here is the recipe, as given by the author of the Edinburgh Literary Journal article.

The soup is made thus: “Six chickens are cut in small pieces, with the heart, gizzard, and liver well washed, then put into a stew-pan, and just covered with water, and boiled till the chickens are enough. Season it with salt and cayenne pepper; and mince parsley with eight eggs, yolks and whites beat up together. Stir round altogether just as you are going to serve it up. Half a minute will boil the eggs.”

The article went on to opine that “This must be a delicate and gentle soul, worthy of the amiable dispositions of Mary, and every way calculated to produce a beneficial effect on the female character.

My difficulty is that I am unable to find a 1631 edition of Murrell’s A New Booke of Cookerie to verify the recipe. It is not in the 1615 edition or the 1638 edition – although I admit to a quick scanning of both of these versions (I am moving house this week, so I can be forgiven, surely?) If I have missed it, or you know the actual whereabouts of this recipe, do please tell us all.

Quotation for the Day

I live on good soup, not fine words.
Molière.

Nectar, nectar, nectar.

A while back we considered ambrosia, the mythical Food of the Gods, as interpreted by earthly mortals in a variety of recipes across history. The Gods got thirsty too, of course, and to wash down their ambrosia they had their own sweet beverage called nectar. Naturally, Mere Mortals were not content with mere water, and wanted nectar of their own, but as The Gods did not leave a cookery book behind, mortals had to experiment for themselves - which has led to an awful lot of recipes for nectar, as you can imagine.

I give you a random selection of these ideas - and fine suggestions they are too, for the next time you want to feel immortal and all-powerful, or maybe just want to indulge your sweet tooth.


Welsh Nectar
Two gallons of water being boiled, and allowed to cool; one pound of raisins, two pounds of loaf sugar, the juice of three lemons, and their peel cut thin, are added; after being stirred daily for four days, it is run through a jelly bag and bottled; in ten days, or a fortnight more, it will be fit for use, and will be found excellent in warm weather. The corks should be tied down.
The Practice of Cookery: adapted to the business of everyday life, by Mrs Dalgairns, 1830

To make Nectar.
Put half a pound of loaf sugar into a large porcelain jug; add one pint of cold water; bruise and stir the sugar till it is completely dissolved; pour over it half a bottle of hock and one bottle of madeira. Mix them well together, and grate in half a nutmeg, with a drop or two of the essence of lemon. Set the jug in a bucket of ice for one hour.
Family Receipts: or, Practical Guide for the husbandman and housewife, (1831) by H.L. Barnum

Cream Nectar
Put six pounds of crushed white sugar into a preserving kettle, on it pour two quarts of warm water and add four ounces of tartaric acid; stir well, keeping it in a hot place; when the sugar is dissolved by the heat and water (but do not let it boil) add the whites of four eggs beaten to a stiff froth, stir them well through; then remove the kettle from the fire, and when cool add enough of essence of lemon to give it a pleasant flavor; then bottle and keep in a cool place. When required for use take two table-spoonsful of this syrup and then fill the tumbler two-thirds full of ice water, stir in a teaspoonful of subcarbonate of soda until it effervesces, and it will prove a most refreshing and delicious drink.
Mrs Goodfellow’s Cookery as it should be (1865)


Raspberry Nectar.
Dissolve two cupfuls of sugar in the same amount of cold water; add the grated rind of one orange, taking care to use the yellow part only, as the white rind imparts a bitter taste. Bring to a boil. Strain this syrup and add it to the juice of two lemons and two oranges, and one quart of raspberry juice. Set in a cold place and allow to get ice cold before serving.
Fruits and Their Cookery, (1921) by Harriet Schuyler Nelson.

Quotation for the Day.

NECTAR, n. A drink served at banquets of the Olympian deities. The secret of its preparation is lost, but the modern Kentuckians believe that they come pretty near to a knowledge of its chief ingredient.
Ambrose Bierce, Devil’s Dictionary.

Casserole or Stew?

Once upon a time, I used to think that a ‘stew’ was a utilitarian family dish that was cooked on the top of the stove, and a casserole was a posher dish suitable to serve to guests that was cooked in the oven. The older I get and the more I learn the less I know, it seems, for today I am unable to distinguish between the two – as exemplified in a previous post in which we had a recipe for 'Baked Irish Stew’.

The origin of both words is interesting however. ‘Casserole’ (a word derived from French or Spanish) originally referred to a ‘kind of stew-pan’. During the eighteenth century in England, it came also to refer to the contents (which ultimately necessitated the changing of the name of the container to casserole dish.) Sometimes ‘casserole’ also means ‘the edging or outer portion of certain dressed dishes.’

‘Stew’ is much older old word with many meanings, as we have discussed previously. To recap: in the fourteenth century it meant ‘a pond or tank in which fish are kept until needed for the table’, ‘a stove, heated room’ and ‘a vessel for boiling’; to make matters more amusing, it also meant a bath house, and as these were often used for ‘immoral purposes’, a ‘stew’ also meant ‘a brothel.’ Think on that next time you make a nice stew for the family. The word came into its modern meaning of ‘a preparation of meat slowly boiled in a stew-pan, generally containing vegetables, rice, etc’ round about the same time as the casserole was adapted to English use – somewhere in the eighteenth century.

Here is a nice early recipe for ‘casserole’, which is eminently doable today.

To Dress Rabbets in Casserole
Divide the rabbits into quarters. You may lard them, or let them alone, just as you please, shake some flour over them and fry them with lard or butter, then put them into an earthen pipkin with a quart of good broth, a glass of white wine, a little pepper and salt, if wanted, a bunch of sweet herbs, and a piece of butter as big as a walnut rolled in flour; cover them close and let them stew half an hour, then dish them up and pour the sauce over them. Garnish with Seville orange, cut into thin slices and notched; the peel that is cut out lay prettily between the slices.
The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy (1747)

And as an example of a ‘casserole’ as an edging for another dish, I give you the following rather tricky recipe from The Practice of Cookery, adapted to the business of everyday life, by Mrs Dalgairns (1830)

Casserole of Rice.
Having cleaned and drained about half a pound of rice, moisten it in a stew-pan, with some fat - that which gathers on the top of liquor in which meat has been boiled; strain some broth or soup, add to it a large quantity of grease, some pieces of fat bacon, and a little salt, and mix it with the rice, to make it swell as much as possible; stir it frequently over a slow fire to keep it from sticking; when it is soft strain it through a cullender, and press it well with a wooden spoon. The mould being selected for the casserole, rinse it with the fat drained from the rice, taking care that every part of the inside of the mould be well greased, then cover it with rice, and place a piece of the crumb of bread in the middle, and cover it with rice also; press it in equally with a spoon, and let it cool. When the rice has become firm, dip the outside of the mould into boiling water; put a covering of paste made with flour and water; flatten it all round with a spoon, and make an opening in the top with a knife, then put it into the oven, which cannot be too hot for a casserole, baste it with the grease, and when it has become of a fine colour, take it out of the oven, remove the crust, and take out the bread carefully, so that the casserole may not be injured ; next remove some of the rice from the inside; taking care to leave enough to resist the weight of whatever may be put inside of it. Fill it with minced meat, ragout, blanquette, fricassee of chickens, macaroni, or scollops of fish, that have been already served at table; return it to the oven, and when nicely browned, serve it.

Quotation for the Day.
This is not that, and that is certainly not this, and at the same time an oyster stew is not stewed, and although they are made of the same things and even cooked almost the same way, an oyster soup should never be called a stew, nor stew soup.
M.F.K. Fisher (1908-1992)

Knowing your Onions.

Onions have been human food for millennia, and perhaps familiarity has bred, if not contempt, then disinterest. Food fashions come and go – beetroot and parsnips and celeriac and a host of other vegetables keep on getting rediscovered and are briefly novel and interesting again, but I don’t remember the same honour ever being given to the onion.

The onion has a long history of medicinal use, as a food for the poor, and as a flavouring ingredient – but seems to have only rarely been prepared and celebrated in its own right as culinary treat. Why is this? How could a mid-eighteenth century wife or nurse prepare ‘a cataplasm of roasted onions and bruised mustard seed’ as an ‘excellent external application for the piles’ (or the chilblains), and not be tempted by the aroma to pile the leftover cataplasm on the dinner plate? On the other hand, maybe a haemorrhoid medication could never be appealing for dinner.

Even by the mid-nineteenth century the onion was hardly a culinary delicacy, if we are to judge from the following opinion:

Great use is made of the onion in the United States; but I do not regard it as a very valuable esculent, except for medicinal purposes. It is somewhat stimulant and heating, as well as diuretic. Dr. Paris says it certainly contains a considerable portion of nourishment; but his manner of expressing his opinion appears to me, to imply doubts of the truth of his own statements. He relates, moreover, from Sir John Sinclair, that a Scotch Highlander, with a few raw onions in his pocket, and a crust of bread or some oatcake, can travel to an almost incredible extent, for two or three days in succession, without any other food. This is not very strange, however. Who could not travel, with crusts of good bread in his pocket, if in sufficient quantity? There is no better food in the world for a person who is to travel violently a few days, than this; but I have yet to learn that the raw onions would add much to the amount of real sustenance. They might serve as a condiment.

Since, however, the onion is much in fashion, it may be well to say that the best method of cooking it is either by boiling or roasting; and the worst by frying. The fried onion, either alone, or with apples, potatoes, or meat, is exceedingly indigestible and unwholesome; and to any but a perverted taste, highly offensive and disgusting. As a medicine, it is sometimes properly used raw.

[The young house-keeper: or, thoughts on food and cookery (Boston, 1839) by W.A. Alcott.]

I admit it. My taste is perverted. I love fried onions.

I do wonder what future readers will think of our current theories of food and disease (“How ridiculous! Back then, they actually thought BUTTER was BAD!”)

As for the ‘exceedingly indigestible and unwholesome’ combination of onions and apples, we have previously come across the very thrifty idea of onion-apple pies – for rough farm-workers of course.

What about this repeated connection of the Scots with onions? It is mentioned again in that very Scottish cookery book by ‘Mistress Margaret Dods’ (aka Christian Isobel Johnstone) - Cook and Housewife’s Manual (1826). The book does actually contain a recipe for roasted onions – to be eaten, not applied.


To Stew And Roast Onions
Scald and peel a dozen middle sized, or two or three Spanish onions. If old and acrid, parboil them, and stew very slowly for nearly an hour in good veal or broth, with white pepper and salt; thicken the sauce with a little white roux or butter kneaded in flour, and dishing the onions in a small hash-dish, pour it over them. A little mushroom catsup may be added or they may be browned. Onions are roasted before the fire in their skins, and served with cold butter and salt. They are in Scotland served with roasted goose or pork, and eaten alone or with roasted potatoes or red or pickled herrings. In the latter case we would recommend mustard as well as butter. Obs. Stewed and roasted onions used to be a favourite supper dish in Scotland, and were reckoned medicinal .The onions were stewed (after parboiling) in a butter sauce to which cream was put, i.e. the Sauce blanche of France.

Quotation for the Day

The onion being eaten, yea though it be boyled, causeth head-ache, hurteth the eyes, and maketh a man dimme sighted, dulleth the senses, ingendreth windinesse, and provoketh overmuch sleepe, especially being eaten raw.
John Gerard (1545-1611)

Inky Pinky.

My current favourite phrase for using up leftovers is ‘repurposing food’ (my previous favourite was ‘secondary cookery.’) A large part of the skill involves disguising the original ingredient by creatively naming the new-from-old dish, and I came across a lovely example the other day. It is ‘Inky-Pinky’, and I want to share it with you.

I discovered Inky-Pinky in an article in an English newspaper - The Leeds Mercury - of October 1879. The article was in the Household Department of the paper, and the subject was ‘gathering up the fragments’ – fragments of cold meat, that is. Just before a recipe called ‘Encore Roast Beef’ was this gem:

Inky-Pinky is simply cold roast beef or mutton hashed. Do it as follows:- Slice down some boiled carrots, likewise the cold meat, adding a small onion or two, and pepper and salt to taste. Simmer all these in a gravy made from the bones and trimmings of the beef, thicken with a little flour, and serve with a border of nicely mashed potatoes. The carrots should be put on in advance of the beef, which only requires to be thoroughly heated. Season with catchup if liked.

An almost identical recipe appears in another 1870’s source - Cassell’s Dictionary of Cookery. The name of this dish greatly intrigues me. If the phrase has been around since at least the 1870’s, what does the Oxford English Dictionary have to say about it? 

The OED gives inky-pinky (or inkie-pinkie or hinkie-pinkie) a Scottish origin and defines it as ‘small beer’. No mention of leftover roast beef or mutton. That it is indisputably Scottish is supported by Mr. Google – although he usually turns up the meat version.

I went therefore to the Dictionary of the Scots Language, and again, it gives several quotations to support the definition of small beer – then, suddenly, in 1827, in that marvelous Scottish cookery resource, the Cook and Housewife’s Manual by Mistress Dods (aka Christian Isobel Johnstone), there is a recipe for repurposing leftover roast beef with carrots and gravy! OED editors please take note.

Perhaps the beer version got its name on account of its colour or taste? I would love some ideas or wild guesses as to how this name got transferred to a dish of leftover roast beef – so please, go right ahead and comment!

Quotation for the Day.

As to those things called hashes, commonly manufactured by unwatched, untaught cooks, out of the remains of yesterday's repast, let us not dwell too closely on their memory, - compounds of meat, gristle, skin, fat, and burnt fibre, with a handful of pepper and salt flung at them, dredged with lumpy flour, watered from the spout of the tea-kettle, and left to simmer at the cook's convenience while she is otherwise occupied.
Christopher Crowfield (Harriet Beecher Stowe) ‘House and Home Papers’ (1865)

Ancient Cheese.

Any cheese that is not intended to be eaten very fresh (eg ricotta), is, therefore, by startlingly obvious definition, matured for some time before it is considered ready for consumption. We all have a general idea of what is meant by ‘mature’ cheese, don’t we? What then, is ‘ancient’ cheese – references to which do pop up from time to time?

There are two possible interpretations: either it means a particular variety which has been made since ancient times – such as Italian Taleggio or English Cheddar, for example. Alternatively, it may mean a particularly aged specimen.

An example of both may be the cheese called Saanen- a Swiss cows’ milk cheese made in the valley of the same name. It is usually aged for 3 to 7 years, and has exceptional keeping qualities. A custom is described of making a cheese to celebrate the birth of a child –that cheese then being kept and sampled on special occasions, and becoming part of that person’s bequest. It is said that the cheese can remain edible for 100 years, with some anecdotes describing 200 year old samples owned by some families.

On an entirely different tack altogether is a massive lump of cheese (or possibly butter) unearthed in 1987 in a peat bog in Tipperary, in Ireland. It is believed to be at least 1,000 years old, weighs about 50 kilos, and was enclosed in a wrapper made from an animal paunch. Peat provides a marvellous preserving environment (remember the long-dead Peat-Bog Human bodies?), and was regularly used by the ancient Irish for storing their butter for long periods. This ancient cheese was apparently sampled by several brave souls, who declared it edible, but who apparently did not enthuse about its taste. The story reminds me of the even braver souls who ate the 30,000 year old frozen bison in Alaska some years ago.

Today’s recipe provides a solution to a form of ancient cheese with which we are all familiar – the type found in the depths of the refrigerator during an overdue clean-out. It is from Cookery for Working-Men’s Wives (originally published in Glasgow, Scotland, in 1890)


Rice and Cheese with Green Peas.
One pound rice, 1 ½ d; three fourths pound dry green peas, 1 ½ d.; one fourth pound cheese, 1 ½ d.; vinegar, sugar, pepper, and salt, ½ d.; milk, ½ d.; total 5 ½ d.
Wash the rice and put it on to boil in 2 quarts water, with a teaspoonful of salt. When soft and all the water taken up, stir in the milk with more salt, if required, and pepper to taste. Grate the cheese (old cheese is best), mix it in, but keep a tablespoonful to put on top of the pie dish. Put tablespoonful of cheese on the top, and let it brown in the oven or before the fire. Get the common dry green peas, soak them for sixteen hours with a bit of soda the size of a bean in the water. Then boil in salt and water. When soft, drain, and add 2 tablespoonfuls of vinegar, 1 teaspoonful of sugar, pepper andsalt to taste; shake in the saucepan well. Serve hot.


[there is a recipe for Ramakins, suitable for old cheese, HERE]


Quotation for the Day.

A cheese may disappoint. It may be dull, it may be naive, it may be oversophisticated. Yet it remains cheese, milk's leap toward immortality.
Clifton Fadiman.

Uncle’s Pudding.

In the spirit of the theme for the week, I have searched hard for a historic contribution from male family members. In previous posts we have had, from Mother (Eve’s Pudding yesterday, and Mum’s Delight pudding some time ago), then in a single post we had the triple delights of Auntie’s Pudding, The Good Daughter’s Pudding, and Grandma’s Pickle. Aunties win, no doubt of that. Puddings definitely win in the content stakes too. Why is that? There is a dearth of grandmother’s stews, or daughter’s roast chook, or sisters muffins – and the dearth of male contributors is almost absolute. Why is that? With more men in the home kitchen in the last few decades, hopefully future cookbooks will correct the deficit.

I did find one exception to half the rules – from Uncle, for Pudding.

Uncle Tom’s Pudding.

Heat half a pound of treacle in a basin, mix in with it half a pound of flour, six ounces of minced beef suet, two ounces of brown sugar, one tea-spoonful of ground ginger, one of ground cinnamon, one of allspice, and the same of carbonate of soda. Beat up two eggs, mix them with a tea-cupful of butter-milk, and add to the other ingredients ; mix them all together, pour into a buttered mould, and boil for two hours, serve with egg sauce.
Practice of Cookery and Pastry, Williamson, 1862.

P.S - The ONE THOUSANDTH post tomorrow!

A Story about Humps.

There is one in every circle, isn’t there? The hostess-with-the-mostess whose mission in life is to out-manoeuvre and over-impress all her wannabe accolytes, and will go to extraordinary lengths to do so. I love the following story - too good to abbreviate, so I give it in its entirety - about about one such a hostess in the first decade of the nineteenth century. I love it because it shows that some things - human nature for one glaring example – never change. I love it also because it reminds us about another “forgotten” dish.

From the Spirit of the Public Journals of 1807, by George and Robert Cruikshank, a story about humps.

EAST INDIA HUMPS.

The newest and most extraordinary delicacy of the table at present in vogue is the Hump. This article of luxury consists of the tumour that grows on the back; fear not, my Lord K. it is the back of the buffalo that is meant. The consistency of the fibre somewhat resembles that of tongue, but the taste is much more agreeable; and the method and materials of curing are such as to improve, to the highest point, the natural flavour of the meat. Humps have long been a favourite dish at the splendid entertainments of the great Lords at our principal settlements in India; but it is not till within these very last years that persons in more humble situations presumed to give them; at their grandest fêtes, or that the Captains of the Company's ships have been able to bring home one or two at an odd time, as presents to their most particular friends. This year more extensive orders were sent out, and great exertions were to have been made to procure a larger supply. It is said that the turtle-dressers were concerned in sending out these orders; and if that was the case, the steps that have been taken to disappoint them were the more meritorious. The Lady of a legal Baronet, lately arrived from the East, jealous of the high prerogative of tables of the first rank, and indignant at the degradation her sumptuous board would suffer, if any oriental dame less dignified, or any European lady of whatsoever dignity, could set before her guests a treat which she had been the first to introduce, determined to omit no efforts to engross to herself, for some years at least, the sole power of giving humps. With a view to secure to herself this high pre-eminence, this distinguished Lady dispatched a mandate to Calcutta, enjoining the principal hump-curer, who had been long accustomed to consider her Ladyship's words as law, to buy up all the humps that could be had, at whatsoever price, and to ship them for Europe, to her address, and for her sole use.

Figure to yourself, Sir, if you can, the unparalleled consternation that the publication of this order spread over the whole peninsula. It was a double privation to the great Lords and great Ladies of Calcutta, to have lost the female who held the first rank among them, and to be at the same time debarred from enjoying the dish in which the pride of their entertainments consisted. "Was it not enough," exclaimed the most indignant, "for her Ladyship to withdraw from us that presence, which always took care to make itself felt as the most important amongst us? Will not her Ladyship be satisfied, without making us feel that she thinks nobody she has left after her at Calcutta fit to eat a hump? Does she think she cannot exhibit her superiority sufficiently, without showing us, that, if she chooses it, she will eat humps in England; and if she chooses, will not suffer us to eat them here?" Such is the language of the great Ladies still remaining at Calcutta, if great they can be called, when they can no longer eat humps. The poor-buffaloes every day feel their fate harder. It is said, they are now often killed for the humps alone, as the oxen in South America are for their hides and fat; or, according to a more improved practice lately introduced, have the hump frequently cut down to the root, and then suffered to grow up again, somewhat in the manner of Mr. Bruce's Abyssinian rump-steaks.

However this may be, the precaution of the Lady has effectually succeeded in confining the dish to her own circle. It therefore cannot possibly become vulgar; a misfortune which cannot easily be guarded against with respect to other luxuries, in a country where a common tallow-chandler is often rich enough, and, what is more, extravagant enough, to outbid the greatest Lord, and to purchase, at a higher price, the rarest articles that come to market. Horace, surprised at the unrestrained practice of luxurious entertainments in his time, takes occasion to mention, that it was not very long before that the table of some Auctioneer had been the subject of general outcry for having sturgeon. Our Auctioneers enjoy every luxury of the day without comment or observation. When they are employed to sell the mansions, and furniture, and demesnes, of great Lords, neither turtle nor venison, nor any thing that can be had, is considered too good for them. They themselves act on the principle of the savages, who, when they cut down a tree, light a fire on the root, to make.merry at; and those who employ them seem to consider the occasion as a sort of funeral festivity, in which all expense may be disregarded, as it must be the last. The gentlemen of the hammer must, however, content themselves with turtle and venison. It will be some time before the Lord of Fonthill himself will be able to give them a hump at their annual clearing off of the costly collections, which his caprice assembles and dissipates at so vast an expense, merely to sport with his immense fortune. We mention it to the honour of Lady -- and for the satisfaction of the aristocracy of eating, of which this distinguished service ought to render her an honorary member, that she has raised a barrier against the vulgarization of the hump, which cannot be broken down, either by love or money. To be sure, it must have cost her Ladyship a great deal; but that is nothing in comparison with the accomplishment of so great an object. New fortunes, like young young trees, may grow better for having their exuberances lopped off. When the epicure, who had dissipated his estate in drinking Tokay, was asked, what his children should do? he answered, "Let them smell to the corks." The case is not so bad in the present instance. The children may go and eat humps in the country of the humps; and when they get there the market will probably be open, by the removal of the monopoly that now exists.

The subject of the humps includes a multitude of very important moral and political considerations.— When Lord Lauderdale gave a turtle at Paris, every one recollects the variety of important conclusions that were drawn from so extraordinary an event. When Lord Wellesley shall be found to give a hump, deductions equally grave and momentous will, no doubt, be derived from the fact and the circumstances. Many persons, no doubt, expected that there would have been given, in this article, the mode of cutting oft, of curing, of dressing, serving up, carving, eating, the sauce, &c. of the hump, the more particularly as that grand history of a year's eating at the Marquis of Buckingham's, lately published by his Lordship's cook, contains nothing of the matter; but it was the moral, not the sensual effects of the thing that appeared to call particularly for public notice. And here again there is occasion to applaud and to congratulate Lady on the effect of her aristocratic engrossing. It will be some years at least before the grand and select circle of her Ladyship's friends will be annoyed by seeing placarded on the coffeehouses, or pastry-shops, "A hump dressed here to-day," or before they will have their dignity hurt by seeing advertisements of a similar nature in every newspaper they can take up. Turtle and venison have been sufficiently in this way to warn those who wish to eat genteelly, to keep every new good thing to themselves.

Such has been the effect of the precaution taken to confine the consumption of the humps to Lady 's circle, that a celebrated Baronet and Alderman, who has been some time at Margate qualifying himself by repeated voyages in his fine sailing-boat, to command the gilded flotilla of the city-barges in their grand expedition from Blackfriars to Westminster, on the 9th of November [Lord Mayor’s Day], and who has been also exercising himself in the preparatory practice necessary to enable him to participate largely in the other glories of that great day; even he, it is said, though he took care to meet the last fleet from the East Indies out at sea, and did not hesitate to declare, that no money should prevent him from tasting a delicacy which he wished for beyond all the turtles ever found in the Old South Sea—even he had the mortification to find all his solicitations and all his offers unavailing.

After the failure of so great a personage, I can, with less shame, though not with less vexation, avow myself, as I must,

A DISAPPOINTED EPICURE.

So, dear readers, what, actually, is “Spiced Hump”? We find that it is no more and no less than hump prepared in the same manner as corned beef. ‘Corning” is simply salting – the word coming from the fact that in Olde England anything in the form of grains was called ‘corn’ – including grains of salt and wheat (the latter was always ‘corn’, until maize came on the scene and confused the issue.)


Now for the daily recipe fix: first, the basic, un-spicy preparation from The American frugal housewife by Lydia Maria Child (1838)


To Corn Meat.
When you merely want to corn meat, you have nothing to do but to rub in salt plentifully, and let it set in the cellar a day or two. If you have provided more meat than you can use while it is good, it is well to corn it in season to save it. In summer, it will not keep well more than a day and a half; if you are compelled to keep it longer, be sure and rub in more salt, and keep it carefully covered from cellar-flies. In winter, there is no difficulty in keeping a piece of corned beef a fortnight or more. Seme people corn meat by throwing it into their beef barrel for a few days; but this method does not make it so sweet. A little salt-petre rubbed in before you apply the common salt, makes the meat tender; but in summer it is not well to use it, because it prevents the other salt from impregnating ; and the meat does not keep as well.

Secondly, how to cook a sweet spicy version: from The Practice of Cookery, by Mrs. Dalgairns, (1830). No doubt the principal hump-curer from East India had his own special selection of spices in his initial cure too.


Short, or Spiced Beef.
To be eaten cold.
Hang up ten or twelve pounds of the middle part of a brisket of beef for three or four days, then rub well into it three ounces of finely-powdered saltpetre, and if spice is approved of, one ounce of allspice, and half an ounce of black pepper; let it stand all night, then salt it with three pounds of well-pounded bay salt, and half a pound of treacle, in which let it remain ten days, rubbing it daily. When it is to be boiled, sew it closely in a cloth, let the water only simmer, upon no account allowing it to boil, for nine hours over a slow fire, or upon a stove. When taken out of the water, place two sticks across the pot, and let the beef stand over the steam for half an hour, turning it from side to side, then press it with a heavy weight. It must not be taken out of the cloth till perfectly cold.

Quotation for the Day.

I believe that if you don't want to do anything, then sit there and don't do it, but don't expect people to hand you a corn beef sandwich and wash your socks for you and unzip your fly for you.
Shel Silverstein.

Noisy Puddings.

I doubt if anyone would call oatmeal ‘exciting’, but it is certainly interesting – if only in a historic and linguistic sort of way. Oatmeal is, or was, ‘the bread of the North’ – although decent ‘real’ bread cannot be made from it on account of its lack of gluten. It was sometimes made in bread-like blocks by the expedient of making very thick porridge and pouring it into a dresser drawer, leaving it to set, then cutting it into slabs. Antique Scottish dressers can still be found with deeply knife-scored drawers from years of porridge cutting.

Oatmeal is undoubtedly versatile. Apart from porridge slabs and gruel (see yesterday’s post), it makes fine oatcakes and it is absolutely essential in the form of gingerbread called Yorkshire Parkin (see the Gingerbread archive), but I am particularly intrigued by its ‘savoury’ applications. Here is where the linguistic fun comes in.

Porridge is, of course, simply one form of the universal staple carbohydrate ‘filler’ – it is the oatmeally version of hasty pudding, frumenty, polenta etc. All of these bland stodgy fillers can be flavoured and embellished in an infinite variety of ways, depending on whim and availability of ingredients. In the case of oatmeal, one version is called ‘skirly’ or ‘skirlie.’ According to the OED it is ‘a dish of oatmeal and onions, etc., fried together’, and the name is apparently a shortened form of ‘skirl-in-the-pan’ – meaning something fried in a pan.

But why does ‘skirl’ mean to fry? The Dictionary of the Scots language comes to our rescue here. Skirl is apparently ‘a scream or shreek, or to make the sound characteristics of the bagpipes.’ Further elaboration comes from one of the supporting quotes:

“A favourite substitute for mealy pudding was made in a small pan in which dripping was melted, with oatmeal added. This concoction, which was known to us by the picturesque English name, ‘scream pudding’, had to be stirred all the time it was cooking, to prevent it from singeing. The Scots name for it is ‘skirlie’.
[Angus Duncan Hebridean Island: Memories of Scarp 93]

So – skirlie and scream pudding – names arising from the sound of cooking in the pan. Nice, Huh?

Another noisy Scots dish made from oatmeal is crackins –‘a dish made of oatmeal fried in fat till well browned.’ The same thing as skirly? Similar, it seems, but more specifically associated with the melted fat of pigs (crackins/cracklins, see the association?), or, even more interestingly, with fish bits as shown by the following quote from the Scots Dictionary: ‘Crackens . . . are formed of fish livers and oatmeal cooked together.’ (1914). As the dictionary also gives Crackens as a name for the ‘roe of herring, etc., which, when thrown into the fire, burst with a crackling sound’, perhaps this gave the name to the pudding rather than the cracking-crunching pork bits? Anyone for fishy-flavoured porridge?

And if the OED wasn’t magnificent enough in its explicatory function, believe it or not it has recipes within it. It supplies our recipe for the day, in the form of a supporting quote:

Skirlie.
Chop two ounces of suet finely. Have a pan very hot and put in the suet. When..melted, add one or two finely chopped onions and brown them well. Now add enough oatmeal to absorb the fat.
Scots Kitchen. F.M McNeill. 1929


Quotation for the Day …

Oats: A grain, which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people. Samuel Johnson’s Dictionary, 1755

To Make a Dunelm.

Those of you who read this blog regularly will be fully aware that I love words – particularly odd food words. I have an interesting and mysterious one for you today, and am hoping one of you can shed some light on it.

Several cookbooks from the first half of the nineteenth century have recipes for “A Dunelm of … ” The venerable Oxford English Dictionary does not know “dunelm”, which is a poor start to researching the topic. Wikipedia comes partly to the rescue with the definition of “A Scottish hash of chicken or veal with mushrooms and cream” , but then confuses the issue by saying that “Dunelm” is also an abbreviation for “Dunelmensis” - the old Latin name for Durham, which is in the North of England, not Scotland. The very comprehensive Dictionary of the Scots Language does not own it as a Scottish word, so I remain baffled, but intrigued.


The recipes must therefore speak for themselves. A “Dunelm” seems to be a good way to use up leftover cooked meat, whilst avoiding the use of the word “hash”.

A Dunelm Of Chicken.
TAKE a few fresh mushrooms, peeled and dressed as for stewing; mince them very small, and put to them some butter, salt, and cream. When put into a sauce-pan, stir over a gentle fire till the mushrooms are nearly done. Then add the white part of a roasted fowl, after being minced very small. When sufficiently heated, it may be served up.
Culina Famulatrix Medicinæ, Alexander Hunter, 1804


Dunelm of Veal, Fowl, Rabbit, Venison, or Butcher's Meat.
Stew some mushrooms very gently for an hour and a half in butter, with mace, salt, and pepper; let them cool, and mince them; dust in flour till the butter becomes a roux, and work in by degrees a little cream, till it obtains the consistency of a sauce; simmer and cook it smooth; mince the meat the same size and quantity of the mushrooms. Butcher's meat requires onions, and venison civet and port wine.
Domestic Economy, and Cookery, for rich and poor, by A Lady (Maria Rundell), 1827


Quotation for the Day …

The army from Asia introduced a foreign luxury to Rome; it was then the meals began to require more dishes and more expenditure . . . the cook, who had up to that time been employed as a slave of low price, become dear: what had been nothing but a métier was elevated to an art.
Livy (Titus Livius), Roman historian (59-17 B.C.)

Two Excuses to Celebrate.

Today is the third birthday of The Old Foodie. How Amazing. It started off as a little experiment for fun, and here we all are, 863 posts later. Who’da Thought It?

A few people around the world will chose to celebrate Halloween instead of the TOF’s birthday of course, for tonight is also the e’en (evening) of All Hallows (All Saints) Day.

The modern customs of Hallowe’en are the result of clever commercial manipulation of traditions that have their roots in the the ancient Celtic celebration of Samhain which marked the end of the harvest season. It was believed that on this night the passages between the worlds of the living and the dead were open, and the souls of the dead could walk the land, wreaking havoc if they were not properly appeased (or confused by scary costumes and noise.)

The spirits could also be invoked to foretell the future, and many Halloween games and customs are based on old divination methods. For example, in a variation of the bean in the Twelfth Night Cake, or the charms in a Christmas Pudding, one custom in Ireland was to put a ring in a sweet fruit bread called a barm brack. The girl who got the ring would get her man within the year – a hugely reassuring promise at a time when her only other alternative to marriage was remaining dependent on her parents or brothers for ever.

Barm Brack comes from the words barm (yeast) and breac (speckled) and refers to the fruit scattered through the sweet dough. In that other stronghold of the Celts – Wales – speckled bread is called Bara Brith, and in Scotland it is the same as Bannock.

The earliest recipe I have found so far (after a far from an exhaustive search) is from a Scottish cookery book of 1802 – the recipe donated by a lady in Bath, proving that the provenance of recipes nearly always demonstrates a mongrel heritage. The name of the particular recipe is clearly a phonetic interpretation at the name.

To Make Barren Brack.
Take three quarts of flour, rub into it three ounces of butter, seven ounces of sugar, some carraway seeds, make a hole in this; put into it two eggs beat up to a froth, a gill of barm in as much new milk as will wet it; work it up and let it rise, and bake it upon a girdle.
Mrs. Cobb, Bath.
The New Practice of Cookery, Pastry, Baking, and Preserving: being The Country Housewife’s Best Friend, by Mrs Hudson, Mrs Donat, Edinburgh, 1804.

Quotation for the Day …

On the plain household bread his eye did not dwell; but he surveyed with favor some currant tea-cakes, and condescended to make a choice of one. Charlotte Bronte.

Second Supper.

Before I fold away this idea of more meals in the day (temporarily that is, I have more meals for you yet) – I want to talk about second supper. I must be well on the way to getting honorary Hobbit citizenship now.

Once upon a time, there was rere-supper. Sir Walter Scott described it thus, in 1833, in Woodstock:

“Rere-suppers (quasi arriére) belonged to a species of luxury introduced in the jolly days of King James’s extravagance and continued through the subsequent reign. The supper took place at an early hour, six or seven o’clock at lates – the rere-supper was a postliminary banquet, a horse d’oeuvre, which made its appearance at ten or eleven, and served as an apology for prolonging the entertainment till midnight.”

The name comes from an obsolete form of ‘rear’ – presumably because it happens at the rear-end of the day. Sir Walter may have gotten the description right, but he was wrong about its origin. It was not King James’ idea, second supper had been around since at least the fifteenth century, but seems to have died out during the nineteenth century. The idea must be due for revival, surely? His countrywoman and contemporary, the writer Christian Isobel Johnstone (aka Mistress Margaret (Meg) Dods) discussed the requirements in her wonderful book, The Cook and Housewife’s Manual (1828),

“When a formal supper is set out, the principal dishes are understood to be roasted game or poultry, cold meats sliced, ham, tongue, collared and potted things, grated beef, Dutch herring, kipper, highly-seasoned pies of game, &c. &c., with, ccasionally, soups, - an addition to modern suppers which, after the, heat and fatigue of a ball-room, or large party, is found peculiarly grateful and restorative. Minced white meats, lobsters, oysters, collared eels, and crawfish, dressed in various forms ; sago, rice, the more delicate vegetables, poached eggs, scalloped potatoes, or potatoes in balls, or as Westphalia cakes, are all suitable articles of the solid kind. To these we may add cakes, tarts, possets, creams, jellies in glasses or shapes, custards, preserved or dried fruits, pancakes, fritters, puffs, tartlets, grated cheese, butter in little forms, sandwiches; and the catalogue of the more stimulating dishes, as anchovy toasts, devils, Welsh, English, and Scotch rabbits, roasted onions, salmagundi, smoked sausages sliced, and those other preparations which are best adapted to what among ancient bon vivants was called the rere-supper.”

The Westphalia Cake turns out to be a ham and potato meatloaf. It might be a good idea to file away for the post-Christmas season.

Westphalia Loaves for a Supper Dish, or to eat with Veal, &c.
Grate four ounces of good lean ham, and mix it with a pound of good potatoes, mashed with butter. Add salt, pepper, and two eggs, to bind the ingredients. Mould this into small loaves, or shape it in patty-pans, and fry and serve in a brown gravy, or alone.

P.S. In a previous story we had Pickled Herrings: a French way for a rere-supper, also from Mistress Dods.

P.P.S: "The Old Foodie" will be three years old on Friday! By the birthday there will be 864 posts. Hard to believe - for the Old Foodie at any rate.

Quotation for the Day …

And please don't cook me, kind sirs! I am a good cook myself, and cook better than I cook, if you see what I mean. I'll cook beautifully for you, a perfectly beautiful breakfast for you, if only you won't have me for supper.

Bilbo Baggins to the Trolls in The Hobbit, J.R.R. Tolkien

Railway Breakfast(s)

The Oxford Symposium is over for another year, and a fantastic event it was indeed. It manages the most egalitarian atmosphere of any 'conference' I have ever attended, as well as being the most fun. There were some very erudite and interesting papers on 'Vegetables' , but we also managed to eat some great food, had the opportunity to make Arcimboldo-inspired pictures with fruit and veg, and listened to the sounds that plants make by themselves - and some that humans make using vegetables as instruments. The 'Carrot Crunch Concerto' was really something, and I sincerely hope that someone has U-tubed it.

Today, if all goes according to plan, I should be heading off to York by train. I love train travel, and it gives me an excuse to relate a fine rail-food story that I have wanted to tell you for a long time.

The late ninteteenth century was a time of great competition between railroads. Speed was the thing, and railway races attracted a great deal of interest. In Scotland in 1895 a young man called Norman McDonald set off on the East Coast Flyer from London to Edinburgh – and managed four breakfasts on the trip.

“I did the feat of having four breakfasts in four divers places. (1) Soon after midnight one of my co-lunatics in our “sleeper’ produced a flask and very massive sandwiches. (2) After Berwick-on-Tweed the attendant gave us coffee and biscuits. (3) not long after 5 am we were hammering on the doors of the Imperial Hotel in Aberdeen calling for food. On getting in I said the Cockney pressmen must have real porridge for once, “and mind they have milk, all proper, and no beastly treacle or sugar.” The poor waiter said “There is no milk!” I blazed into Highland fire, which he damped down by saying “Man! The coos is no milket yet!” (4) I caught the “Flying Scotsman” portion from Aberdeen and landed in Edinburgh at 9.40 am, dashed to my nearby house to find the joyful remains of the family feed still on the table. I had done nearly 200 miles between my second and third breakfasts, and about 130 miles bteween the third and fourth ones!”

Four breakfasts - what a good thing to aspire too! I feel sure it would help one to adapt to time differences on international trips. One could extend the concept to multiple lunches and dinners too.

Here is Porridge, with preliminary Comments, from the redoubtable Cassell’s Dictionary of Cookery (1870’s)

Porridge, Oatmeal
Oatmeal porridge is a leading article of food with the Scottish peasantry. It is generally accompanied with milk when milk is to be had; when milk is very scarce, butter is sometimes used, sometimes sugar, and sometimes treacle beer. …. Whey is sometimes used instead of water for the making of oatmeal porridge, and affords an agreeable variety for those using porridge every day. Milk porridge is another variety esteemed an especial luxury by the Scottish peasantry, and is certainly both an agreeable and very nutritious article of diet. Whether fine oatmeal or coarse oatmeal should be used for the making of porridge is merely a matter of taste.

Put a pint and a half of water or milk and water into a saucepan and add a pinch of salt. When the liquid fully boils, as it is rising in the pan, sprinkle gradually two ounces of oatmeal into it with the left hand, and at the same time stir briskly with a fork held in the right hand. Keep stirring till the lumps are beaten out. Boil the mixture for a quarter of an hour, pour it on a plate, and eat it with milk and sugar.

[I wonder what it is like with treacle beer?]

Tea, Bread, Cheese.

I haven’t started a story with ‘On This Day’ for a while, which is a bit remiss of me as that was the daily theme when this blog started out. There is an interesting story that does have its anniversary today however, and it has given me a theme for the next few days.

On this day in 1831, Richard Abbey (Gentleman) of Walthamstow in the County of Essex, England, was granted a patent for ‘a new mode of preparing the leaf of a British plant for producing a healthy beverage for infusion.’ In a nutshell, Abbey had developed a substitute tea from the leaves of the Hawthorn bush (Crataegus mongyna).

Now, the Hawthorn bush is very ordinary, very common, very everyday. Its only real claim to fame is that it was the emblem of the House of Tudor, supposedly because after Richard III died at the Battle of Bosworth his crown was found in a Hawthorn bush and used to crown Henry Tudor (Henry VII). Even if Abbey’s method resulted in a delicious and acceptable substitute, it would hardly have been a commercially viable proposition as every English villager would have access to quantities of the leaves. Perhaps the patentable idea was something to do with his processing of the humble leaves?

His ‘new idea’ was to carefully pick the leaves, rinse them well in cold water, and while they are damp to put them in an ‘ordinary culinary steamer, where they are ‘to be subjected to the action of the vapour until they change from a green to an olive colour.’ The leaves are then to be dried upon ‘a hot plate well heated’, and be ‘continually stirred up and turned over until they are thoroughly dry, in which state they may be preserved for use.’

I am baffled as to what was patentable in this idea. It is not as if the Hawthorn was not known to be edible. In fact, the Hawthorn is a veritable pantry. It seems that ‘tea’ (more properly ‘tisane’) has been made from the dried buds for aeons or thereabouts. Any berry, including that of the Hawthorn can be used to make jelly. The berries can also, I understand, be made into quite an acceptable liqueur. Every pantry needs its staples, and jelly and booze may or may not count as staples where you come from. Bread and cheese probably would count as staples in most of the places I have lived. The Hawthorn bush used to be called ‘the bread and cheese tree’ because the buds and leaves can be eaten straight from the tree, as they have often been in times of famine, or used in salads or sandwiches, to add variety in better times. The bush is also called ‘Quickset’, supposedly because mere slips of it stuck in the earth quickly become hedges. I have a vague memory that it is also a source of vegetable rennet, which would be an alternative source of the name – but don’t quote me on that until I have time to investigate. If you know, please let us all know via the comments!

Hawthorn Liqueur.
THE full blossoms of the white thorn [alternative name for Hawthorn] are to be picked dry and clean from the leaves and stalks, and as much put into a large bottle as it will hold lightly without pressing it down ; it is then to be filled up with French brandy, and allowed to stand two or three months, when it must be decanted off, and sweetened with clarified sugar, or with capillaire. Without the sweetening, it is an excellent seasoning for puddings and custards.
The Practice of Cookery. Mrs. Dalgairns. 1830

UPDATE:

I am delighted that this post has inspired a poem! The poet is my friend Jim Sharp, who grew up in England but is now many years from his 'roots and shoots'. He says he loved to pick and eat from the bread and cheese tree. Here is his poem:

roman banks 1940’s

in ancient times the imperial army

camped on top of the roman embankment

nowadays the babbling brook meanders

singing softly to those soldiers of yesteryear

on one’s tod sloan a sharp eyed bairn walks

amongst grazing & cud chewing contented cows

whilst around him rabbits & weasels scurry free

a slow moving hedgehog is too spiny to touch

and from the birds nests in the hedge rows

he takes only one egg for his collection

white elder flowers he gathers for granny’s medicinal tea

& from blue-black elderberries she makes jelly & wine

come the days end a sharp bairn lays in the long grass

watching skylarks fall out of a fading sun.

The language of menus.

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.

Travel Language No. 2

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.

Shortbread.

June 12 ...

A young Scot called James Anderson McLauchlan was bound for Australia aboard the good ship City of Adelaide on this day in 1874. Passengers on long voyages such as this were pre-occupied with the food, for obvious reasons, and often recorded their meals in their journals. James was no exception.

“Friday 12th ... expecting to get into the Trade Winds soon ... preserved meat and preserved potatoes for dinner today, which is a fine change from the salt Horse (as the sailors term it) which had almost taken the skin off my mouth. Our baker made us a piece of short bread for Tea. ... would have been nice but was spoiled in the firing .... ”

I wish James had indicated how the ‘preserved meat’ was preserved, if it was not salted as in the ‘salt horse’ which he mentions – which was salt beef, really, but sailormen will have their little jokes. I would like to know how the ‘preserved meat’ was preserved, if it was not salted. Preserved potatoes were almost universally hated by those at sea, so perhaps the passengers on this voyage were lucky in their supply. The shortbread must have been a treat, even if it was a bit overdone, and James could be expected to give a knowledgeable opinion on it, for it is particularly associated with his homeland.

The dictionary describes shortbread as ‘an article of food, in the form of flat (usually round) cakes, the essential ingredients of which are flour, butter, sugar, mixed in such proportions as to make the cake ‘short’ when baked’. This definition requires another definition , and ‘short’ in this context means crumbly. Good shortbread has the sort of crumbliness that is also a meltingness. The ingredients could just as easily be made into a sweet bread, but the crucial difference of texture is not simply due to proportions as the dictionary suggests, it is also due to technique. What makes flour butter and sugar crumbly or chewy (or hard) depends on the amount of gluten in the final mixture, and gluten development depends on a number of things including how lightly or heavily the dough is handled. Minimal handling keeps the gluten strands short, which makes the finished product ‘short'.

Of course, shortbread got its name before the gluten science was worked out.

Shortbread made with the basic ingredients above is as close to pastry heaven as it is possible to get, but those who are unafraid of gilding the lily can always value add. There are historical precedents to do this. A Scottish dictionary of 1825 says ‘carraways and orange peel are frequently added’, and that wonderful Scottish authority Mistress Meg Dodds (aka Christian Isobel Johnstone) shows in her Cook and Housewife’s Manual (1828).

Scotch Short-Bread.

To the fourth of a peck of flour, take six ounces of sifted sugar and of candied orange-peel, citron and blanched almonds, two ounces each. Cut these in rather large pieces, and mix them with the flour. Rub down among the flour a pound of butter in very minute bits, and melt a half-pound, and with this work up the flour, &c. The less kneading it gets the more short and crisp the cakes will be. Roll out the paste into a large well-shaped oval cake about an inch and a half thick, and divide this. Pinch the cakes neatly at the edges, and mark them on the top with the instrument used for the purpose, or with a fork. Strew caraway-comfits over the top, and a few stripes of citron. Bake on paper rubbed with flour.

Tomorrow’s Story …

A menu of sorts.

Quotation for the Day …

If every Frenchwoman is born with a wooden spoon in her hand. every Scotswoman is born with a rolling-pin under her arm. There may be a divergence of opinion as to her skill in cooking, but it is certain that she has developed a remarkable technique in baking not only in bannocks, scones and oatcakes, but also in the finer manipulations of wheat, in cakes, pastry and shortbread.
F. Marian McNell.

Freudian Food.

April 24 …

Clement Freud, grandson of Sigmund, politician, celebrity chef, restaurateur, and food writer was born on this day in 1924. He is responsible for more than his fair share of quotable quotes, which seems like a good place to start today’s story.

“In moments of considerable strain, I tend to take to bread-and-butter pudding. There is something about the blandness of soggy bread, the crispness of the golden outer crust and the unadulterated pleasure of a lightly set custard that makes the world seem a better place to live.”

“If you resolve to give up smoking, drinking and loving, you don't actually live longer; it just seems longer.”

“Congealed fat is pretty much the same, irrespective of the delicacy around which it is concealed.”

“Breakfast is a notoriously difficult meal to serve with a flourish.”

“To barbecue is a way of life rather than a desirable method of cooking.”

“Eating is to put off the evil moment when one has to write an article. I trot into the kitchen instead of sitting down. I make some mayonnaise and open a can of tunny fish, and I eat tunny mayonnaise which I don’t really want. This is obviously how one gets so fat and slothful.”

Mr.Freud gives his favourite foods as caviar, foie gras, and oysters. “I love angels-on-horseback. Oysters wrapped in bacon, smoked streaky bacon, however socially desirable back of bacon may be. Never fry bacon, grill it. Skewer the bacon round the oyster and grill it. You can get it crisp this way because the fat runs off.”

Angels on horseback. When was the last time you had Angels on Horseback? The 1970’s? Are they so retro they are due for a re-run?

It seems that Angels on Horseback are older than I thought – although they used to go by a different name. Here is a recipe from an American cookbook called Favorite Dishes, by Carrie V.Schuman, 1893.

Pigs in Blankets.
From Mrs. Isabella Laning Candee, of Illinois, Alternate Lady Manager.
This amusing and appetizing dish is easily made.Take large fine oysters and drain them well, and season with salt and pepper, and a drop of lemon juice if desired. Cut fat bacon into very thin, even slices, and wrap each oyster in a slice of bacon, fastening securely with a wooden skewer – a toothpick will do. Two cloves can be inserted at one end of the roll to simulate ears. Have the frying pan very hot, and cook the little pigs until the bacon crisps. Serve immediately upon small pieces of toast.

Tomorrow’s Story …

Anzac Day.

Quotation for the Day …

Life expectancy would grow by leaps and bounds if green vegetables smelled as good as bacon. Doug Larsen.