Edinburgh Rock.

After yesterday’s post I got to thinking about other ‘eponymous’ and attributed candies. I have covered many forms of candy (sweets, lollies) during the lifetime of this blog – including one for Tomato Marshmallow (links to the stories are below). The only specifically ‘named’ one that I can remember so far is Everton Toffee. The only other one that sprang to mind was Edinburgh Rock.

Edinburgh Rock is quite different from the ‘rock’ associated with English seaside towns, which is a long cylinder of violently coloured hard-boiled, teeth-shatteringly hard sugar candy with the name of the town ingeniously ‘written’ throughout its length. Edinburgh of course is neither English nor a ‘seaside’ town. Edinburgh’s candy rock has quite a different texture – not soft, but definitely more crumbly and powdery – the result, they say, of a mistake. The instructions in the recipe below are quite clear – you need to forget about it. Leave it naked and unwrapped at room temperature and go away for a day or so. I love successes that start out as mistakes – quite a lot of well-loved dishes began as memory lapses or undercooking or some other disaster. The idea might make a good series of blog posts one day, perhaps?

The famous candy was supposedly ‘discovered’ by a young scion of the Ferguson family in Glasgow. If you believe the stories, his father wanted him to be a carpenter, but the young fella wanted to make sweeties. He moved to Edinburgh to realise his dream. The dream came true when a batch of boiled sugar candy was forgotten for several days/weeks/months – the genius stroke being that it was not thrown out immediately on discovery, but was tasted firs, and Voila! the difference was immediately assigned a marketing edge. I assume the young man named it in honour of the rock upon which Edinburgh castle stands?

Edinburgh Rock.
1 lb. sugar.
Pinch cream of tartar.
½ pint water.
Color to taste.
Flavor to taste.
Dissolve the sugar in the water, stirring all the time; then add the cream of tartar and boil without stirring to 262 deg, or until it forms a hard ball when tried in cold water. Add the flavor and color if desired, and pour out on a buttered marble slab, between buttered candy bars.
As soon as it cools a little turn the corners and sides into the middle with a buttered knife, to insure regular pulling. When cool enough to handle, dust the fingers with sugar or rub them with oil and pull the candy until it turns dull. Pull it into strips and cut the required length with buttered scissors. Place on waxed paper and lay aside in a warm room for a day or two until it becomes powdery and granulated.
Keep in airtight tins.
Candies and Bonbons and how to Make Them, by Marion Harris Neil (Philadelphia, 1913)

If your town or state has its own named candy, I’d love to hear about it!
- A story called ‘Candy for health’, and a recipe for liquorish cakes

- A story about nougat and a recipe for sugared fruits (the original sweetmeats)

- A story about Kendal Mint Cake story with a recipe for ‘Sugar of Roses’
- A story about the Maquis de Sade, and a recipe for Caraway comfits
- A story about Lammas, and Yellowman (honeycomb toffee)
- Dulcia Domestica (Ancient Roman sweets made from dates)
- Candy in Cakes,
- Jelly Babies, Jujubes, and Dr.Who
- Barley sugar


Quotation for the Day.

I think most Scottish cuisine is based on a dare.
Movie: 'So I Married and Axe Murderer'.

Turkish Delight.

I am particulary fond of “Turkish delight”, especially (maybe exclusively) the rose-scented version. Maybe also the pistachio version. In Turkey itself, I understand, this delicacy is called lokum. I came across an interesting reference to it the other day, in an early nineteenth century travelogue:

“We were also favoured with morsels of confectionery, in which, it is supposed, the Turks are unrivalled, but with a single exception, the great family of candies, including the species rock lemon and hoarhound, with the minor varieties of plum, comfit, &c., are in nowise different, but if anything rather inferior to our own. The exception to which we allude is a delicious pasty mass which melts away in the mouth and leaves a fragrant flavour behind. It is, as we are informed, made by mixing honey with the inspissated juice of the fresh grape, and the Turks, who esteem it highly, call it rahat locoom, or ‘repose to the throat’ - a picturesque name to which it seems fairly entitled.”
[Sketches of Turkey in 1831 and 1832. By an American (James Ellsworth De Kay)]

No rosewater or nuts there. Hmmmm. In search of an early recipe I went. My first find confused the issue further.

Lòkùm
Put three quarters of a pound of fresh butter in a saucepan, and set it on the fire. When hot, add one pound and six ounces of the best flour and keep stirring till it becomes a light brown; then pour three quarters of a pint of water over, and continue stirring until it becomes like a paste; then take it off and let it remain till cold; then add about ten eggs, and work it with your hands to form a softish paste; then divide it in round pieces the size of small peaches, hollow the centre of each with the point of your finger, lay them in a buttered baking tin and bake them a nice delicate colour. When done fill them with the jam, clotted cream, or minced meat previously stewed brown in fresh butter. Dish them up tastefully on a white napkin and serve.
[The Turkish Cookery Book, by Turabi Efendi, 1865]

This buttery choux-pastry with sweet or savoury filling would certainly give comfort to the throat, but it is a long way from the Western/European idea of ‘Turkish delight’, which, as the Oxford English Dictionary tell us is ‘a sweetmeat consisting of gelatine boiled, cubed, and dusted with sugar.’ I am utterly delighted that the first mention given in the OED is from Charles Dickens:

‘I want to go to the Lumps-of-Delight shop.’ ‘To the .. ?’ ‘A Turkish sweetmeat, sir.’
[Edwin Drood, 1870]

The Western history of the concept of Turkish Delight would surely make a most wonderful story, would it not?

Quotation for the Day.

Tomatoes and oregano make it Italian; wine and tarragon make it French. Sour cream makes it Russian; lemon and cinnamon make it Greek. Soy sauce makes it Chinese; garlic makes it good.
Alice May Brock

A Cricket (Widow's) Dinner.

It is that time of the year again, I am afraid. The time of the year that it is even more difficult to prise the Aussie (English, Indian, Sri-Lankan, West-Indian ….. ) man away from the screen - because THE CRICKET IS ON! And when the CRICKET IS ON, it is ON FOR FIVE FULL DAYS.

It is an anachronism, today, a single game of sport that lasts for five days. A game in which, to the uninitiated, nothing much exciting appears to happen for long stretches of time, but to the initiated is packed full of strategy and tactics and decisions and little runs and big scores. A legacy of a more leisured age. Perhaps a reassuring legacy in our short-attention-span world of instant gratification? Something to help preserve the ability of the brain to focus on something for more than five minutes?

From this cricket widow, please accept, for your amusement, this satirical “Bill of Fare for a Cricket Dinner”, from Judy, or the London Serio-Comic Journal of June, 1897.

MENU
Hors d’Œuvres: Duck’s Eggs; Hundred-and-Thousands.
Potage: Lob-ster Purée.
Poissons: Wicket-Kippers; Whiting, Crease Sauce.
Entrées: Bals Perdus; Chasse-au-Cuir en Tortue.
Releves: Square-legs of Mutton; Hams (Yorkers).
Rôts: Demi-vollailles.
Entremets: Batter Pudding; Oval Jellies.
Dessert: Long Hops; Chestnuts; Stone-wall-fruit.

The hundreds and thousands (of runs? pigeons on the pitch? commentators trivial asides and non-sequiteurs?) are interesting. They are tiny, garishly-coloured sugared pellets or sprinkles – miniscule comfits, really - used to decorate cakes and trifles, and to make fairy bread. They are the pure modern commercial interpretation of the non-pareils made in France since at least the seventeenth century from powdered orris-root and sugar. Orris root is from a species of iris, and has a long history of medicinal use as well as its value to the fragrance industry.

Here is the way to make the real thing.


Nonpareils.
Nonpareils may be reckoned among the first species of confectionary, and from their great utility will last probably as long as the art itself. Put into the pan over the barrel half a pound of Florence orris-root, pulverized and sifted, and warmed with a gentle fire. Take about half a table spoonful of syrup boiled to a pearl, moisten the powder with it and with your hands make them into small grains; increase the charges by degrees, sift the nonpareils to take off the small particles and dust of the sugar; repeat the sifting often taking care to have sieves of different sizes. At night place the nonpareils in the stove to dry increasing them in size day after day with the finest sugar, and finish as above. Half a pound of orris will make more than a hundred weight of nonpareils.
The Italian Confectioner, William Alexis Jarrin, 1829.


Quotation for the Day.

Anyone who uses the phrase 'easy as taking candy from a baby' has never tried taking candy from a baby.
Anonymous.

Rosemary Comfits, etc.

We discovered yesterday that the Shuttleworths of Gawthorpe Hall (our source of inspiration for the week) in Lancashire regularly ordered special supplies to be sent all the way from London. In November 1617, they purchased from Mr. Thomas Lever,confectioner, one lb. of rosemary comfits.

I have met comfits made from caraway, aniseed, coriander, cinnamon, and orange (and the infamous ones used by the Maquis de Sade, supposedly containing Spanish Fly) in my reading, but I don’t believe I have come across a reference to rosemary comfits before, and I am most intrigued by them.

Rosemary was used regularly in those times for medicinal purposes, to make pot-pourri, and to flavour beverages such as mead. Comfits were somewhere in the first group – as a sort of after-dinner digestive. Musing on the use of the herb led me to wonder when it became used for more definitive culinary purposes. I don’t pretend to have researched it in any depth, but I give you a few gleanings to get the discussion going.

Firstly, for the comfits themselves, I found a nineteenth century recipe:

Lavender and Rosemary buds may be put into just as much white of egg as will damp them, and then shaken amongst fine-pounded sugar till they are well-covered, and left to dry in it.
Domestic Economy, and Cookery, for Rich and Poor, by a Lady (1833)

I did find one reference from 1867 (from a book supposedly of Welsh cookery ideas) of it being added to the water used to clarify lard when a pig was killed, which sounds a very elegant touch to the inelegant process of rendering. Then there was this idea (from America) at a further point in the pig processing:

Souse for Brawn, and Pig’s Feet and Ears.
Boil a quarter of a peck of wheat-bran, a sprig of bay, and a sprig of rosemary, in two gallons of water, with four ounces of salt in it, for half an hour. Strain it, and let it get cold.
Irving’s 1000 Receipts, by Lucretia Irving (America) 1852

Here is a proper cookery recipe from 1804.

The Head of a Turbot Stewed.
Fill a sauce-pan nearly full with water, and put in a few anchovies, some marjoram and rosemary, two or three cloves, some whole pepper, and scraped ginger. Stew these for the space of an hour ; then strain, and put in the head to be stewed till tender ; when enough, thicken the gravy with flour rolled in butter; add to the butter an anchovy or two, and a little nutmeg. When ready to be served up, put in some spoonfulls of white wine, together with some balls made in the following manner : Bone and skin a piece of turbot; then chop it small, with a little thyme, marjoram, grated bread and nutmeg. Form these into balls with some melted butter and cream, or the yolk of an egg. Put jnto the stew-pan, before the head is taken out, a large piece of the forcemeat, and salt to the taste.
Culina Famulatrix Medicinae, by Alexander Hunter, 1804

And finally, a more familiar application from much more recent times. It is a dish of lamb with rosemary, from Mrs Beeton’s Cookery book and Household Guide, of 1909 – which is to say that it is Isabella’s in name only as she had been dead since 1865. Her original collection was progressively changed and manipulated after her death – exponentially so after the Beeton company was sold in the wake of her husband’s financial failure. It is a nice recipe nonetheless – a sort of herby pickle of lamb that methinks would adapt well to the modern slow cooker.

Baked Saddle of Lamb.
Ingredients: A small saddle of lamb, shalots, marjoram, rosemary, bay-leaves, cloves, juniper berries, lardoons, ½ pint vinegar, ½ pint of claret, pepper and salt.
Mode: Chop the shalots, rosemary, marjoram and bay-leaves; crush the berries, add the cloves and pepper, and having skinned the saddle, rub it thoroughly inside and out with the mixture. Put it in an earthen pan, pour over the claret and vinegar, and let it remain in this liquor for 4 days, frequently turning it. Then lard it, and bake it in an earthenware pan, carefully basting it, and adding a little salt, for 1 to 1 ¼ hour.


Quotation for the Day:

There's rosemary, that's for remembrance; pray, love, remember; and there is pansies, that's for thoughts.
William Shakespeare.

Oriental Delight.

I plead a little residual jet-lag today, so today’s story is short!

I want to stray briefly back to the “Oriental” theme. I have been hoarding this recipe for some time. It is from Volume 5 of the Woman's Institute Library Of Cooking (undated, but around 1927). I like it because with the Christmas season coming up, it seems like a very versatile sweetmeat – it would be equally at home on a cheese platter, or with coffee. Maybe even dipped in chocolate?

Oriental Delight.
An excellent confection that can be prepared without cooking is known as oriental delight. It is composed of fruit, nuts, and coconut, which are held together with egg white and powdered sugar.
½ lb dates
½ lb raisins
½ lb pressed figs
½ c. shredded coconut
½ c. English walnuts
1 egg white
Powdered sugar.
Wash all the fruits, put them together, and steam for about 15 minutes. Then put these with the coconut and nuts through a food chopper or chop them all in a bowl with a chopping knife. When the whole is reduced to a pulpy mass, beat the egg white slightly, add sufficient sugar to make a very soft paste, and mix with the fruit mixure. If it is very sticky, continue to add powdered sugar and mix well until it is stiff enough to pack in a layer in a pan. Press down tight and when it is set mark in squares, remove from the pan, and serve as a confection.

Quotation for the Day …

"Our trouble is that we drink too much tea. I see in this the slow revenge of the Orient, which has diverted the Yellow River down our throats.

J.B. Priestley, in The Observer 1949

Nutty Candy.

Today is the end of Confectionary week at the Old Foodie. I want to talk to you about prawlongs. Prawlongs (or prawlins) appear in a couple of old confectionary books, and I have been intrigued about the name for a while. I was going to ask your help in puzzling out what they are, as the OED, Google, and Wikipedia are of no use at all. Silly me. I should have looked at the recipes – I mean, really looked at them. When I did, the answer was embarrassingly obvious. Prawlongs are Pralines, which the OED does know about. They are ‘a confection made by browning almonds or other nuts in boiling sugar.’ Mrs. Kettilby in her book Above 300 Receipts (1714) also calls them Fry’d Almonds, which I like. There is nothing so consistent as inconsistency in culinary language however, and one of the supporting quotations in the OED is from Canada, and refers to ‘a small quantity of praline, made of roasted maize, rendered palatable with sugar’ in a camp-food context. Another says ‘It was the fragrance of prawleens, that compound of New Orleans molasses, brown sugar, chocolate, and butter.’

For no better reason than that his name fits his subject, I have chosen a recipe for prawlongs from Frederick Nutt’s The Complete Confectioner, published in 1807.

He gives recipes for lemon, orange, pistachio (red), pistachio (white), burnt filbert (red), and orange flower prawlongs, as well as burnt almonds and filberts.

Burnt Filbert Prawlongs, Red.
Take some Barcelona nuts and crack them, put the kernals into a copper pan or sheet, and put them in the oven to roast; have a pan with syrup boiling and let it boil till it becomes almost to carimel; put a little cochineal in a cup, when the sugar is boiled, add it to it and the filberts, and stir them very much with a large wooden spoon, till you find the sugar is got hard around them; put them in a sieve, and separate them which stick together; have another pan, with syrup in, and boil it as before and as high; put the same quantity of cochineal in, and mix them as before, because the second time you do them, the finer the colour will be, and then put them in your box.

Apart from the fact that it sounds delicious, there are two other great things about this recipe. Firstly, it gives me another new-old food word – ‘Barcelona’ in relation to filberts (and their alter-ego, the hazelnut). Secondly, I think it may have given me a topic for next week– cochineal.

In the meanwhile, if any of you hail from New Orleans, and can treat us all to a recipe for the local version of prawleens, with chocolate, butter, and molasses, I would be most delighted.

Quotation for the Day …

Candy
Is dandy,
But liquor
Is quicker.
Ogden Nash.