Short, Sweet Story.

I have for you today a fine romantic tale in which the food is as much a star as the two lovers. It has only a tenuous connection with food history, its sole excuse being that I found it in a marvellous book from which I have previously drawn blog material - Morton’s Sixpenny Almanack and Diary published in 1876.

For those wordsmiths amongst you, this story inspires a challenge. The story is a mere 149 words long – but every word begins with the letter ‘S’. Can you do better with another letter of the alphabet (the story must include mention of food)? I promise to try my best to find a historical recipe for any entries submitted. There is no prize except the honour of your clever work being included in a blog post.

Here is the story:

Sam Small sauntered slowly scullery-ward, supperless. Saw Sal Swift sitting silently-shelling small sweetpeas. Says Sam, snappishly, "Some supper, Sally ?" Says Sal, "S'pose so." Says Sam, "Stir smartly, Sal, Sam's starving." Says Sal, smilingly, "Some soup Sam, sauer-kraut, sausages. Say something suits." Says Sam speedily, "Stir some shortcake. Some strawberries, syrup, sugar. Some such sweet stuff suits Sam." Sal stirred self spryly, stepped swiftly, spread sideboard speedily; supper soon stands smoking side Sam. Says Sam, sheepishly, " Soon's supper's swallowed shall say something, Sally." Sal sat stirring sweetmeats. Sam stole several sidelong squints Sally-wards. Sal started, simpered, stammered, spying, " Speak Sam." Says Sam, " Shall select spouse sometime. Sally, s'pose Sam'll suit? Shall Sam stand side Sal?" Sal stole swiftly Sam's side, saying softly, "Sam suits Sally." Sam seized Sal's slender self, stole several sweet smacks speedily, sealing Sal securely. Sal seemed supremely satisfied. So story stops short.

For the recipe for the day I give you Strawberry Shortcake from Jennie June’s American Cookery Book, published in 1866, a decade before our short sweet story for the day.

Strawberry Shortcake.
Mix dough as for soda biscuit; that is to say, one quart of sifted flour, piece of butter size of an egg, two tea-spoonsful of cream of tartar, one of soda, a pinch of salt, and sweet milk to form a soft dough. Put cream of tartar in the flour, and soda in dry also, and, when thoroughly mixed, roll out half an inch thick and bake in a shallow pan fifteen or twenty minutes; have ready two quarts of fresh, fine strawberries; split the cake, place half the strawberries between and cover thickly with white sugar and cream; put the other half on the top and cover in the same way; send to the table immediately. This is the method of making at the finest city restaurants.


Quotation for the Day.

“Even the coeur flottant merveilleux aux fraises, presented with a great flourish, made little impression, for it was no more than what may happen to the simple, honest dish of strawberries and cream once it falls into the hands of a Frenchman.”
Dr. Watson in 'Sherlock Holmes and the Hapsburg Tiara' by Alan Vanneman (2004)

Huff Paste.

There is to be found in cookbooks of the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries, something called huff paste (or pastry). The Oxford English Dictionary does not acknowledge it, which is rather remiss of that marvelous reference, but nevertheless huff paste did perform a useful role in the kitchen in times past.

Huff paste was a mixture of flour and enough water to bind it to a thick, elastic dough, and was used to wrap a large joint of meat (especially a gammon) before boiling or roasting, or to tightly seal a baking dish in lieu of a lid. Sometimes fat was added, making huff paste similar to suet crust or hot water paste, but regardless, the resulting dish was essentially the same as a medieval pie or bake-meat, with (it is usually said), the pastry being discarded when the dish was served at table. This is not to say that it was not eaten by someone , somewhere in the pecking order – it is difficult to believe that the meat-juice soaked crust was thrown out to the pigs or dogs, is it not? Occasionally the crust was removed and broken up and added to the contents of the cooked pie to thicken the gravy - a fresh ‘proper’pastry lid then put on, and the pie briefly returned to the oven.

Most sources refer to huff paste as a particularly northern British concoction, although the recipe I give you today is from Devizes, a market town in Wiltshire in the South of England.

Devizes Pie.
Thin slices from a boiled calf’s head with the brains and tongue cut into strips. Also slices of cold cooked bacon and lamb and rounds of hard-boiled eggs. Salt, pepper, and ground allspice and cayenne. Brown gravy that will form a jelly when cold. A flour and water paste, and sprays of parsley.
Arrange the prepared meat, &c. in a pie-dish, adding plenty of spice and seasoning. Pour in enough gravy to cover and put on the paste. Bake in a slow oven (325 deg F) for an hour, take out and leave till cold and the gravy set. Now discard the crust and turn the jellied pie out onto a flat dish. Garnish with the parsley and the eggs, shelled and halved.
[The Times, Nov 19, 1956]

Quotation for the Day.

Promises and pie-crust are made to be broken.
Jonathan Swift (1667-1745)
…………….

Thanksgiving Ideas for the Bride Housewife.

Thanksgiving is approaching over the Big Water, and I promised my American friends some historic menus and recipes. Those of you who are clearly on the wrong side of the Big Water need not worry, there are ideas aplenty for all of us amongst these gems.

I understand that the main delight (or not) of Thankgiving Day is to gather together as many family members as possible in order to enjoy (or not) a feeding experience and level of jollity similar to that of Christmas. I also understand that the household disruption, cooking, entertaining and cleaning up required by this event is somewhere on the scale between awesome and impossible. It may have been an easier task for our forebears, familiar as they were with much larger families living in much smaller communities, often with domestic help, and mercifully free of television and its celebrity chef standards.

Once upon a time a two-person household was a rare thing – a temporary circumstance until the new bride dutifully fulfilled her role and became a mother of many. The little advice that was around to help her cope with this hopefully very temporary state might be of particular interest today to modern cooks wishing to recreate historic recipes – often a frustrating task given the sheer quantities of ingredients involved.

Mrs. Wilson’s Cook Book, 1920, published in 1920 in the USA, noted the particular problem faced by the new wife at Thankgiving.

“The bride housewife who is planning a Thanksgiving dinner for “just the two” frequently finds herself in a dilemma. Turkey is much too large for her and chicken hardly appeals to her for this day.”

Mrs Wilson gave three “suggestive” menus for a Thanksgiving dinner for two. This one is my pick:

Shrimp Cocktail
Celery Olives
Roast Squab Duckling, Currant Jelly
Creamed Mashed Potatoes Peas
Lettuce Pimento Dressing
Mince Turnover Coffee
Cheese and Crackers
Nuts and Raisins.

Mrs Wilson kindly gave some useful basic recipes for two persons:


Pastry for Two.
Place in a mixing bowl
One cup of flour
One teaspoon of baking powder
One-half teaspoon of salt
Sift to mix, then rub in three tablespoons of shortening and mix to a dough with three tablespoons of water. Chop the water into the flour, then turn on the pastry board and roll out one-quarter inch thick. Use for tarts and turnovers. Brush with milk or syrup and water and bake in a moderate oven.


Cake for Two.
Place in a mixing bowl
Three-quarters cup of white corn syrup,
Yolk of one egg,
Four tablespoons of water,
1 cup of sifted flour,
Three level teaspoons of baking powder,
One level teaspoon of flavoring.
Beat to mix thoroughly and then add two tablespoons of melted shortening, folding in carefully. When thoroughly mixed, cut and fold the white of an egg into the dough.Turn into a well-greased and floured pan which has a tube in the centre and bake in a moderate oven for twenty-five minutes.

Quotation for the Day.

Thanksgiving dinners take eighteen hours to prepare. They are consumed in twelve minutes. Half-times take twelve minutes. This is not coincidence.
Erma Bombeck.

Napoleon or Neapolitan?

Today, July 16^th

Today is the feast day of the patron saint of Naples, Our Lady of Mt. Carmel, and a great excuse to indulge – or over-indulge if you wish, as tradition has it that no-one will fall ill as a result of celebrating her day. Anything from Naples will be very appropriate - pizza is the most obvious, or anything alla napoletana, or à la napolitaine, or Neopolitan ice-cream (layers of chocolate, strawberry, and vanilla).

If you want some extra historical boost to your celebrations, you could have Naples Biscuits, which are an old version of sponge fingers, ladyfingers (which in Australia refers to a type of banana), trifle sponges, Savoy biscuits, or boudoir biscuits. I have no idea why they are called Naples Biscuits - presumably because the recipe was thought to originate there - but since the mid-seventeenth century they have appeared frequently in English cookbooks by that name. Neither do I have any idea why they are called boudoir biscuits, although it may have something to do with their shape, and both names may have some vague connection with ‘the evil of Naples’, which was syphilis, when it wasn’t called the French pox or the English disease. As that may be too much information for you on the innocuous little biscuit that is the basis of every jolly English trifle, I will probably be wasting my time giving you a recipe for them today.

If sweet treats are your preferred poison, and you are swayed by the assurance that you wont get sick on this day from eating more than your share, you could have a ‘Napoleon’ instead. I mean of course one of those delicious iced puff pastry ‘mille-feuille’ (which means ‘thousand leaves’) cakes filled with pastry cream and jam. I know, I know, don’t bombard me with emails, Napoleon came from Corsica, not Naples. In spite of some highly creative myths about his role in its origins, the pastry has nothing to do with Napoleon (who was long since dead before the pastry was invented), and everything to do with bad translation. Most historians are confident that the name is a corruption of ‘à la Napolitaine’, which means ‘in the style of Naples’.

Strangely, that good old Victorian standby, Cassell’s Dictionary of Cookery, gets the name right with its version of the recipe.

Neapolitan Sweetmeats (a Dish for a Juvenile Party)
Roll out some good puff paste to the thickness of a quarter of an inch. Stamp it out in rounds, diamonds, or any shapes that may be preferred, remembering only to have an equal number of each shape. Place these on a floured baking sheet, and bake in a quick oven. When cold, spread a thick layer of different coloured jams upon half of them, press the other halves on the top, and garnish with a little piping of pink and white icing.

Tomorrow’s Story …

A Brambling we will go.

Quotation for the Day …

'Tis not the eating, nor 'tis not the drinking that is to be blamed, but the excess. John Selden 1584-1654

The Great Pastry War

Today, March 9th …

We don’t usually explore the reasons behind international conflict on this blog. Some highly creative justifications for war have been made throughout history – there have been some notable recent examples – and the discussion of these is best left to others with greater interest and superior insight. There is one particular war which does fall clearly into our territory however, and it came to an official end on this day in 1839.

The story took place in Mexico, the protagonists were the Mexicans and the French, and the conflict came to be called The Pastry War.

Civil disobedience was the norm, it seems, in the early days of the Mexican republic. Many expatriates in particular got thoroughly fed up with the damage to property and disruption to business that ensued from the daily strife, but appeals to the Mexican government for compensation fell on deaf ears. A French pastry-cook called M. Remontel claimed that Mexican soldiers had damaged his establishment, and when he was refused compensation (he had asked for what seems like an exorbitant sum), he appealed to his own king, Louis-Phillipe for support and assistance.

The French were not happy. As we know they take their pastry very seriously, and no doubt the fact that Mexico had defaulted on large debts owing to France was also taken into account. The upshot of it all was that the French sent a fleet to Veracruz in December 1838. To cut a military story short, Britain acted as mediator, and Mexico promised payment, so the French withdrew on this day in 1839.

Is invading a country on account of damage to a pastry-shop justifiable? Sillier reasons have been advanced for military action, methinks. But they would have to be very good pastries.

Here is a classic pastry recipe from The professed cook: or the modern art of cookery, pastry, and confectionary, made plain and easy. Consisting of the most approved methods in the French as well as English cookery ... by Menon (1769.)

Pâte feuilletée. Rich Puff-paste.
Mix some fine Flour with cold Water, Salt, one or two Eggs; the Paste ought to be as soft as the Butter it is made with; in Winter soften the Butter, with squeezing it in your Hands; in Summer, ice it; put Butter according to Judgement, to make it very rich, and work it with a Rolling-pin several times, folding it in three or four Folds each Time: use it to any Kind of Pies, or small Cakes.
N.B. The meaning of Feuilletée, is when the Crust breaks ... in thin Leaves or Scales, after it is baked, occasioned by the Richness of it.

Tourte de Franchipane.
Italian, after Frangipani, a proper Name.
Mix three Eggs with a Pint of Cream, two or three Spoonfuls of Flour, a proper Quantity of Sugar, boil this together about half an Hour, stirring it continually; then add some Almond-biscuits, called Macaroni-drops, bruised to Powder, a little Lemon-peel minced very fine, a Bit of Butter, two Yolks of Eggs, a little of the Orange-flower dried and pounded, or a few Drops of Orange-flower Water: use the best Sort of Paste, vix, au Feuilletage or Zephir; put the Cream in it, a few Bars of Paste over, laid according to Fancy, or cut Flowers; sugar it over to give a Glaze; serve cold.

Monday’s Story …

The Paris Markets.

A Previous Story for this Day …

Granny Smith and her apples were the topic of the day.

Quotation for the Day …

In Mexico we have a word for sushi: Bait. Jose Simon.

The Twelfth Day of Christmas.

Today, January 6th ...

On this day in 1508, the Duke of Buckingham gave a feast for 460 guests to celebrate the Twelfth Day of Christmas. The bill-of-fare included swans, herons and peacocks, 680 loaves of bread, 260 flagons of ale, 400 eggs, 200 oysters, 12 pigs and 10 sheep The feast cost the Duke £7 - which was a lot more than the annual salary for one of the workers who toiled to provide the goodies. Such is life.

The Twelfth Day of Christmas is celebrated as the day the Three Wise Men (or the Three Kings) visited the infant Jesus to pay homage and leave their gifts. There is a myth perpetrated by fruit-cake haters that says there were originally four kings, but the fourth one was turned away when it was seen that his gift was a fruit cake. Cake has become the food symbol of the day in spite of this refusal myth, and a common theme around the world where the religious and cultural heritage is Christian is the hiding of a coin, or bean, or small toy in a special cake, and the elevation of the person finding this in their slice to be king or queen for the day.

If you are not able to feast your friends in the style of the Duke of Buckingham, that does not mean that you cannot mark the day with a special food. The French have their Galette du Rois, the English used to have Twelfth Cake.

I give you a nineteenth century recipe for Twelfth Cake, and some general instructions on making a Victorian Epiphany Tart.

Twelfth Cake
Two pounds of sifted flour, two pounds of sifted Loaf Sugar, two pounds of Butter, eighteen Eggs, four pounds of Currants, one half pound of Almonds blanched and Chopped, one half pound of Citron, one pound of Candied Orange and Lemon-peel cut into thin slices, a large Nutmeg grated, half an ounce of ground Allspice, ground Cinnamon, Mace, Ginger, and Corianders, a quarter of an ounce of each, and a gill of Brandy.
Put the butter into a stew-pan, in a warm place, and work it into a smooth cream with the hand, and mix it with the Sugar and Spice in a pan (or on your paste-board) for some twenty minutes; stir in the Brandy, and then the Flour, and work it a little; add the Fruit, Sweetmeats, and Almonds, and mix all together lightly; have ready a hoop cased with paper, on a baking-plate; put in the mixture, smooth it on the top with your hand, dipped in milk; put the plate on another, with sawdust between, to prevent the bottom from colouring too much: bake it in a slow oven* four hours or more, and when nearly coke, ice it with (545)
This mixture would make a handsome cake, full twelve or fourteen inches over.
Obs. – If made in cold weather, the eggs should be broke into a pan, and set into another filled with hot water; likewise the fruit, sweetmeats, and almonds, laid in a warm place, otherwise it may chill the butter, and cause the cake to be heavy.
[From Dr Kitchiners ‘The Cook’s Oracle’, 1845 edition]

Epiphany Tart.
Dorothy Hartley, in her wonderful 'Food in England' describes the various designs of jam tart made (very competitively, especially for Church social events) by English housewives proud of their pastry-making skills. Skill was demonstrated by the number of different coloured jams that could be fitted between the spaces of the lattice top. One star-shaped design (see the image) was called "Epiphany Tart" if it was made for this day. Done well, it must have looked like a stained-glass window. Use your favourite pastry recipe or brand, and find 13 different coloured jams, and you have it.

The Real Thing ...

Andrew at Spittoon Extra actually made an Epiphany Tart for this day, and posted a picture. Go and have a look at it!

The art of tarts.

Today, January 6th …

Today is Twelfth Day, or Epiphany, or Three Kings Day, whichever you prefer. It is the end of the traditional Christmas season, celebrating the day when the three Wise Men paid their visit and gave their gifts to the infant Jesus, or the last party day before starting the real work of the year, whichever you prefer. It is the day to put the ham bone in the freezer ready for winter soup, take down the tree, and have some Twelfth Cake or King Cake.

Every country with a European heritage has its version of the Twelfth Cake. It may be a special sweet bread, or a fruit cake, or a flaky pastry confection, and the symbolic associations are at least as important as the gastronomic. One more slice than the number of guests should be cut, the extra slice being “for God”, and is to be given to the first poor person who comes to the house. For purely secular luck, a tradition which has its roots in ancient pagan fertility rites says that a small item – a bean, a coin, or a tiny doll – must be hidden inside the cake, and the finder is elected king or queen for the day. This was a dubious privilege, with the winner – depending on the particular local custom – being responsible for leading the fun (usually drinking), paying the bill, performing the rituals that rid the house of evil for the forthcoming year, or hosting the Candlemas celebrations on February 2nd.

The proud domestic pastry-makers of England had a variation of the homely jam tart which allowed them to show off their skills at church socials. It was the “Epiphany Tart”, and kudos was attached to the intricacy of the pastry lattice on top of the open tart, and the number of different coloured jams which it contained. A popular design was in the form of the Star of David, which in expert hands allowed for 13 different colours, and must have looked like an edible stained-glass window.

For your pastry, try this recipe, from Charles Francatelli, chef to Queen Victoria.

Tart Paste
Spread a pound of flour on the table with a hollow in the centre; add half a pound of butter, three ounces of sugar, one egg, half an ounce of salt, and a gill of water; mix and work the paste into a smooth compact body.

On Monday: Funny fish bits.

Minding the belly.

Today, December 13th …

Samuel Johnson – “the second most quoted man in the world” - died on this day in 1783. His admirers around the world have formed societies to celebrate his life and work, the first one (The Johnson Society) being formed in London in 1884. Every year it held a supper of steak and ale on the anniversary of his death.

Some of his most deliciously quotable sayings are on the topic of food:

“Some people have a foolish way of not minding, or pretending not to mind, what they eat. For my part, I mind my belly very studiously and very carefully, for I look upon it that he who does not mind his belly will hardly mind anything else”

“A man seldom thinks with more earnestness of any thing than he does of his dinner; and if he cannot get that well dressed, he should be suspected of inaccuracy in other things."

"A cucumber should be well sliced, and dressed with pepper and vinegar, and then thrown out, as good for nothing."

Sam’s magnum opus was, of course, his dictionary, and his definitions are far wittier than most:

Oats: A grain, which in England is generally given to horses, but in Scotland supports the people.

Kickshaw: A dish so changed by the cookery that it can scarcely be known.

The word “kickshaw” comes from the French “quelque chose”, and came to mean any dish so frivolous it could not possibly have an English origin.

The authorship of Hannah Glasse’s famous “Art of Cookery made plain and easy …”, published in 1747, was the subject of much debate at the time, with Samuel himself weighing in on the side that said it was written by a man, for “women can spin very well, but they cannot make a good book of cookery.” He thought that he himself could write a very good cookbook, because he would write it upon “philosophical principles”.

In spite of her vigorous condemnation of the fad for French cooks, Hannah did include a recipe for a “kickshaw” in her book:

Kickshaws
Make puff paste, roll it thin, and if you have any moulds work it upon them; make them up with preserved pippins: you may fill some with gooseberries, some with raspberries, or what you please: then close them up, and either bake or fry them; throw grated sugar over them, and serve them up.

Tomorrow: A prophet in the kitchen.

Prayers in the kitchen.

Today, December 7th …

On this day in 1824 the Royal Horticultural Society of London heard "An Account and Description of the Different Varieties of Strawberries which have been cultivated and examined in the garden of the Horticultural Society". The strawberry had finally yielded to several hundred years of natural and deliberate hybridisation of Old and New World wild varieties, and become a berry that we would find familiar today.

Wild strawberries were enjoyed for centuries before this of course, and we probably still agree with the ex-monk, physician and nutrition writer Andrew Boorde that simple is best. He said “Rawe crayme [cream] undecocted, eaten with strawberyes … is a rurall mannes banket [banquet]” (1542)

There were some recipes for cooking with strawberries in the sixteenth century, but the problem with trying to recreate recipes from this era is that the cookbooks were, to say the very least, minimalist. They were meant as memory aides for the few literate household staff, and, (like computer manuals today) were based on much assumed knowledge. There was less information to impart anyway – there were no strict cooking times (no clocks in kitchens), no cooking temperatures (no thermometers) and ingredient amounts were vague (no standardised measuring implements).

Literacy rates were very low, but even illiterate kitchen staff were expected to be able to say their prayers, and cooking times were sometimes given as the duration of a particular prayer, or combination of prayers. A short time might be several “Paternoster whiles” or “Ave Maria whiles” - which, I am reliably informed, are about 20 seconds and 13 seconds each respectively.

The anonymous author of “A Propre New Booke of Cokery” (1545) assumes that you know how much butter and how many strawberries to use, and the number of crusts for a strawberry tart. You will need to have your oven “hot enough”, and cook the tart “till it be done”.

To make a tarte of strawberies.
Take and strayne them with the yolkes of foure egges and a little white brede [bread] grated, then ceason it up with sugar and swete butter and so bake it.

“Anonymous” does, however, give us the first known recipe for pastry.

To make short paest for tarte.
Take fyne floure and a cursey of fayre water and a dyshe of swete butter and a lyttel saffron, and the yolckes of two egges and make it thynne and tender as ye maye.

Tomorrow … To tease a jaded palate.