Part of the fun of exploring this week’s cookery book choice (Adam's Luxury and Eve's Cookery, or, the Kitchen-Garden display’d, published in 1744) has been considering old recipes as a source of new inspiration. I am sure I have gone on about this before, but I am constantly surprised, and more than a little disappointed, that modern cooks rarely seem to use history for inspiration. We are very comfortable with cultural inspiration however, and think nothing of incorporating ingredients and ideas from other countries in our recipes, even if we revert to familiar dishes for their comfort value.
It seems that ‘foreign’ food ideas were also appealing to cooks and diners in 1744. Here are a couple of recipes for peas with an international flavour, from Adam's Luxury and Eve's Cookery.
Peas the Portuguese Way.
Wash your Peas, cut in some Lettuce with a Lump of Sugar, some fine Oil, a few Mint Leaves, cut small, with Parsley, Onions, Shallots, Garlick, Winter Savory, Nutmeg, Salt, Pepper, and a little Broth; put some over the Fire, and when ‘tis almost ready, poach some new Eggs in it, making a Place for each Egg to lie in; then cover your Stew pan again, and boil your eggs with a little Fire upon the Cover; then slide them into your dish, and serve them.
Fine beans may be dress’d in the same manner, but you must blanch them, and put them in as they are, without putting them in Butter.
Peas the French Way.
Shell your Peas, and pass a quarter of a Pound of Butter, gold colour, with a Spoonful of Flower; then put in a Quart of Peas, four Onions cut small, and two Cabbages cut as small as the Onions; then put in half a Pint of Gravy, seasoned with Pepper, Salt, and Cloves. Stove this well an Hour, then put in half a Spoonful of fine Sugar, and fry some Artichokes to lay round the Side of the Dish; serve it with a forced Lettuce in the Middle.
Quotation for the Day.
LAUREL, n. The laurus a vegetable dedicated to Apollo, and formerly defoliated to wreathe the brows of victors and such poets as had influence at court.
Ambrose Bierce, Devil’s Dictionary.
Showing posts with label peas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label peas. Show all posts
Friday, March 18, 2011
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Runcible Peas?
It is difficult to let Edward Lear’s birthday (yesterday) pass without some fun with his ‘runcible spoon’. This utensil used by the Owl and the Pussycat to eat their mince and slices of quince is somewhat of a mystery. It seems obvious to me – obvious that it is a mystery, that is. Edward Lear wrote Nonsense, folks. He wrote recipes for Amblongus Pie and Gosky Patties (thanks, Karen), for Goodness Sake!
Linguists find it hard to believe that words can simply be invented. Words evolve, doncha know, from pre-existing words? The theory pronounced by the Oxford English Dictionary suggests that the word is “a fanciful alteration of ROUNCIVAL.” A Rouncival is a variety of pea, known since at least the sixteenth century, and supposedly, possibly, originating in Roncesvalles (Roncevaux) in the Pyrenees. This theory would be less desperately nonsensical (or maybe nonsequiteurial) if there was ever a spoon made specifically for the eating of peas, wouldnt it? Has there ever been such a spoon?
The theory also does not explain Lear's runcible hat, cat, goose – and wall. How are cats, geese, and walls related to peas. Or did they originate in the Pyrenees too?
What I love about runcible spoons is, that they may first have been mentioned by Lear (in 1871) in a nonsense rhyme, but they soon became real spoons. The OED admits that, after Lear “in later use applied to a kind of fork used for pickles, etc., curved like a spoon and having three broad prongs of which one has a sharp edge.” Folk etymology, I love it!
Should you get your hands on some genuine rounceval peas, I suggest this recipe for them:
Peas Francois.
Shell a quart of peas, cut a large Spanish onion small and two cabbage or Silesia lettuces. Put them into a stewpan with half a pint of water, a little salt, pepper, mace, and nutmeg, all beaten. Cover them close and let them stew a quarter of an hour. Then put in a quarter of a pound of fresh butter rolled in a little flour, a spoonful of catcup [catsup] and a piece of burnt butter about the size of a nutmeg. Cover them close, and let it simmer a quarter of an hour, observing frequently to shake the pan. Have ready four artichoke bottoms fried, and cut in two, and when you pour the peas with their sauce into dish a lay them round it.
The Young Woman’s Companion, or, Frugal Housewife ... (Manchester, 1813)
Quotation for the Day.
There was an old person of Putney,
Whose food was roast spiders and chutney,
Which he took with his tea,
Within sight of the sea,
That romantic old person of Putney.
A limerick by Edward Lear.
Linguists find it hard to believe that words can simply be invented. Words evolve, doncha know, from pre-existing words? The theory pronounced by the Oxford English Dictionary suggests that the word is “a fanciful alteration of ROUNCIVAL.” A Rouncival is a variety of pea, known since at least the sixteenth century, and supposedly, possibly, originating in Roncesvalles (Roncevaux) in the Pyrenees. This theory would be less desperately nonsensical (or maybe nonsequiteurial) if there was ever a spoon made specifically for the eating of peas, wouldnt it? Has there ever been such a spoon?
The theory also does not explain Lear's runcible hat, cat, goose – and wall. How are cats, geese, and walls related to peas. Or did they originate in the Pyrenees too?
What I love about runcible spoons is, that they may first have been mentioned by Lear (in 1871) in a nonsense rhyme, but they soon became real spoons. The OED admits that, after Lear “in later use applied to a kind of fork used for pickles, etc., curved like a spoon and having three broad prongs of which one has a sharp edge.” Folk etymology, I love it!
Should you get your hands on some genuine rounceval peas, I suggest this recipe for them:
Peas Francois.
Shell a quart of peas, cut a large Spanish onion small and two cabbage or Silesia lettuces. Put them into a stewpan with half a pint of water, a little salt, pepper, mace, and nutmeg, all beaten. Cover them close and let them stew a quarter of an hour. Then put in a quarter of a pound of fresh butter rolled in a little flour, a spoonful of catcup [catsup] and a piece of burnt butter about the size of a nutmeg. Cover them close, and let it simmer a quarter of an hour, observing frequently to shake the pan. Have ready four artichoke bottoms fried, and cut in two, and when you pour the peas with their sauce into dish a lay them round it.
The Young Woman’s Companion, or, Frugal Housewife ... (Manchester, 1813)
Quotation for the Day.
There was an old person of Putney,
Whose food was roast spiders and chutney,
Which he took with his tea,
Within sight of the sea,
That romantic old person of Putney.
A limerick by Edward Lear.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Pepys’ Pease Porridge.
Today, February 1st ...Samuel Pepys had a simple dinner on this day in 1660.
“In the morning went to my office where afterwards the old man brought me my letters from the carrier. At noon I went home and dined with my wife on pease porridge and nothing else.”
Sam sounds vaguely disgruntled by his plain dinner, although we are given no hint of explanation. He makes no mention of illness. It wasn’t Lent, when all Christian folk would have been expected to eat meatless meals. It was hardly an economic necessity - although he had put on a ‘very fine dinner’ comprising “a dish of marrow bones; a leg of mutton; a loin of veal; a dish of fowl, three pullets, and two dozen of larks all in a dish; a great tart, a neat's tongue, a dish of anchovies; a dish of prawns and cheese” for several guests less than a week before, he was doing well enough for himself.
Sam doesn’t appear to dislike pease either, he makes several mentions of them, including specifically mentioning, in a May 1662 entry that “this day I had the first dish of pease I have had this year.” Perhaps this is the key. Perhaps he likes fresh pease, but not pease porridge?
Some sort of porridge/pottage has been the staple meal of peasants in many countries for many centuries. In its simplest form it is a sort of soup with a starchy base, with other additions depending on the circumstances of the time. On feast days, ale or wine and spices, sugar and dried fruit could be added to make this one-pot meal special, and Sam mentions ‘brave plum porridge’ with apparent relish, in another diary entry. All that was needed was the development of pudding cloths in the seventeenth century to enable Christmas (plum) porridge to evolve into Christmas (plum) pudding, and Pease porridge to Pease pudding.
Pease porridge/pottage seems to be associated particularly with Britain, and it is a dish we can recognise instantly today – we just call it pea soup.
Robert May published his very successful book The Accomplish’t Cook in the same year as Sam’s diary entry. He had four versions of Pease Pottage, two made with fresh pease, and two variations from the same starting batch of dried peas (and he appears to favour the ‘worm-eaten’ ones!)
Pease Pottage
Take green pease being shelled and cleansed, put them into a pipkin of fair boiling water; when they be boiled and tender, take and strain some of them, and thicken the rest; put to them a bunch of sweet herbs, or sweet herbs chopped, salt, and butter, being through boild dish them, and serve them in a deep clean dish with salt and sippets about them.
Otherwayes.
Put them into a pipkin or skillet of boiling milk or cream, put to them two or three sprigs of mint, and salt, being fine and tender boild, thick them with a little milk and flour.
Dry, or old Pease Pottage.
Take the choicest pease (that some call seed-way pease) commonly they be a little worm eaten (those are the best boiling pease) pick and wash them, and put them in boiling liquor in a pot or pipkin; being tender boild, take out some of them, strain them and set them by for your use, then season the rest with salt, a bundle of mints and butter, let them stew leisurely, and put to them some pepper.
Strained Pease Pottage.
Take the former strained pease pottage, put to them salt, large mace, a bundle of sweet herbs, and some pickled capers; stew them well together, then serve them in a deep dish clean scowred, with thin slices of bread in the bottom, and grated manchet to garnish it.
Tomorrow’s Story …
Wives’ Feast Day.
A Previous Story for this Day …
We had a story inspired by Robinson Crusoe on this day last year.
Quotation for the Day …
"I always eat my peas with honey; I've done it all my life. They do taste kind of funny but It keeps them on my knife." Anonymous.
Wednesday, December 28, 2005
Any peas with that?
Today, December 28th …
The most important anniversary on this day, is that of the Old Foodie’s birth. In South Australia they think that Proclamation Day is also important. This is the day, in 1836, that SA was declared a colony, the most important result of which is that the day is a public holiday.
It is apt for both that the theme for today is the meat pie. Firstly, it is the OF’s culinary specialty. Secondly, the SA’s are famous for their meat pie floaters. They didn’t invent the combination of meat pie with mushy peas of course, they merely act like they did: meat pies have been around for ever, mushy peas even longer, and the combination for “a long time”. We will never know who had the brilliant inspiration for the specific SA format of a pie “floating” in a sea of mushy peas, but the first pie cart was licenced in Adelaide in 1871. By 2003, so significant had it become that the “pie floater” was recognised as a South Australian Heritage Icon by the National Trust of Australia.
The idea of the pie floater inspires many things: fear and loathing or ecstasy and longing, for example – often simultaneously in the same person. To the brilliantly funny Terry Pratchett, a hero is “someone who will eat a Meat Pie Floater when he is sober”. To the outrageously funny Billy Connolly, it has a particularly masculine nationalism: “You can tell a lot about a nation by its food. Here in Adelaide I discovered a real southern Australian speciality - the pie floater. We're talking proper food here - man's food, none of your Continental rubbish.” Considering that some of the affectionate names for this culinary icon are fly cemetery, rat coffin, maggot bag, I am not sure what this says about proper men.
The very first Australian cookbook contains a recipe for mushy peas, which are just a lumpy version of pease pudding after all.
Pease Pudding.
Soak the peas for ten or twelve hours; tie them loosely in a cloth, leaving room for them to swell, and simmer for a couple of hours*. When tender, drain them; rub them through a colander with a wooden spoon; add an ounce of butter, one egg, beat up, and pepper and salt to taste. Beat them well together, tie lightly in a cloth, and boil for half an hour.
Tomorrow: The Battle for Food.
The most important anniversary on this day, is that of the Old Foodie’s birth. In South Australia they think that Proclamation Day is also important. This is the day, in 1836, that SA was declared a colony, the most important result of which is that the day is a public holiday.
It is apt for both that the theme for today is the meat pie. Firstly, it is the OF’s culinary specialty. Secondly, the SA’s are famous for their meat pie floaters. They didn’t invent the combination of meat pie with mushy peas of course, they merely act like they did: meat pies have been around for ever, mushy peas even longer, and the combination for “a long time”. We will never know who had the brilliant inspiration for the specific SA format of a pie “floating” in a sea of mushy peas, but the first pie cart was licenced in Adelaide in 1871. By 2003, so significant had it become that the “pie floater” was recognised as a South Australian Heritage Icon by the National Trust of Australia.
The idea of the pie floater inspires many things: fear and loathing or ecstasy and longing, for example – often simultaneously in the same person. To the brilliantly funny Terry Pratchett, a hero is “someone who will eat a Meat Pie Floater when he is sober”. To the outrageously funny Billy Connolly, it has a particularly masculine nationalism: “You can tell a lot about a nation by its food. Here in Adelaide I discovered a real southern Australian speciality - the pie floater. We're talking proper food here - man's food, none of your Continental rubbish.” Considering that some of the affectionate names for this culinary icon are fly cemetery, rat coffin, maggot bag, I am not sure what this says about proper men.
The very first Australian cookbook contains a recipe for mushy peas, which are just a lumpy version of pease pudding after all.
Pease Pudding.
Soak the peas for ten or twelve hours; tie them loosely in a cloth, leaving room for them to swell, and simmer for a couple of hours*. When tender, drain them; rub them through a colander with a wooden spoon; add an ounce of butter, one egg, beat up, and pepper and salt to taste. Beat them well together, tie lightly in a cloth, and boil for half an hour.
Tomorrow: The Battle for Food.
Thursday, November 03, 2005
Green peas from Adam and Eve.
Today, November 3rd …
Today is the anniversary in 1952, of the introduction of frozen peas by the Birdseye company, which set me thinking about pease, peas, and petits pois, as well as food preservation and food snobbery.
Freezing is only a modern way of keeping the crop after all, and I am told that a lot of chefs prefer to use them over the fresh variety. I’ll bet they don't admit it though. As for canned peas, they say the French prefer them over frozen, which is either malicious gossip or a dirty little Gallic secret.
From ancient times, “pease”, or field peas were grown specifically for drying, and provided basic sustenance for the poor. Garden peas were developed and perfected later, and by the second half of the seventeenth century, the French court was in raptures over petits pois. Eating fresh peas from the pod was so ridiculously extravagant, they became à la mode almost overnight with the rich and powerful, or at least their mistresses. The Marquise de Maintenon, secret second wife of Louis XIV summed it all up in a letter in 1695:
" There are some ladies who, after having supped with the King, and well supped too, help themselves to peas at home before going to bed at the risk of indigestion. It is both a fashion and a madness."
Here is my favourite old recipe for peas (although the “Green Peas Tart” nearly won), from a little book called “Adam’s luxury, and Eve’s cookery; or, the kitchen-garden display’d …”, published in England in 1774. An intriguing title, is it not? The sisterhood would say that some things haven’t changed for centuries.
Peas the Portuguese Way.
Wash your Peas, cut in some Lettuce, with a Lump of Sugar, some fine Oil, a few Mint Leaves cut small, with Parsley, Onions, Shallots, Garlick, Winter Savory, Nutmeg, Salt, Pepper, and a little Broth; put them over the Fire, and when ‘tis almost ready, poach some new Eggs in it, making a Place for each Egg to lie in; then cover your Stew pan again, and boil your Eggs with a little fire upon the Cover; then slide them into your Dish, and serve them.
Makes Eggs Florentine look a bit wimpy, doesn’t it?
Tomorrow … Marmalade, madams, and maladies.
Today is the anniversary in 1952, of the introduction of frozen peas by the Birdseye company, which set me thinking about pease, peas, and petits pois, as well as food preservation and food snobbery.
Freezing is only a modern way of keeping the crop after all, and I am told that a lot of chefs prefer to use them over the fresh variety. I’ll bet they don't admit it though. As for canned peas, they say the French prefer them over frozen, which is either malicious gossip or a dirty little Gallic secret.
From ancient times, “pease”, or field peas were grown specifically for drying, and provided basic sustenance for the poor. Garden peas were developed and perfected later, and by the second half of the seventeenth century, the French court was in raptures over petits pois. Eating fresh peas from the pod was so ridiculously extravagant, they became à la mode almost overnight with the rich and powerful, or at least their mistresses. The Marquise de Maintenon, secret second wife of Louis XIV summed it all up in a letter in 1695:
" There are some ladies who, after having supped with the King, and well supped too, help themselves to peas at home before going to bed at the risk of indigestion. It is both a fashion and a madness."
Here is my favourite old recipe for peas (although the “Green Peas Tart” nearly won), from a little book called “Adam’s luxury, and Eve’s cookery; or, the kitchen-garden display’d …”, published in England in 1774. An intriguing title, is it not? The sisterhood would say that some things haven’t changed for centuries.
Peas the Portuguese Way.
Wash your Peas, cut in some Lettuce, with a Lump of Sugar, some fine Oil, a few Mint Leaves cut small, with Parsley, Onions, Shallots, Garlick, Winter Savory, Nutmeg, Salt, Pepper, and a little Broth; put them over the Fire, and when ‘tis almost ready, poach some new Eggs in it, making a Place for each Egg to lie in; then cover your Stew pan again, and boil your Eggs with a little fire upon the Cover; then slide them into your Dish, and serve them.
Makes Eggs Florentine look a bit wimpy, doesn’t it?
Tomorrow … Marmalade, madams, and maladies.
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