Turnips, by many other names.

Lets be brutally honest here - the turnip is not a sexy vegetable. It is too old, for sure - being an ancient crone of the vegetable kingdom, unable to claim even the slightest residual menopausal allure. It is the wrong shape, probably – being centrally obese rather than asparagusly phallic-like. It is wintry and old-fashioned rather than light (or lite) and trendy, and poor and wholesome rather than rich and elegant. It is decidedly not exotic.

The turnip has changed its name regularly over the centuries, perhaps in a series of desperate attempts to re-brand itself, but, sadly, to no avail. Once upon a time in ancient times it was neeps – as it still is in some resolutely old-fashioned Celtic parts of the world. At some point it became rapes – a misguided choice of name, considering the other connotations of the word. At some other (turning?) point it became tourn- or turn-neeps – but it would take a linguistics expert to unravel the significance of that quantum change. One variety took on an exotic foreign persona as the swede, but still could not manage to look tall, blond, and sexy.

Even a wealthy, hard-working sponsor did not help. The the eighteenth century gentleman farmer ‘Turnip’ Townshend got his nickname (his avatar?) on account of his great interest in the vegetable. The problem may be that he emphasised its useful, practical, agricultural value of the turnip – not its culinary significance. Perhaps he should have written a turnip cookbook. However hard you look at it, it seems that the turnip cannot shake its pedestrian, poverty-associated image.

The only slight chance the turnip has to gain any hint of sexiness, in my view, is to refuse to answer to anything other than its French name of navets – a drastic re-branding idea that seems to be working in respect of prunes vs dried plums.


The staple of the poor, historically, has been some form of bread – particularly bread that does not use too much aristocratic, expensive wheat. To bulk out bread dough – albeit at the expense of good bread texture – almost any starch will do. The turnip, being cheap and easily grown even in despicable climates, was ideal. Here is how you do it, according to William Salmon’s Household Companion of 1695. It sounds quite tasty – and medicinal too.

Turnip bread.
Take about half a Bushel of middling sort of Turnips, not sticky, but such as will boil soft: being pared and boiled, press out the Water very hard until they are quite dry, beat them in a Mortar, and mix with the Pulp about two pound of fine Wheat-flower, and two ounces of Carraway-seeds; put in a pint, or somewhat more of new Ale-yeast, mould it up as other Bread, and let it be well soaked, and it will not only look, but tast like Bread. This is not only made for saving Charges in poor Families in a dear Year, but of late has been much in esteem for Consumptions, and those troubled with shortness of Breath and Ptissick; being very wholesome and nourishing.


Quotation of the Day.

One who is proud of ancestry is like a turnip; there is nothing good of him but that which is underground.
Samuel Butler (1835-1902)

What one woman eats.

The concern about food adulteration and safety which led to the formation of the “Poison Squad” and the eventual promulgation of the Food and Drug Law in the United States (which provided yesterday’s story) did not belong solely to enlightened food chemists and socialist writers. The story was taken to the women’s clubs by at least one convert – Mrs. Winifred Harper Cooley. The New York Times in March 1909 reported her address to the ladies of the Rainy Day Club.

“Mrs. Winnifred Harper Cooley told the members of the Rainy Day Club at their meeting yesterday afternoon in the Hotel Astor, that “the food goblins would get ‘em in they didn’t watch out.” She told them that the food adulterators neither slumber nor tarry, and that, while it was alright to take drugs under the doctor’s order, it was dangerous to mix up a lot of them “in our midst,” as bad food people will hand them out to us if not watched.

To show how many opportunities there are to take in bad food, Mrs. Cooley read a schedule of food eaten by one Englishwoman if she lives to be 70 years old. The statistics are guaranteed by a man by the name of Soyer, who, with a passion for facts, and, perhaps, an antipathy to the female sex, compiled them. In her three-score years and ten of life, according to the figures, the Englishwoman will eat 30 oxen, 200 sheep, 100 calves, 200 lambs, 50 pigs, 1,200 fowls, 300 turkesy, 260 pigeons, 120 turbot 140 salmon, and 30,000 oysters.

“Think what a chance for typhoid germs!” interpolated Mrs. Cooley. 

Also she will eat 5,745 pounds of vegetables, 244 pounds of butter, 24,000 eggs, 4 ½ tons of bread, an indeterminate quantity of fruit and candy, and she will drink 3,000 gallons of tea and coffee.

“These next two specifications, I think, must have been intended for men,” said Mrs. Cooley, as she wound up the awful array with 548 gallons of spirits and 49 hogsheads of wine.

“Prof Shepard, State chemist of South Dakota, has proved that in the day’s three meals one may take in thirty-five doses of poison … and 14,000 does in a year.”

Potates are pure, and it looks like we might have to live on them.

In sausages there may be found coal tar, dye, and borax; bacon is cured with creosote, (liquid smoke), maple syrup is made from glucose and hickory bark and contains sodium sulphite; pure oatmeal is eaten for breakfast with cream preserved with formaldehyde; blue points [oysters] are preserved with powdered borax, and there is formaldehyde in pork and beans. ….

… The country is in a serious condition. The commission appointed by the President has reported that some chemicals are not harmful to food, though Dr Wiley has proved that they are. He is a man who could not be bought, and no one knows what he has suffered, for there is no doubt that the Board of Agriculture is against him. (Applause). But by taking pains and looking at the formulas on the wrappers and patronizing honest dealers, we can protect ourselves. Some canned goods are put up under better conditions than they could be in a private kitchen. It ahs been proved that things can be put up without preservatives, and we can find out the good manufacturers if we try.”

A one-hundred year-old battle – and I fear that we have far more ‘safe’ chemicals in our food now than when Mrs Cooley made her speech. What do you think?

In honour of Mrs. Cooley’s idea of safety in potatoes, I give this recipe from The New York Times of September 1910. The article was on Emergency Dishes for the Hostess, and the writer tells the story of one housekeeper suddenly surprised by ‘a guest of epicurean habits … with nothing more special than a broiled beefsteak as the main course of her meal.’ She comes up trumps with the steak and shows her resourcefulness with the potato dish.


Delicious Potato Fluff.
… made of six leftover potatoes, which in less skillful hands might have been warmed up or fried.
The skins of these tubers were removed, and they were put through a colancer, after which there were added one gill of hot cream, a tablespoon of salt, a small piece of butter, and the well-beaten whites of three eggs. The preparation was cooked in a baking dish (using a moderate oven) until prettily browned all over, and was served at once.


Quotation for the Day.

How can a society that exists on instant mashed potatoes, packaged cake mixes, frozen dinners, and instant cameras teach patience to the young?
Paul Sweeney.

Artichokes in England.

My friend Marisa fed me artichokes while I was in Melbourne recently – a very fitting thing as she is an expert in Sicilian cookery, and the vegetable probably originated in that particular part of Italy. Marisa solved the problem they present for many of us recently when she blogged about ‘Carciofi (Artichokes and how to clean them.)'


Reading the supporting quotations in the OED is a good way to get a sense of the sequence of many events. The first mention of artichokes in England, (where I grew up) is from a manuscript of 1531 – and refers to “Bringing Archecokks to the Kings Grace’. Another notes that ‘The Hartichoch..is a kinde of Thistel, by the diligence of the Gardner, brought to be a good Garden hearbe.’ And then there is a hint of a date of introduction to England in a quotation from 1582 (from Haklyut) – ‘ In time of memory things haue bene brought in that were not here before, as..the Artichowe in time of king Henry the eight.’ Finally, a hint at the origin in a piece written in 1655 (by Thomas Moffett) – ‘Artichokes grew sometimes onely in the Isle of Sicil; and since my remembrance they were so dainty in England, that usually they were sold for crowns a peice.’

A puzzling thing to me is that artichokes feature prominently in English recipes of the seventeenth to nineteenth centuries (albeit recipes clearly intended for the well-to-do), then seem to fade away. Why would that happen? Was it the wars? It is particularly strange given that recipe books suggest they were cooked in a huge variety of ways. Here is an interesting sweet dish from amongst the many artichoke recipes offered in The cook's dictionary, and housekeeper's directory, by Richard Dolby, 1833.


Artichokes And Almonds à mélange
Take half a pound of sweet almonds blanched and beat fine, with two tea-spoonsful of orange flower water; then take a quart of cream and boil it with a small quantity of cinnamon and mace; sweeten it with fine sugar and mix it with the almonds; stir them together and train it through a sieve. Let the cream cool and thicken it with the yolks of six eggs, then garnish a deep dish and lay paste at the bottom; then put in shred artichoke bottoms, being first boiled; and upon these a little melted butter shred citron and candied orange; repeating the same until the dish is nearly full, then pour in the cream and bake it without a lid. When it is baked grate sugar over it and serve it hot. Half an hour will serve to bake it.


Quotation for the Day.
There is nothing vsed to be eaten of Artochockes but the hed of them.
Andrew Boorde, in Compendyous Regyment of Helth, 1542.

P.S – the good Dr Boorde was wrong: my friend cooked the artichoke stalks too (as apparently they do, in Sicily), and they were absolutely delicious.

The Cheese Gourd.

The trusty old Cassell’s Dictionary of Cookery (c1870’s) came up with another surprise for me the other day –a recipe for soup made from the fruit of the cheese-gourd. I had never heard of it before, and immediately in my mind paired it with spaghetti squash to produce a fantasy dish - low-carb, low-fat totally vegan cheesy pasta.

Wrong. It appears that the cheese gourd gets its name from its shape, which is somewhat like a wheel of cheese, not its flavour. It is a type of bottle gourd or calabash – originating in Africa and one of the first cultivated plants, yet cultivated not for food but to make bottles, bowls, and pipes. Its Latin name describes it perfectly: Lagenaria siceraria comes from the words for ‘Florence flask’ and ‘dried’.

Very few recipes specify the cheese-gourd, particularly English recipes, confirming to me yet again to me what a lovely book is Cassell’s Dictionary of Cookery. There are several nineteenth century recipes from American sources, such as this nice pair in The Gardener's Magazine and Register of Rural & Domestic Improvement, 1831. I am sure you could substitute other squash quite successfully.


To make Soup of the Cheese Gourd.
Take the fleshy part of the gourd when ripe, and cut it into small pieces; put it into a pan with a small bit of butter, set it upon a slow fire until it melt down to a pure; then add milk in the proportion of half a gallon to i Ibs. of gourd; let it boil a short time with a little salt and sugar, enough to make it taste a little sweet; then cut some slices of bread very thin, toast it very well, and cut them into small dice; put them in a dish, and pour the pure over, and serve it up.

Cheese Gourd dressed in the Spanish Way.
When ripe, cut the fleshy part into slices about half an inch thick; score it across into small dice about half through one side of the slices; scrape a little of the fat of bacon, and put it into a saucepan, with a little parsley, shallots, and mushrooms, chopped very small, adding a little salt and pepper; put them on a slow fire to fry a little, and place this seasoning upon the cut sides of the gourd slices. Put the whole into a quick oven, with a little butter or olive oil; and, when baked a little, serve up the dish.

Let me know your thoughts on the cheese gourd, wont you?


Quotation for the Day.

The first zucchini I ever saw I killed it with a hoe.
John Gould, Monstrous Depravity, 1963.

Cheating with Fruit.

There is an apocryphal story of an Australian who visited Louisiana, and, having been told that the local specialty was ‘mirliton’, ordered it in a restaurant. After the usual anticipatory interval, the dish arrived – to be met with disgust by the Aussie who immediately noted that this delicacy was, in fact, ‘bloody choko!’

Sechium edule, a.k.a choko, mirliton, sayote, tayota, choko, chocho, chow-chow, christophine, and vegetable pear, is a native of Central and South America. It was perpetrated upon Australia at some time early in the country’s history, and there are some who believe that if the identity of the importer is ever found, then retrospective retribution will be applied. The choko grows on a vine, and to say that it is quick-growing and prolific in its country of adoption are understatements of great magnitude.

The particularly tenacious vine has a favoured tethering post in Australia. It is an accepted fact in this country that the sole purpose in life of the choko plant is to grow over (and therefore partially camouflage) the ‘dunny’ (the outside toilet shed). Its growth rate is so spectacularly rapid that it has entered the language as a metaphor for something happening ‘quicker than a choko vine growing over an outhouse.’ The ‘free’ fruit, in perennial back-yard surplus, was used in everything and anything, to the extent that for several generations of Australians, it represented far too much of a not-very good thing.

It stands to reason that any plant as ubiquitous and utilitarian (and intrinsically tasteless) as the choko, although it may not be despised, exactly, is not going to be loved in a gourmet-sort of way. In Australia, familiarity from the contemplative position of the dunny throne has led, if not to contempt, to lack of enthusiasm. Added to that is the ineradicable belief in the country that canned ‘pears’ were in fact cheating chokoes. More recently this has led to a similar accusation in relation to McDonald’s ‘apple’ pies. Whether or not the substitution actually happened at a commercial level, the story is testament to the very bland nature of the fruit.

The demise of the outdoor ‘dunny’ has meant that chokos are now actually purchased from greengrocers and supermarkets. Multiple generations of previous Australians are no doubt rolling their dead eyes in amusement and astonishment at the thought of people willingly parting with hard-earned money for the fruit of the dunny vine.

The mock pear story has some truth in it. I found the following recipe as proof. It was probably served as dessert at the same meal as corned beef, boiled chokos with white sauce (ersatz cauliflower), and choko chutney (no substitute for mango!). I wonder if there was choko cake?

Mock Pears.
Peel some chokoes, take out the seed pith, cut lengthwise into four, and put in a saucepan with enough water to cover. Add three tablespoonsfuls of sugar, juice of half a lemon, and a few drops of cochineal. Boil slowly till tender; serve with sauce or custard.
The Truth and Daily Mirror Cookery Book, c1943.


Quotation for the Day …

Vegetables are a must on a diet. I suggest carrot cake, zucchini bread, and pumpkin pie.
Jim Davis.

Hotel Dining

We are going upmarket today, into the world of fine hotel dining. The Hotel St.Francis in that wonderful food city of San Francisco. The famous chef at the hotel, Victor Hirtzler wrote a cookbook which was published in 1919. He suggested menus for each day of the year, and naturally gave recipes for many of the dishes. Here they are for today.

BREAKFAST
Sliced figs with cream
Hominy
Pulled bread
Chocolate

LUNCHEON
Olive and anchovy salad
Eggs, Canada
Broiled pigs' feet
Chow chow
Potatoes, surprise
Corn starch blanc mange with stewed fruits
Demi tasse

DINNER
Potage Colbert
Salted hazelnuts
Eels, marinière
Roast leg of mutton
String beans with shallots
Mashed potatoes
Endives salad
Dariolets, Duchess
Coffee

The recipe I have chosen for you is a simple salad, and I chose it because it introduced me to a new kitchen must-have: the ravier.

Olive and anchovy salad.
Lay on a ravier, or flat celery dish, two dozen fillets of anchovies, crosswise. Cut the stones out of one dozen large queen olives, and slice the olives thin. Lay them over the anchovies, sprinkle with a very little salt, some fresh- ground black pepper, a spoonful of vinegar, and a spoonful of olive oil. Garnish with hard-boiled eggs cut in four, and chopped parsley.
The Hotel St Francis Cook Book. Victor Hirtzler. 1919

A ravier is ‘is a small dish varying in shape and material in which hors-d'oeuvre are served. I wish I had one. I’ve always wanted a bacon fork too. I do have grape-scissors (it’s a longish story).

Quotation for Day …

Celery contributes to a stimulation of the digestion, but is also suspected to be somewhat sexually exciting or even straightforward arousing. These effects can be reduced by boiling. It is not a food for everybody. C.E. Hagdahl. Cooking as Science and Art, 1879.

Regency Eating.

We are eating in Enland during the Regency period today, which will be nice for a change. John Simpson gives a suggested menu for each day of the year in his book the Complete System of Cookery, published in 1816. Cook books of the time often showed how to set the dishes out on the table too, because the style of service was quite different to today, and the overall display as the diners approached the table was most important. There were generally two courses, each course containing a number of dishes which were arranged on the table with great symmetry. The guests certainly got to appreciate the spectacle, but the food must often have been cool before they got to it. There was no clear distinction between savoury and sweet dishes, although in the particular example today there is nothing that we would confuse with ‘dessert’. When the two courses were eaten, guests would then enjoy the ‘banquet’ – often in a different location. The banquet consisted of fruit and sweetmeats, and eventually all the sweet dishes moved over to the banquet ‘course’ – which eventually became ‘dessert’, from the French verb meaning to ‘un-serve’ or clear away.

We are eating in Enland during the Regency period today, which will be nice for a change. John Simpson gives a suggested menu for each day of the year in his book the Complete System of Cookery, published in 1816. Cook books of the time often showed how to set the dishes out on the table too, because the style of service was quite different to today, and the overall display as the diners approached the table was most important. There were generally two courses, each course containing a number of dishes which were arranged on the table with great symmetry. The guests certainly got to appreciate the spectacle, but the food must often have been cool before they got to it. There was no clear distinction between savoury and sweet dishes, although in the particular example today there is nothing that we would confuse with ‘dessert’. When the two courses were eaten, guests would then enjoy the ‘banquet’ – often in a different location. The banquet consisted of fruit and sweetmeats, and eventually all the sweet dishes moved over to the banquet ‘course’ – which eventually became ‘dessert’, from the French verb meaning to ‘un-serve’ or clear away.

There were two dishes ‘à la Flamond’ on this day, which seems to be taking balance a little too far, to me.

Soup à la Flamond.
Shred turnips, carrots, green onions, and one Spanish onion; add lettuce, half a pint of asparagus peas; put them into a small soup-pot, a little stock, and about two ounces of butter; put them on a slow stove to sweat down ofr an hour; put in as much flour as will dry up the butter; then fill it up with best stock, and let it boil by the side of the stove for half an hour. Make a laison of the yolks of four eggs (for two quarts of soup) beat the yolks up well with a spoon; put a pint of cream that has been boiled and got cold; strain it through a sieve, and put a large spoonful of beshemell to it: take the soup from the fire and put in the laison, keep stirring while putting it in, then put the soup on the fire; be sure to keep stirring it until it comes to a boil, then take it off: keep it hot by putting the soup-pot into a stew-pan of hot water

Cauliflower à la Flamond
Boil the cauliflower: when done take it up and lay it on the back of a sieve to drain all the water from it, then put it into a stew-pan with a little beshemell; when quite hot, dish it up, put parmasan cheese, then brown it with a salamander.

Quotation for the Day …

In cooking, clear as you go. Isabella Beeton.

Old is New, Again.

I have in my possession a most useful book called The Woman’s Book, written in 1911. It is as useful as it is possible to be, for a book, because it ‘contains everything a woman ought to know’ – on topics such as household management, cookery, rearing of children, home doctoring, business, dress, etiquette, and even legal and career issues. Methinks this ignorant world of ours is in need of a definitive (but this time, gender-neutral) update.

The book recently taught me something I definitely needed to know. How to cook crosnes. Actually, to be perfectly honest, the book taught me of the very existence of crosnes.

‘Crosnes’ is pronounced ‘crones’ – the ‘s’ being silent, the clue for which is in the ‘correct’ (i.e alternative French) spelling of its name crônes, the little accent mark above the ‘o’ indicating a missing ‘s’. I tell you this so that if you ever come across it in the market, you will impress the grower greatly with your correct pronunciation, as I now will.

Once upon a time, probably since who knows when, the ugly little root known to botanists as Stachys affinis was grown in Japan and had an inscrutable Japanese name which I don’t know and would not dare to try to pronounce even if I did.

In the 1880’s a horticultural enthusiast (or entrepreneur?) in the French town of Crosnes took an interest in it, and for a few decades around the turn of the century, it was popular and fashionable in England and Europe. Then, for some inscrutable reason it fell so far out of favour or production, that for my lifetime at any rate, it seemed to disappear. I believe it is back in up-market markets and trendy restaurants in lucky places.

Apart from the tricky pronunciation of its ‘official name’, the little tuber also goes disguised as Japanese (or Chinese) artichokes, chorogi, knotroot, and no doubt other things too. In case you do happen to find and decipher a supply, here is the recipe from the Woman’s Book.

Japanese Crones.
(Fr. Crônes Japonaises)
Required:
½ lb Crones.
1 oz. butter
1 tablespoonful Cream
salt and pepper.

Method: this is a vegetable which has not yet become very popular, but it is very light and well worth eating. Crônes have a slight resemblance to Jerusalem artichokes, only they are much smaller. Trim the ends of the crones, and wash and brush them well in cold water. Warm the butter in an earthenware saucepan, put in the crones, and cook them in the oven from twenty to thirty minutes, shaking them from time to time. Add the cream and seasoning a few minutes before serving.
Note: they must not be overcooked or the flavour will be spoilt.
A good white sauce with cream may be added at the last, or the crones may be seved in small scallop shells with the sauce over and a little grated Parmesan on the top.

Quotation for the Day …

While it is undeniably true that people love a surprise, it is equally true that they are seldom pleased to suddenly and without warning happen upon a series of prunes in what they took to be a normal loin of pork. Fran Lebowitz.

An important flavour.

May 4

Nineteenth century scientist became intrigued by a substance that they referred to as ‘osmazome’. Osmazome was a substance - or perhaps it was a concept - that had been recogniseable to gourmets everywhere for ever, but was difficult to pin down. Was it a taste? A smell? A single substance? A combination of substances?

It was first given its name by a French scientist, M. Thénard, in first few years of the nineteenth century, and was finally defined by the Oxford English Dictionary as “A name formerly given to that substance or mixture of substances soluble in water and alcohol which gives meat its flavour and smell; (more generally) meat juice or extract.”

Brillat-Savarin, in his Physiology of Taste, described it thus:

“Osmazome is the most meritorious ingredient of all good soups. This portion of the animal forms the red portion of flesh, and the solid parts of roasts. It gives game and venison its peculiar flavor. …

Osmazome, discovered after having been so long the delight of our fathers, may be compared to alcohol, which made whole generations drunk before it was simply exhibited by distillation.”

In other words, osmazome is what the Japanese call ‘umami’ or ‘deliciousness’ – the savoury taste characteristic of soy and fish sauces, yeast and meat extracts such as Marmite, Vegemite and Bovril, parmesan cheese, anchovies, and roasted meats.

Osmazome and umami had to wait until very recently for scientific elucidation. It appears that this taste is imparted by glutamates, which are the building blocks of protein, and which are detected by specialised receptors on the tongue. We are biologically programmed, it seems, to seek out and enjoy the foods that provide these savoury protein-based flavours.

The carnivores of the world do not need to seek out osmazome/umami, and vegetarians can get their fix from strong cheese, but what of vegans? They must seek out mushrooms, which are naturally rich in glutamates. I had in mind to give you an recipe for potted mushrooms, but how could I resist the following recipe for a sort of poor-man’s mushroom vol-au-vents, from an advertisement in a little book called Mushrooms and their use (1897).

Mushrooms in Shredded Wheat Baskets.
1 can musrooms (Champignons), 2 bouillon capsules,1 ½ tablespoons butter, l tablespoon chopped carrot, 1 bay leaf, a little parsley, 1 ½ tablespoons Entire Wheat Flour, 1 tablespoon chopped onion, ½ cup heavy cream, 1 ½ cups boiling water, 5 Shredded Wheat Biscuits, salt to taste.
Melt the butter in a saucepan, add the carrot, onion, bay leaf, and parsley. Cook ten minutes, being careful that it does not burn. Then add the flour, stir in a little at a time the boiling water in which the capsules have been dissolved. When it thickens, strain, return to saucepan and add the mushrooms which have been drained and cut into thirds. Cook five minutes and add ½ cup cream; then keep hot but do not cook. Prepare the biscuit by cutting with sharp pointed knife an oblong cavity in the top of the biscuit, cutting about ¼ inch from sides and ends; carefully remove top and take out all loose inside shreds, making basket shapes. Place in a pan and toast lightly in oven, then fill with the prepared mushrooms. Cover with the caps removed from the biscuit, and return to the oven; heat through, remove to a warm platter, remove the cap, garnish with parsley and quarters of lemon. Send to table with remaining sauce served in gravy boat or pitcher to be added at table.

Tomorrow’s Story …

Poetic Smells.

Quotation for the Day …

Why is it that the poet tells
So little of the sense of smell
These are the odors I love well:

The smell of coffee freshly ground;
Or rich plum pudding, holly crowned;
Or onions fried and deeply browned …

Christopher Morley.

The Monk’s Choice.

April 11 ...

According to the Gregorian calendar, the plant for this day, dedicated to St Leo, was the Dandelion (Leontodon taraxacum), a member of the sunflower family which is far less grand than the signature member, and in fact usually considered to be a weed.

My appreciation of the dandelion is coloured by two childhood perceptions. One was the sincerely repeated folktale that if you picked dandelions you would wet the bed. This was clearly not a belief confined to the north of England, as even our old enemy across the channel calls it piss-en-lit. I absolutely did not believe such a ridiculous theory, but on the other hand, there was no way I was going to test it out. The other was my favourite soft drink ‘Dandelion and Burdock’. I have to admit that I did not for a long time recognise this as having any connection with the incontinence-causing weed, because in my head the drink was an entity called ‘dandelionandburdock’.

‘Dandelion and Burdock’, for those of you uninitiated into its delights, is Britain’s answer to root beer or sarsparilla – or is it that root beer and sarsparilla are America’s answer to Dandelion and Burdock? The modern drink is a completely dandelion-less, burdock-less, artificially-coloured, artificially-flavoured, highly sweetened bastard offspring of what was once a medicinal concoction. Many herbs and wayside ‘weeds’ were once used extensively for their medicinal value - dandelion was used for everything from ‘inward bruises’ and pleurisy to liver disorders for example. Medicine was cheap in those days – you just went out and picked it, no dispensing fee charged.

Dandelion was also a useful salad green or pot-herb, and still could be, if we bothered with it – as the French still do. It seems that the Americans used to use it this way too (do you still?)

Dandelions.
These are relished by many as well as spinach cooked in the same way. Take the young leaves before the plant blossoms or while in bud, mash quite clean, boil tender in salted water, drain well and press them dry. They can be served plain with melted butter or can by chopped and heated afresh with pepper, salt, and a little butter rolled in flour, and a spoonful or two of gravy or cream. A lareg quantity should be boiled, as they shrink very much. The dandelion is considered very healthy, and the slight bitterness is relished by most persons.
[Jennie June's American Cookery Book. 1870]

Monday’s Story …

Chicken pie without the chicken.

Quotation for the Day …

Speaking of food, English cuisine has received a lot of unfair criticism over the years, but the truth is that it can be a very pleasant surprise to the connoisseur of severely overcooked livestock organs served in lukewarm puddles of congealed grease. England manufactures most of the world's airline food, as well as all the food you ever ate in your junior-high-school cafeteria. Dave Barry.

“Comeback” meals.

April 9 ...

Some cooks cook with the express intent of having leftovers. I am one of those cooks. I understand (no, I don’t, actually) that some cooks abhor leftovers, and some eaters refuse them. I have puzzled over the issue in several previous stories (two of them are here and here), and had no intention of bringing up the subject again (at least for a while) until I came across the term ‘comeback’, in relation to a meal. I naively thought this meant a meal so good that everyone came back for more, so there were no leftovers to agonise over.

I was wrong, it seems. A ‘comeback’ is restaurant-speak for a particular type of leftover. At least that is what Mr. Charles Fellows indicates in his book Fellows’ Menu Maker (Chicago, 1910). I don’t know if this remains current restaurant parlance, and would be grateful for some enlightenment from professionals in the business.

Difference between Leftover and Comeback.
The difference between a leftover and a comeback in culinary parlance is: a leftover is prepared food which has not been dished onto a plate to set before a diner, but which may be kept for service at a future meal. A comeback is food that has been dished onto a plate, probably messed over, and returned to the kitchen. The leftover is an economy; the comeback is a waste.
Food dished onto platters for redishing onto plates, are classified as leftovers when returned to service pantry in the original platter. Such food is not spoiled.

Please be advised: I definitely do not want to know what restaurants do with ‘comeback’ food.

On the same pair of pages as the above exposé are a number of menus from The Drake hotel in Chicago, so I thought it might be fun to see what could be done with leftovers (as in the household use of the phrase) from one of the meals.

United Dinner of hotel associations at The Drake, Chicago, July 13, 1921

Little Neck Clams
Jellied Gumbo
Celery Almonds Olives
Lobster, Mornay
Cucumbers, Parisienne
Filet Mignon, Drake
New Peas Potatoes Berny
Blackstone Salad
Ice Cream
Cakes
Demi-tasse

I shouldn’t imagine leftover clams would ever be a problem: they would surely to into chowder. Leftover Potatoes Berny should never happen: no-one in their right mind would leave the tiniest scrap of deep-fried almond-coated, truffled, buttered and egg-yolked mashed potato balls. Leftover almonds could simply be used to make more Potatoes Berny. Olives don’t get leftover, they just get put back in the oil or brine. Coffee leftovers can be used in many recipes, and there is a goodly selection in the Coffee Recipe Archive.

The idea of Jellied gumbo just frightens me. I cannot comment.

I am bereft of ideas for the other items on the menu. I am left with celery.

Cream of Celery Soup.
A pint of milk, a table-spoonful of flour, one of butter, a head of celery, a large slice of onion and small piece of mace. Boil celery in a pint of water from thirty to forty-five minutes; boil mace, onion and milk together. Mix flour with two table-spoonfuls of cold milk, and add to boiling milk. Cook ten minutes. Mash celery in the water in which it has been cooked, and stir into boiling milk. Add butter, and season with salt and pepper to taste. Strain and serve immediately. The flavor is improved by adding a cupful of whipped cream when the soup is in the tureen.
[Miss Parloa's New Cookbook, c.1880.]

Tomorrow’s Story …

Shop Bananas.

Quotation for the Day …

I have not attempted to give recipes for using up scraps, as this art is only useful when you run short of provisions; it is quite a mistake to imagine that warming up cooked meat is economical, as all good transformations must be expensive. Baron Brisse, 1868

Bean-Bellies

March 19 ...

As we discovered yesterday, the folk of Leicestershire used to be nicknamed “Bean Bellies”. I don’t suppose they still are, but here is the explanation for the name, given in a book from 1801.

‘Leicestershire … the air is sweet and wholesome. It is a champaign country in general, and abundantly fertile in corn and grass …. Besides wheat, barley, oats and pease, it produces the best beans in England. They grow so tall and luxuriant in some places, particularly about Barton-in-the-Beans, that they look, towards harvest-time, like a forest; and the inhabitants eat them not only when they are green, as in other places, but all year round; for which reason their neighbours nickname them bean-bellies.’

An ethnic slur with jealousy at its root, it seems:

‘Yea, those of the neighbouring countrys used to say merrily ‘Shake a Leicestershire many by the collar, and you shall hear the beans rattle in his belly.’ But those Yeomen smile at what is said to rattle in their bellies, whilst they know that good silver ringeth in their pockets.’ [1849]

This story is also meant to be a jibe, but there may be a good idea in it:

‘A story [about Leicestershire] that the mayor is chosen by a sow. The candidates sit in a semi-circle, each with his hat full of beans in his lap, and he is the mayor from whose hat the sow eats first.’

A brief potted history of beans is impossible: the origins are lost in the mists of antiquity, and their varieties too numerous to mention here, even if I knew them. That beans are extraordinarily nutritious, and that they have played a vital role in the diet of many cultures throughout history is not in doubt, but nevertheless they have suffered from their share of bad publicity over the centuries.

The followers of the ancient Greek mathematician Pythagoras were prohibited from eating beans, for obscure reasons that will occupy scholars in perpetuity. There are almost as many suggested explanations as there are bean varieties – everything from the risk of precipitating a blood crisis in folk with an inherited deficiency of the enzyme G6PD (it happens, it but it is very rare), to their appearance ‘like genitals’, and to the idea that the hollow stems act as a conduit for the passage of souls to and from the underworld. The commonest reason given is that they produce ‘flatulence’, although why this would be more of a problem to a mathematician I am not sure. The problem occurs as a result of the complex carbohydrates which this ‘musical fruit’ contains. These particular carbs are not able to be digested by humans, so the intestinal bacteria get to enjoy them - and it is their digestive processes, not ours, that produce the gas. Boiling reduces the problem, eating them regularly reduces the problem (the bacteria adjust, apparently), and some say adding garlic and onions to the recipe reduces the problem.

If you thought sweet bean dishes were a Chinese idea, consider this recipe, from a book which has one of my favourite titles – Adam’s Luxury and Eve’s Cookery; or, the Kitchen-Garden display’d.[1744]

Bean Tart
Boil and blanch Green Beans, then make a Puff-paste and put into Petty-pans. Put in a layer of Beans and a Layer of Sweetmeats, with Sugar between each Layer. Then cover them, and make a Hole on the Top; put in a Quarter of a Pint of Lemon-Juice, some Marrow, season’d with Salt, Nutmeg, Cloves, Mace. When bak’d put in a little White Wine thickened with the Yolk of an Egg and Butter into each Tart.

Tomorrow’s Story …

Cakes and Travellers.

Quotation for the Day …

But since he stood for England
And knew what England means,
Unless you give him bacon
You must not give him beans.
G.K. Chesterton.

Living on Parmesan.

January 15

Today in 1622 was the birthday of the French playwright and actor Jean-Baptiste Molière. His health was poor in his last few years between 1667 and his death in 1673 and it is popularly believed that he subsisted almost entirely on Parmesan cheese during this time.

He could have done worse. Parmesan (or Parmigiano Reggiano) is a historic hard, dry cheese from a restricted and legally defined area of Northern Italy. The basic method of production has remained unchanged since the Middle Ages, because there is no need to mess with perfection. Sixteen litres of raw cow’s milk from grass-clover-lucerne-fed cows goes into the making of one kilo of the cheese. The real thing from the real country is termed grana, indicating that it is grainy or granular in texture, and has the words Parmigiano-Reggiano stamped all over the entire rind, so that even if you buy a small piece, you can tell it is the genuine article. It has been prized all over the known world for eight centuries.

Samuel Pepys appreciated it, and with the great fire of London approaching his home on September 4, 1666 saw fit to try to save his supply along with important documents and other valuables.

“…. And in the evening Sir W. Penn and I did dig another (pit) and put our wine in it, and I my parmazan cheese as well as my wine and some other things … Mrs. Turner …. and her husband supped with my wife and I at night in the office, upon a shoulder of mutton from the cook’s, without any napkin or anything, in a sad manner but were merry …”

Beware of imitations of this cheese – especially the pre-grated pre-packed version of ‘parmesan’-style, which may be fine and dandy for some purposes but don’t kid yourself it is close to the freshly grated real thing. And the real thing is far too good to be used merely as a pasta-topper. We far too rarely simply slice it thinly and dissolve it on the tongue, but if we do cook with it, there are other things to do with it than sprinkle it on the bolognese. We have had recipes in previous stories for Parmesan Cheese Ice-Cream (1830) and Macaroni with Parmesan (1769), so today I give you a parmesan-version of that other marriage made in heaven – cauliflower with cheese sauce - from Louis Eustache Ude’s The French Cook (1829).

Cauliflowers with Parmesan Cheese.
Prepare and dish the cauliflower as above*. Next mask the pieces with a little thick bechamelle, powder some rasped Parmesan cheese over them, and melt a little freshbutter, which pour gently in different places. Then strew them over with crumbs of bread and rasped cheese again, to which you give a fine colour with the salamander. Wipe the border of the dish, mix a little Parmesan cheese with some veloute and a little fresh butter, work the sauce, season it well, and pour it gently all round the cauliflower. If you should happen to have neither bechamelle nor any other sauce ready, a little melted butter with some glaze in it, will answer the same purpose; but it is more liable to turn to oil.

*to remove the snails or other insects, which are liable to creep towards the heart. For this purpose leave the cauliflower in cold water for an hour. Next throw it into boiling water, with a little salt and butter. This vegetable being very tender is soon done.

Tomorrow’s Story …

Funeral Bread.

Quotation for the Day …

“I live on good food, not fine words”. Jean-Baptiste Molière, Les Femmes Savants.

Honorary Potatoes.

January 11 ...

It is sad that chefs no longer seem to create and name dishes in honour of celebrities. Do they not realise that they are depriving future food historians of great fun? Why are they shirking their responsibilities and not developing future classics such as Raspberries à la Bush and Gruel à la Paris Hilton ?

There are disputed claimants for the inspiration of many eponymously named dishes, and the search for authenticity can be difficult, even impossible. Who really was the Benedict in Eggs Benedict, or the Newburg in the lobster dish? There is consensus on some however, and intriguing mystery with others, and as it is our week of potatoes in celebration of the International Year of the Potato, we will look at a few of them. Other ideas are welcome, please use the comments section!

Potatoes Anna.
Myth and history collide on this one, and the ‘Anna’ is said to be a Anna Deslions, a nineteenth century Parisian celeb and member of the world’s oldest profession – although I am sure she did not see herself that way as it is said that she never charged her clients, she merely accepted trinkets such as diamonds and beautiful apartments from them. Her favourite meeting place was the famous Café des Anglais, and it appears that she brought much royal and imperial and aristocratic business to the restaurant by way of her guests. No wonder the chef of the time saw fit to create a dish in her honour. He was Adolphe Duglère, famous in his own right, and no doubt if he were alive today he would have his own TV show and his own adoring fans. Unfortunately, Adolphe did not leave one single cookbook, so the ‘authentic’ recipe is not certain. It very rapidly became a classic however, and other cookbook authors made sure they included it. Here is a version from another French chef, Charles Ranhofer, who moved to America and became famous as the chef of Delmonico’s in New York, and did write a cookbook called The Epicurean (1894).

Potatoes Anna (Pommes de Terre Anna)
Select long-shaped potatoes; they must be peeled and cut into the form of a large cork; mince them finely, and soak in water for a few moments; drain and wipe on a cloth. Butter and bread the inside of a thick copper pan, having a well-fitted cover; range on the bottom and sides a thin layer of the potatoes, one overlapping the other, then fill entirely with the remaining ones in separate layers, covering each with butter free from moisture, softened by working in a napkin; mask the upper layer with the same, and close with the lid. Cook the potatoes for three-quarters of an hour in the oven; a quarter of an hour before serving take from the fire, drain off the butter and cut a cross through the potatoes yet in the sautoir, and turn each quarter over with the aid of a palette; put back the drained-off butter and return to the oven until ready, and invert on a dish to serve. These potatoes may be made in a smaller pan; in this case they should not be cut but turned over whole before putting in the oven the second time.

A dish can be named in honour of a place or event too, and Delmonico’s restaurant became the home of several eponymously named dishes, including Delmonico Potatoes. This dish was not invented by Ranhofer however, and does not appear in his book. It was the creation of an earlier chef, Alessandro Filippini, who did include it in his own book published many years later in 1906.

Delmonico Potatoes.
Place four good-sized boiled and finely hashed potatoes in a frying pan with one and a half gills cold milk, half gill cream, two saltspoons salt, one saltspoon white pepper and a saltspoon grated nutmeg; mix well and cook on the range for ten minutes, lightly mixing occasionally. Then add one tablespoon grated Parmesan cheese, lightly mix again. Transfer the potatoes into a gratin dish, sprinkle another light tablespoon grated Parmesan cheese over and set in the oven to bake for six minutes, or until they have obtained a good golden colour; remove and serve.

There are so many more dishes, but so little time (today) to include them. I hope to gradually add them to the Fun With Potatoes recipe archive. I do leave you with one puzzle. Who was the ‘O’Brien’ in O’Brien Potatoes? The honour goes by default almost to the only person found with that name to have a significant association with potatoes – William Smith O’Brien (1803-1864) an Irish nationalist and leader of a post-famine revolt who was eventually transported to Australia for his sins. I do hope this story is true. I would love to know more about the man and the dish. Please help if you can.

Monday’s Story …

The Pope comes to dinner.

Quotation for the Day ...

I appreciate the potato only as a protection against famine; except for that I know of nothing more eminently tasteless. Jean-Anthelme Brillat-Savarin

Polite Potatoes.

January 9

I am devastated. Humiliated even. I wish to apologise retrospectively to all my dinner guests over the years. I have belatedly read the advice (96 year old advice!) that would have saved me from several decades of social ineptitude.

I have served impolite potatoes for decades.

The Potato: A compilation of Information from every available source (1912) advises that “In polite society, potatoes are only admitted “en robe de chambre”, - that is to say, in their jackets – to the midday meal and then not on formal occasions. At such time the following are used …. ”

The book goes on to give a number of extraordinarily polite potato recipes, starting with this one:

Potato Georgette.
Special recipe of M. Joseph, chef of the Cafe Paillard:
Take a potato and hollow it out, filling the hollow with a salpicon of shrimp tails drenched in a bisque sauce made from the heads and pounded bodies of the shrimps. Cover the potato with some of the mashed insides and bake very well done and serve hot.

Somewhat later in the polite section is a familiar recipe:

Potatoes Julienne (Shoestring Potatoes)
Cut raw into very fine shreds like straws, cook quickly in hot lard, dust with fine salt.

Followed by a very unfamiliar (to me) and most intriguingly named dish:

Between the Acts Potatoes.
Same as Julienne, only about twice as large.

The name? Does this mean French Fries during the interval at the theatre?

From another book about The Irish Potato (1914) by Jessie Pinning Rich, from the University of Texas in 1914 we have a rather more homely approach – a recipe which sounds like a great way to use up leftover potatoes - but whatever you do, don’t serve them to guests if you move in polite society, it sounds a little rustic and, well, leftover.

Waldorf Potatoes.
Cut cold boiled potatoes into cubes and mix one cup of potatoes and one-half cup of cream sauce, having previously added four tablespoons of grated cheese. Pour over potatoes and heat slowly without boiling.

Tomorrow’s Story …

Poorhouse or Prison?

Quotation for the Day …

Pray for peace and grace and spiritual food. For wisdom and guidance, for all these are good. But don’t forget the potatoes. John Tyler Petee.

Leprosy in the time of Potatoes.

January 8

Gilbert White (1720-1793) was an English cleric and naturalist whose home was Selborne in Hampshire. Much of his detailed observation of the natural world (and the human one) was recorded in letters he wrote to other naturalists and scientists, and these were compiled in a book called The Natural History of Selborne. In a letter he wrote on this day in 1778, he mused on the possible causes of leprosy (particularly the dietary) – and in the course of this gives us a strong clue as to the timing of the acceptance of the potato as a useful crop in England.

To The Honourable Daines Barrington

Selborne, Jan. 8, 1778.

Dear Sir,
In all ages the leprosy has made dreadful havoc among mankind…. Some centuries ago this horrible distemper prevailed all Europe over; and our forefathers were by no means exempt, …. It must therefore, in these days, be, to an humane and thinking person, a matter of equal wonder and satisfaction, when he contemplates how nearly this pest is eradicated … This happy change perhaps may have originated and been continued from the much smaller quantity of salted meat and fish now eaten in these kingdoms; from the use of linen next the skin; from the plenty of better bread; and from the profusion of fruits, roots, legumes, and greens, so common in every family. … Three or four centuries ago, before there were any enclosures, sown-grasses, field-turnips, or field-carrots, or hay, all the cattle which had grown fat in summer, and were not killed for winter-use, were turned out soon after Michaelmas to shift as they could through the dead months; so that no fresh meat could be had in winter or spring…. But agriculture is now arrived at such a pitch of perfection, that our best and fattest meats are killed in the winter; and no man need eat salted flesh, unless he prefers it, that has money to buy fresh…. One cause of this distemper might be, no doubt, the quantity of wretched fresh and salt fish consumed by the commonalty at all seasons as well as in Lent; …. Potatoes have prevailed in this little district, by means of premiums, within these twenty years only; and are much esteemed here now by the poor, who would scarce have ventured to taste them in the last reign.

It was an interesting turnaround for the potato – to be given as an example of the profusion of healthy vegetables available for the poor, and thereby contributing to the disappearance of leprosy. One of the things that delayed the adoption of the potato in Europe was the belief that it might cause leprosy - although this may well have been propaganda on the part of clerics who feared that what it would really do would be to precipitate a distracting lust amongst their flock. Many fruits and vegetables introduced from the New World were initially accused of being aphrodisiacs (the tomato and chocolate also for example) - the motto seemed to be ‘If in doubt, don’t trust it.’

Cookbooks of the eighteenth century do contain recipes for ‘potatoes’, but often this means the sweet potato. It is not always possible to be certain which potato is being referred to in a recipe. Sometimes the ‘ordinary’ white potato was referred to as the Virginia potato, or Irish potato or white potato – but ‘Spanish potato’ could mean either variety.

Which type of potato do you think Mrs Elizabeth Raffald expects you to use in this recipe from The Experienced English Housewife (1769)?

To scollop Potatoes.
Boil your potatoes, then beat them fine in a bowl with good cream, a lump of butter and salt. Put them into scolloped shells, make them smooth on top, score them with a knife. Lay thin slices of butter on the top of them, put them in a Dutch oven to brown before the fire. Three shells is enough for a dish.
[P.S. There are more historic potato recipes HERE.]

Tomorrow’s Story …

Polite Potatoes.

Quotation for the Day …

What I say is that, if a man really likes potatoes, he must be a pretty decent sort of fellow. A.A. Milne.

A Special Day for Fanny.

January 7

The Boston Cooking-School Cookbook by Fannie Merritt Farmer was first published on this day in 1896 in the USA. It rapidly became a best-seller, and in fact has been constantly updated and is still in print, becoming one of the best selling cookbooks in history. I wonder how many celebrity chef-authors of today will still be in print in a hundred years’ time?

What was the secret of Fannie's success?

Fannie was the child of enlightened parents, and was destined for college until a stroke at the age of 16 left her an invalid for several years, with a permanent limp. At the age of 30 she enrolled in the already famous Boston Cooking School where she studied nutrition and related food sciences as well as cookery and household management. She was a star pupil and almost immediately became principal of the school, and her book was published a few years later.

Fannie was required to pay for the first print run, in return for which she retained ownership of the copyright. The publishers paid dearly for their lack of faith, for the success of the book delivered the proceeds largely to her, not themselves. A story to warm the hearts of many authors, I would say!

No doubt the association with the famous cooking school helped with the first few sales, but the book would not have become a best-seller on that basis alone. Fannie’s book succeeded because she took a lot of the guesswork out of cookery. She explained the science behind cooking processes, and standardised the system of measurements – there was no ‘dash of this’ or ‘little of that’ in her book. Fannie became known as the ‘mother of level measurement’, and The Boston Cooking School Cookbook was referred to as The Fannie Farmer Cookbook.

As the United Nations has declared this the International Year of the Potato, I intend to give you more potato recipes – and perhaps even get on with that Potato Timeline I have previously promised. From Fannie’s book, a classic recipe:

Shadow Potatoes (Saratoga Chips)
Wash and pare potatoes. Slice thinly (using vegetable slicer) into a bowl of cold water. Let stand two hours, changing water twice. Drain, plunge in a kettle of boiling water and boil one minute. Drain again, and cover with cold water. Take from water and dry between towels. Fry in deep fat until light brown, keeping in motion with a skimmer. Drain on brown paper and sprinkle with salt.

Tomorrow’s Story …

Leprosy in the time of Potatoes.

Quotation for the Day …

Cookery is the art of preparing food for the nourishment of the body. Prehistoric man may have lived on uncooked foods, but there are no savage races today who do not practice cookery in some way, however crude. Progress in civilization has been accompanied by progress in cookery. Fannie Merritt Farmer.

Primitive Cookery.

October 30 ...

Yesterday we considered choosing a book by its wordy title and front page “blurb” in the days before colourful graphic covers. Those plain text days could still be misleading.

Take a look at this wonderful title, from 1767.

Primitive Cookery.
OR THE
Kitchen Garden display’d
Containing a Collection of
RECEIPTS
For preparing a great Variety of
Cheap, healthful, and palatable Dishes,
Without either Fish, Flesh, or Fowl,
WITH
A BILL OF FARE of Seventy Dishes, that
will not cost above Two-pence each.
LIKEWISE
Directions of pickling, gathering, and preserving
Herbs, Fruits, and Flowers:
With Many other Articles appertainingto the
Product of the Kitchen Garden, Orchard, &c.

It would seem reasonable to assume from the title that this was a “vegetarian” text, although the word would not be coined for another century, and the very concept would have been unintelligible to most folk of the time whose primary goal was to get good animal protein on the table as often as possible.

There was a philanthropic spin on the contents as well as a health angle. A certain Dr. Lobbs provided some verbose Advice to the Poor with regard to Diet – and excellent advice it would have been too, if only the poor had been able to afford his recommendations (or buy the book; or even read it, most of the poor of the time being illiterate.) He does offer some general dietary advice which does fall within his area of medical expertise however, so perhaps we could trust him in this regard:

“I should advise all persons to conclude their dinner with eating the quantity of a nutmeg or two of old Cheshire, or double Gloucestershire cheese, on account of its efficacy against flatulencies. I speak from my long experience, who seldom eat cheese at any other time.”

It appears that the good doctor was long-winded in more ways than one.

The doctor and several other contributors also misread the brief for the book (if indeed there was one), as a number of recipes include meat, or meat bones. If that was not an issue for his eighteenth century readers, or for yourself, this one caught my fancy.

A Cabbage Pudding.
Chop two pound of lean veal with as much beef suet; beat it in a mortar with half a cabbage scalded; season it with mace, nutmeg, pepper, salt, green gooseberries, grapes, or barberries, according to the time of year. In winter put in a little verjuic, beat all together with four or five yolks of eggs; then wrap it up in green cabbage-leaves, tie a cloth over it, boil it an hour, and melt butter for sauce.

Tomorrow’s Story …

A Birthday Dinner.

Quotation for the Day …

Cabbages, whose heads, tightly folded, see and hear nothing of this world, dreaming only on the yellow and green magnificence that is hardening within them. John Haines.

Purple Sauce?

Today, October 3^rd …

Sarah Kemble Knight was an independent businesswoman in Boston at the very beginning of the eighteenth century. She was also clearly quite adventurous. In October 1704 she set off on horseback for New Haven on a rather vague business trip. From New Haven she went on to New York, and then re-traced her steps home, the whole journey taking five months. Her journal was not published until over a century later, but it is a marvellous and amusing account of her journey. On her second day she was not impressed with the dinner she was served en route.

Tuesday, October ye third, about 8 in the morning, I with the Post proceeded forward without observing any thing remarkable; And about two, on, Arrived at the Post's second stage, where the western Post mett him and exchanged Letters. Here, having called for something to eat, ye woman bro't in a Twisted thing like a cable, but something whiter; and laying it on the bord, tugg'd for life to bring it into a capacity to spread; wch having wth great pains accomplished, shee serv'd in a dish of Pork and Cabage, I suppose the remains of Dinner. The sause was of a deep Purple, wch I tho't was boil'd in her dye Kettle; the bread was Indian, and every thing on the Table service Agreeable to these. I, being hungry, gott a little down; but my stomach was soon cloy'd, and what cabbage I swallowed serv'd me for a Cudd the whole day after.

I have no idea what might have made the sauce purple, unless indeed the dinner was cooked in the dye-kettle. It could hardly have been red cabbage, or surely Mrs Knight would not have been puzzled by the colour of the sauce. The juice of red cabbage acts like a pH (acidity/alkalinity) indicator; if you want to keep the red colour of your cabbage, the cooking liquid must be acidic (lemon juice or vinegar added) otherwise it tends to turn an unappetising blue if the water is even slightly alkaline.

My mother in law makes fantastic pickled red cabbage – no problem with the colour there, a very bright red due to the vinegar, and it is a delicious crunchy side dish to a whole lot of things. I’ll prevail upon her for the instructions and try to remember to add them to this post. In the meantime, the following recipe sounds interesting – the cook is taking no chances with the colour, it is red-enhanced by the addition of beetroot as well as vinegar.

To pickle Red Cabbages.
Slice them into a sieve, and sprinkle each layer with salt. Let the whole drain three days, then add some sliced beet-root, and place the whole in a jar, over which pour boiling vinegar. The purple red cabbage is the finest. Mace, bruised ginger, whole pepper, and cloves, may be boiled with the vinegar, and will make a great improvement.
[The New England Economical Housekeeper, and Family Receipt Book. Cincinatti: H.W. Derby, 1845.]

If you would rather braise your cabbage, this sounds good:

Belgian Red Cabbage.
Put two or three sticks of cinnamon, salt and pepper, one-half teaspoon cloves, one onion sliced thin, one bay leaf, two cups of water, three tablespoons of drippings in saucepan, then add five or six greening apples, peeled and cut in quarters. Lastly, put in one medium-sized red cabbage, cut in halves and then sliced very thin. Cook three hours and then add two tablespoons each of sugar and vinegar; cook one minute more.

Tomorrow’s Story …

Ace-High Dishes.

Quotation for the Day …

Boiled cabbage a l'Anglaise is something compared with which steamed coarse newsprint bought from bankrupt Finnish salvage dealers and heated over smoky oil stoves is an exquisite delicacy. William Neil Connor a.k.a columnist 'Cassandra' (1909 - 1967)

Roots, by Request.

Today, August 27^th …

If all goes according to plan, I will be posting this from London! My holiday postings will be on topics suggested by readers, and a couple at my own whim.

“M” of The Cat’s Tripe was first in with a request. She asks for a story on ‘rapunzel, scorzonera, skirret.’

These are indeed old-fashioned root vegetables, thoroughly deserving of an honourable modern mention and an overdue revival. First, a definition for those of you who may not be familiar with them.

Rapunzel is another name for rampion or ramps (Campanula rapunculus), a species of bellflower with an edible root and leaves, both of which can be used in a salad.

Scorzonera ((Scorzonera hispanica ) is from the family Asteraceae, the family that includes the sunflower which we featured last week. It has a long black root and is a cousin to the white-rooted salsify (Tragopogon porrifolius), which we have met in a previous story. In recognition of their relationship, it is sometimes referred to as ‘black salsify’ but once upon a time was also called by the far more interesting name of viper-grass because of its supposed protection against venomous snake bites. As if that wasn’t enough names between them, both salsify and scorzonera are also sometimes named ‘vegetable oyster’ because of their supposed similar flavour.

Skirrets (Sium sisarum) are a species of water parsnip, also now hardly grown, but very common in early cookbooks, before they became overwhelmed by the invasion of bright orange carrots into England.

Murray's modern cookery book. Modern domestic cookery, by a lady (1851) has one highly adaptable recipe:

Salsifis, Skirrets, And Scorzanera,
Are not much known in England, though all good, and deserving of more general cultivation. The salsifis are white, and not unlike small parsnips, and ripen the first year, whilst scorzanera is black, and requires 2 years in coming to perfection; but it is preferable of the two. In flavour they somewhat resemble Jerusalem artichokes. They are much cultivated in France, and appear in the markets as a very late winter or early spring vegetable. Scrape them and throw them into water with a little lemon-juice squeezed into it to keep them white; boil in milk-and-water; serve with melted butter or white sauce; or stew them in rich brown gravy; or, when boiled tender, dip in batter and fry quite crisp.

The Lady does not include a recipe for rapunzel in her book, but luckily good old Cassell’s Dictionary (1870’s) comes to the rescue, while bemoaning its passing from popularity.

Rampion.
The root of this plant, which is white and spindle-shaped, used to be much in request for the table under the name of rampion or ramps. The plant is now little cultivated in Britain, but it is still commonly grown in France for the sake of the roots, which are used either boiled or as a salad, and of its young leaves, which are also employed as a salad. The esculent roots are far more delicate than turnips or radishes: the seeds are ophthalmic. The root, either sliced together with its leaves in salads, or eaten as the radish, as well as boiled like asparagues, is most palatable when drawn young, and eaten fresh from the ground.

Tomorrow’s Story …

A Retro Cookbook.

Quotation for the Day …

One of the gladdest moments of human life, methinks, is the departure upon a distant journey into unknown lands. Shaking off with one mighty effort the fetters of habit, the leaden weight of routine, the cloak of many cares and the slavery of home, man feels once more happy. Sir Richard Francis Burton (1821-1890)