Things to do with Guavas.

Yesterday I gave you recipes for loquats, and today I give you recipes for guavas. It was a no-brainer easy choice for me, given that the article in the Los Angeles Times of May 8, 1902 which was the source of some of the loquat recipes, also included ideas for using guavas.

Firstly, a brief botany and history note. The guava (several cultivars of Psidium guajava) belongs to the Myrtle family. It is a tropical “New World” plant native native to Central and northern South America. Outside of the tropics, it is best known in the form of guava jelly. This was an important product of the colonial West Indies, and was exported in great amounts to Britain. Its popularity is attested in the following piece:

Tolpsey’s Account of a West India Planter’s Punch.

“He made his appearance with a respectably sized bowl, an enormous jug of boiling water, and a large paper bag filled with sugar. Our punch-maker then commenced operations, and having extracted from his secret store a bottle of his matchless rum, his limes, and a small pot of guava jelly, he brewed about a pint of green tea (2 oz.), and, the infusion finished, two-thirds of the sugar was dissolved in it. After the tea leaves had been thrown aside, the remainder of the sugar was rubbed on the lime ; Mr. Hamilton observing that the essential oil, which conveyed the exquisite flavour, was much more strongly diffused throughout the compound than when the skin was peeled; then the delicious acid of the fruit was added to the already impregnated sugar, and as soon as the several lumps had imbibed the proportions required, the guava jelly (and without this confection no punch can be pronounced perfect) was dissolved in a pint or so of boiling water. This done, the tea, the sweets, and the acids were commingled, and the foundation or sherbert tasted by the experienced palate of the grand compounder; six glasses of Cognac, two of Madeira, and the bottle of rum were added, and over all about a quart more of boiling water, and, as a finishing touch, the slightest possible sprinkling of nutmeg.

Cooling Cups and Dainty Drinks (1869); by William Terrington.

So, let us start with a recipe for guava jelly:

Guava Jelly.

Select freshly-picked fruit, not quite ripe. Ripe guavas will not make jelly, and if too green there will not be enough juice. So much depends on the selecting. Put the guavas (5 or 10 lbs.) in granite kettle, and cover with cold water; boil for half an hour, mashing fruit to extract juice. Turn all into bag (white flannel is best) and let drip till all juice is extracted. If you wish a very clear jelly do not squeeze the bag. Then let it boil 10 or 15 minutes. Take from fire and measure; adding same quantity of sugar. When sugar is dissolved, boil until it forms a jelly, which can be told by the way it drops from the spoon, in a solid form, or by trying some in a saucer in a cold place. Pour in tumbler very quickly, as it hardens very fast. While still hot, take off blubbers from top. When cold, pour over each tumbler one or two teaspoonfuls melted paraffine.

Los Angeles Times; May 8, 1902.

The article also included the following interesting variation on a shortcake theme:

Guava Shortcake.

One quart of guavas cut fine; sprinkle with one cup of sugar, and let stand overnight, or several hours. Make short cake of one pint of flour, one heaping teaspoonful baking powder, a pinch of salt, and butter the size of an egg. Rub flour and butter well together and moisten with milk. Cut into four pieces, roll to fit jelly tins, using two tins. Place one piece of dough in each tin, spread well with butter; place others on top and bake in a quick oven. Separate layers and fill with the guavas, making two small or one large cake, as preferred. Serve with sugar and cream.

Los Angeles Times; May 8, 1902.

From Australian newspapers we have the following ideas:

Guava Vinegar.

In November last we ("Queensland Agricultural Journal”) were asked to give a recipe for making mango vinegar. We were not able to answer this question at the time, but we have found a recipe given in the "Journal of the Jamaica Agricultural Society" for making guava vinegar. Possibly this might be applicable to mangoes. This fruit should be well ripened. Wash and cut in halves, cover with plenty of water and simmer for two hours, strain through a colander, and then strain the juice through a bag. Bottle, and then tie muslin over the tops of the bottles. It requires about five months to turn into strong vinegar. In filling jars or bottles with juice, which is to make vinegar, remember, that it is well to leave space for plenty of air and only fill the receptacles about two-thirds.

Queensland Times, 5 February, 1916.

Guava Fluff.

This gelatine dish makes a delicious dessert for six servings. Ingredients:  1 lb. small red guavas (the larger variety can be substituted); 2 dessertspoons (1 ½ oz) gelatine (if setting in a refrigerator or ice chest 1 ½ dessertspoons is sufficient); 1 cup ( ½ lb.) sugar

I pint water.

Method: Wash guavas and place in a saucepan, after having pierced or broken at least half of them. Add ½ pint of water, then boil for 20 to 30 minutes, strain through a fine colander or sieve, and place the liquid (which should be about a pint) in a saucepan. Bring to boiling point and add sugar. Remove from the fire, and add gelatine which has been dissolved in ¼ cup of hot water. Leave until cold and then whisk with an egg

beater until thick and foamy. Place in a mould, which has been rinsed in cold water.

Nambour Chronicle and North Coast Advertiser (Qld) 25 July 1941

Things to do with Loquats.

Loquats are one of those things that you either know about or you don’t, that are available to you locally, or not, and that you like, loathe, or don’t know because you haven’t tasted them. Whichever groups you fit into, I hope you find something of interest here today.

The loquat (Eriobotryta japonica) comes from the same family as the rose. It is a native of eastern Asia – probably the mountainous regions of central China – and has been cultivated in Japan for over a millennium. Several of the common names for the fruit reflect these origins: it is sometimes known as the Chinese or Japanese plum or Japanese medlar.

The fruit is small with multiple relatively large seeds, but is thin-skinned and soft (which limits its transportability), juicy, and tangy-sweet. It can be eaten fresh, but because of its fragility, it can usually only be enjoyed this way by locals. The seeds do contain poisonous glycosides which in sufficient quantity can be deadly, so particular care should be taken with children who have access to the fruit.

Loquats lend themselves superbly to preservation in syrup, and in the form of jams and jellies, and no story on the use of the fruit would be complete without instructions for preparing these treats, so let’s get recipes for these out of the way first!

The loquat grows well in many parts of Australia, and the Sydney Morning Herald of 5 October, 1937 noted:

Loquats are "in." That statement means a lot to little boys, but it is even more significant to housewives. At present this fruit is so plentiful that many householders are finding a difficulty in using it up. Here are a few recipes that should help women cope with the loquat situation.

Loquat Jam.

First wash the loquats well, split and remove the stalks and seeds, and then weigh. To every pound of fruit allow one pound of sugar. Put the fruit into the preserving pan, covering with cold water. Next day boil slowly till quite soft; add the sugar, and boil again until a very rich colour, skimming very, carefully. Try a little on a plate, and, if it jellies, then it is done.

The Sydney Morning Herald of 5 October, 1937

Loquat Jelly.

Required: Loquats, water, sugar, lemon. Wash, top, and stem the loquats, cut them up, covering them with cold water. Boll for two hours. Strain and measure the juice, and to every pint allow one pound of sugar and half a lemon. Put in the preserving pan, and stir until the sugar melts. Then boil till it jellies.

Note: It is not necessary for the fruit to be quite ripe for these recipes

The Los Angeles Times of May 8, 1902 had a feature article on recipes for loquats, quavas, and figs. Naturally, it contained a recipe for making loquat jelly, and as the instructions are a bit more detailed than the above, I include it here:

Loquat Jelly.

In making any kind of jelly, use fruit which is just ripe – no more. Cut the blossom end from the loquats; wash or wipe with cloth and cut in half, using skin and seeds. Cover with cold water (about two inches above fruit) and boil slowly until soft. Put in coarse flannel bag and drain over night. Do not squeeze. In the morning, strain juice through muslin bag. Measure juice, and put on to boil, not more than six cupfuls at a time. When it has boiled up once, add equal measure of sugar, and boil rapidly until when dropped from a spoon into a little cold water, it will not run but drop heavily. Have glasses, previously rinsed out in cold water, standing on thick cloth wrung out of cold water. Pour jelly into glasses, hot but not foaming. Stand glasses, uncovered, out of draught, until cold. Keep in cool, dry, dark place.

Now we can get on to some more interesting uses of the loquat. From the Los Angeles Times of June 3, 1906, here is a quite unusual sweet-savoury idea, (perhaps intended for breakfast?)

Loquats a la Espagnole.

Select about three dozen large loquats; remove the seeds and place [the loquat flesh, not the seeds!] in a hot frying pan with two tablespoonfuls of bacon gravy or butter if preferred; salt slightly and cover until well steamed. Then uncover and dust with a very little chilli powder and brown on both sides, watching closely to prevent burning. Half a cupful of granulated sugar added at the last and allowed to form a syrup just before serving, greatly improves this dish.

Too much loquat jelly in the store cupboard? Here is one way to use some of it up, from the same article:

For Loquat Foam (A Quick Dessert.)

Whip the whites of five eggs to a stiff froth; sweeten with two cupfuls of powdered sugar and stir in gradually one cupful of loquat jelly. Serve in sherbet glasses with a teaspoonful of whipped cream on the top of each. A sprinkling of ground nuts added at the last, gives a delicious flavor.

And here are a couple more dessert ideas from same source:

Loquat Cream.

Beat the yolks of four eggs until light; add five tablespoonfuls of granulated sugar, and one cupful of loquat juice. Cook all together, stirring constantly till thick. Remove from the fire, stir in the whites which have been whipped to a stiff snow and sweetened. When cold, serve immediately in custard cups.

For Loquat Dumplings.

Make a crust the same as for apple dumplings: roll out and cut into oblong pieces; put two tablespoonfuls of seeded loquats in the centre of each. Add one tablespoonful of sugar and enclose in the paste. Lay upon a floured baking pan, with joined edges downward and bake about forty minutes. To be served with sweetened cream, or with a hot sweet sauce.

All Aboard for Oxtail Soup.

It is far too long since I gave you a menu, and probably longer since I gave you something that happened “On This Day.” So, today I share with you the menu from which you would have chosen your dinner, were you aboard the Norddeutscher Lloyd Bremen line ship “Kaiser Willhelm II” on this day in 1910. The menu was given in both German and English, but I have transcribed only the English.

DINNER

-

Ox-tail Soup

Consommé with Egg-Jelly

-

Filet of Halibut au Suprême

-

Roastbeef au Jus

Cauliflower Hollandaise

Potato Croquettes

-

Roast Chicken

Stewed Apricots – Lettuce Salad

-

Vanilla- and Strawberry Ice-Cream

Fancy Pastry

-

Fruits                  Coffee to Order

I am a little puzzled by the stewed apricots alongside the roast chicken and lettuce salad (although it sounds delicious), but perhaps one of you with knowledge of German cuisine can enlighten me as to if this is a common combination.

As the dish of the day, I have chosen Oxtail Soup – it was a staple winter dish when I was growing up in the north of England, and I cannot believe I have not given you a recipe for it before. I have chosen one from a book I have just discovered, and which I am sure I will use again. The book is indeed as it claims “A book that every family needs.” The full title I will abbreviate as: Consult Me, to Know how to Cook ... Consult Me on Confectionery ... Consult Me on Household Management and Economy ... Consult Me on Diseases and Their Remedies ... on a Thousand Other Things (London, 1871.) They don’t publish books like that anymore.

Oxtail Soup.

Joint the tails, and let them soak for some time in warm water. Put into a gallon stew-pan 8 cloves, 2 or 3 onions; allspice and black pepper, of each # a drachm; cayenne pepper, 1 chm; cover with cold water; skim as long as any scum rises; cover the pan very close, and simmer till the meat becomes tender, and will easily leave the bones. A table-spoonful of mushroom ketchup and a glass of wine will be a great improvement.

You Say Tomato, I Say Tomata.

As many of you have probably realized by now, I get a great kick out of finding forgotten and quirky things to share with you. I sometimes feel however, that I neglect the wonderful, but too-familiar items that grace our tables every day, but are barely thanked for their presence. In the ten years of this blog, I think I have neglected the tomato. This realization and confession has come about because of a “find” in one of my favourite cookery books - Domestic economy, and cookery, for rich and poor, by a lady (1827.) The recipe which piqued my interest was one for a “mock tomato” dish. What is a little surprising to me about this is that at this point in the nineteenth century, tomatoes (a New World food) were still viewed with suspicion by many folk, yet clearly there were also some for whom it was desirable enough that if it were not available, then a substitute or imitation was an attractive proposition. Here it is, for your enjoyment and, I hope, your comments.

Mock Tomata.

Pulp some roasted apples, colour them with turmeric and cochineal, or beet-juice; add chili vinegar, and bring it as near as possible to the taste and colour of the tomata; stir into each quart a quarter of an ounce of garlic, half an ounce of shalot, a tea-spoonful of cayenne, and a little salt; simmer gently for some time; it ought to be of the consistency of thick cream; put it well up in half pint bottles. This is an elegant sauce: if well made, it is hardly distinguishable from the real tomata. Great attention is necessary to give it the colour and taste. Fresh chilis are better than cayenne.

Another unusual (to me) idea for the tomato comes from the wonderful Modern Cookery in all its Branches (1845), by Eliza Acton:

Tomata Dumplings, Or Puddings.

(An American Receipt.)

“In the manner of composition, mode of cooking, and saucing, the good housewife must proceed in the same way as she would for an apple dumpling, with this exception, care must be taken in paring the tomata not to extract the seed, nor break the meat in the operation of skinning it. We have eaten tomatas raw without anything;-cut up with pepper, salt, vinegar, and mustard;—fried in butter and in lard;—broiled and basted with butter;—stewed with and without bread, with cream and with butter;—and, with a clear conscience, we can say, we like them in every way they have ever been fived for the palate; but of all the modes of dressing them, known to us, we prefer them when cooked in dumplings, for to us it appears that the steaming they receive in their dough-envelope increases in a very high degree that delicate spicy flavour which even in their uncooked state makes them such decided favourites with the epicure.”

Obs.—It is possible that the tomata, which is, we know, abundantly grown and served in a great variety of forms in America, may there, either from a difference of climate, or from some advantages of culture, be produced in greater perfection than with us, and possess really “the delicate spicy flavour,” attributed to it in our receipt, but which we cannot say we have ever yet discovered here; nor have we put its excellence for puddings to the proof, though some of our readers may like to do so.

As my final (for today) contribution to this paean to the humble tomato, may I give you something interesting from World War II?

Tomato Creams.

This is an unusual recipe from France. These creams are delicious served as a separate dish or with chicken creams. Cut up four medium-sized tomatoes and put them in a saucepan with a sliced onion, 1 oz. of margarine, one teaspoonful of salt, a quarter teaspoonful of better. Cover the pan and set it over a gentle heat for 10 minutes. Put the mixture through a sieve and add three tablespoonsfuls of stale breadcrumbs. Beat up two tablespoonfuls of cream with two eggs and mix them all together. Grease some small moulds, fill them, and set them on a pan of boiling water to steam for 20 minutes.

The Times of London, on June 17, 1940.

Useful Wartime Recipes.

The British wartime Ministry of Food published an enormous volume of advice directed at the nation’s housewives who were forced to cope with rationing of many basic foods. Newspapers repeated much of this advice, and also sought ideas from readers which then appeared scattered, or in columns, throughout their pages. The Times of London was no exception, and in 1942 printed a series of single recipes - some of them sourced from Ministry of Food publications, most unacknowledged. A couple of these caught my eye because they featured potatoes, and another because it is quite unusual.

Potato Cheese Pancake.

1 ½ lb. of potatoes; 4 oz. cheese; one tablespoonful of margarine; salt and pepper. Boil the potatoes in their skins, drain and mash them. Melt the margarine in a frying pan, mash the potatoes straight into the fat, then make a thick layer of the cheese on top. Cook over a very low heat to brown the bottom of the pancake, then put underneath the grill to melt the cheese and crisp it into a crust. Serve with a green salad.

War-Time Recipe Number 10, published in The Times on 24 July 1942.

Potato Madeira Cake (or Pudding.)

4-5 oz. raw potatoes, 8 oz. flour, one teaspoon baking powder, two tablespoons sugar (or one of sugar and one of golden syrup), 1 ½ oz. margarine or cooking fat, one level tablespoon household milk used dry, one teaspoon vanilla or almond flavouring, and one teaspoon powdered ginger.

Rub the fat into the flour and baking powder. Grate the raw potatoes and mix at once with the sugar, or sugar and syrup, the milk powder, and the flavourings. Add to the flour and use enough cold water to mix to a creamy dough. Put into a well-grease cake tin and bake in a moderate oven for 1 ½ hours. Split and spread with plum jam if desired.

By putting the same mixture into a greased basin and steaming for 1¼ hour, a light and spongy pudding is obtained which can be served with stewed plums.

War-Time Recipe Number 14, published in The Times on 5^th September 1942

The following recipe is quite unlike any others I have seen for the time, and I will be interested to hear your comments. I guess it would be quite difficult to reproduce today, in the absence of cans of sausage meat.  The air-travel connection is interesting too.

Spiced Meat Round.

A good travelling alternative to a sandwich, the spiced meat round served to passengers in British Overseas Aircraft is easy to make and also good coupon value. Put the contents of a tin of pork sausage meat into a basin, first removing the jelly. Mix the meat and fat thoroughly together, add a pinch of herbs, if liked. Add 1 lb. self-raising flour and rub into the meat gently with the tips of the fingers. Add cold water to the jelly to make up to 7 oz. with a good pinch of salt. Mix this thoroughly into the paste. Roll out just over ¼ inch thick, cut into 4in. rounds, glaze with processed egg dissolved in water, bake in a hot oven. Split when cold and fill with sliced cucumber, tomato, raw cabbage, or any filling, or eat plain. This is sufficient for 20 portions.

War-Time Recipe Number 11, published in The Times of 14 August, 1942

Dried Egg Cakes: Five from One Basic Recipe (1946)

World War II ended in Europe on May 8, 1945, but the necessity of assisting the reconstruction of Europe meant that food rationing in Britain did not end until July 4, 1954. For the entire fourteen years of the rationing period, the Ministry of Food churned out regular advice to housewives over the radio and via newspaper articles and leaflets, to help them manage the shortages. One of the most hated intermittent substitutes for the real thing was the dreaded dried egg. In July 1946 the Ministry was still suggesting ways in which they could be used, as the following recipes from one of their regular leaflets shows:

5 different cakes from one simple recipe!

2 ½ oz. margarine; 3 oz. sugar; 2 dried eggs, dry; 4 tablespoons water; 2 level tablespoons household milk (dry); ½ lb. flour; 4 level teaspoons baking powder; water to mix (just under half a pint); flavouring.

Cream fat and sugar, adding dried eggs, dry. Beat in water gradually. Sieve milk, flour, and baking powder together and add to creamed mixture. Mix to a soft dropping consistency with the water, and put into a greased tin and bake in a moderate oven for 1 -1 ½ hours. (This makes a good plain cake.) Vanilla, lemon, or any other flavouring could be added.)

The advantage of a basic cake recipe like this is that once you’ve got the knack of making it, you can use the same recipe for almost any kind of cake.

You can make little cakes and tart fillings, a jam sandwich, a fruit cake or a chocolate cake, merely be varying the recipe slightly.

Notice that you add the dried eggs dry to the creamed fat and sugar. And you add the household milk dry to the other dry ingredients. This is far easier than reconstituting the eggs and milk before you begin. It’s easier even than using the shell eggs – and every bit as good!

With this recipe it’s very little trouble to make a delicious cake for tea. And your family will certainly think it’s a first-rate idea.

Variations.

FRUIT CAKE.

Ass 2 level teasp. mixed spice to the dry ingredients before they are sieved, and add 2 to 4 oz. dried fruit to the creamed mixture with the dry ingredients. Baking time as recipe.

CHOCOLATE CAKES.

Add  1 level tablesp. syrup to the creamed mixture and 3 level tablesp. cocoa to the dry ingredients. This mixture requires less water – about a quarter-pint. (Makes about 18 small cakes.) Bake in patty-pans about 15 to 20 minutes.

MARMALADE SANDWICH.

Add 2 level teasp. marmalade and ½ teasp. almond essence to creamed mixture. Bake in sandwich tins in moderate oven for 25 to 30 minutes. Spread with marmalade when cold.

GINGER CAKE.

Add 3 level teasps. ginger and 1 level teasp. bicarb of soda to the dry ingredients, and 1 level tablesp. syrup to creamed mixture. Pour into flat tin and bake 15-20 mins in a hot oven.

Provisions for a Migrant Voyage to Canada (1851.)

Today’s story is particularly for my Canadian friends, especially for those of you with British heritage. From Views of Canada and the colonists embracing the experience of an eight years' residence: views of the present state, progress, and prospects of the colony; with detailed and practical information for intending emigrants, by James Bryce Brown (Edinburgh & London, 1851), here are some of the suggestions your ancestors may have received, should they have been travelling steerage class in the mid-nineteenth century.

Steerage passengers usually have to provide themselves with bedding, a certain amount of provisions, and cooking utensils, with such articles as are necessary for serving up their meals. Fuel, with a stove or grate for cooking, and water to the amount of at least three quarts a day to each individual, and also at the rate of two and a half pounds of bread or biscuit per week, one pound of wheaten flour, five pounds of oatmeal, two pounds of rice, two ounces of tea, half a pound of sugar, and half a pound of potatoes, are required to be provided by the vessel to each passenger, according to the enactment of the Passenger's Act, under a severe penalty; for the enforcement of which, and other clauses in the same act, complaints are to be made to any of the Government Emigrant Agents, or Officers of Customs. These issues of provisions are to be made in advance, and not less often than twice a week. There are also powers provided by the Amended Passengers' Act, passed in April 1851, to the Commissioners of Emigration, to substitute for the comfort of passengers, for any of the articles of food mentioned, any other articles of food.

The average length of passage from England to Quebec was computed in 1841 and 1842, from passages by 616 vessels with emigrants, to be 45 days the one year, and 46 the other. The shortest passage was 24 days, the longest 78 days. The Commissioners of Emigration state the average passage from England to Quebec to be six weeks. The Passengers' Act requires the length of voyage to be computed at 10 weeks or 70 days, for the purpose of laying in stores. Persons who provide their own provisions would therefore do well, I would say, to lay in a stock to meet, as nearly as may be, the period computed by Government. It will save them all uneasiness of mind upon a material point, and may prevent much suffering, which otherwise might be occasioned by a long voyage; and the supplies left over by a shorter voyage, may, upon the vessel's arrival, and after reserving a little for the rest of the journey, be disposed of one way or other, without much loss. A deal chest, with lock and key, is perhaps the best for holding the greater part of the provisions. A good conditioned barrel with padlock, rather than a sack, is found to be "best for preserving potatoes. The kinds of provisions usually taken are biscuit, hard baked loaves, hams or bacon, cheese, salt butter; eggs, preserved by being well greased to exclude the air, and packed with bran, saw-dust, or such like; milk, preserved by being carefully boiled with loaf-sugar, and sealed in small jars or bottles; and tea, coffee, sugar, oatmeal, herrings, with mustard, pepper, vinegar, and salt. In calculating the provisions to be taken, those required to be provided by the vessel will, of course, be taken into account. A few other things, which the taste or circumstances of the party may suggest, will much promote comfort during the voyage. Among such may be mentioned split pease for soup, flour, suet, and a small quantity of raisins and currants for a pudding now and then; a few lemons and oranges, a little gingerbread, and such trifles, are always found to be wonderfully agreeable in relieving and cheering the time upon occasions during an ocean voyage. Immediately before sailing, a little fresh meat, say a leg of mutton or so, with vegetables and barley, will be found, in most instances, during the first few days out at sea, very serviceable and agreeable.

Those of you who know me well may have already realized that this post is an excuse to give you another gingerbread recipe. In the past I have posted the instructions for Gingerbread for Voyages or Travelling (1827) – today I give you Sea-Voyage Gingerbread from Miss Eliza Leslie’s book The Lady’s Receipt-Book: A useful companion for large or small families (Philadelphia, 1847.) 

Sea-Voyage Gingerbread.

Sift two pounds of flour into a pan, and cut up in it a pound and a quarter of fresh butter; rub the butter well into the flour, and then mix in a pint of West India molasses and a pound of the best brown sugar. Beat eight eggs till very light. Stir into the beaten egg two glasses or a jill [gill] of brandy. Add also to the egg a teacup-full of ground ginger, and a table-spoonful of powdered cinnamon, with a tea-spoonful of soda melted in a little warm water. Wet the flour, &C., with this mixture till it becomes a soft dough. Sprinkle a little flour on your paste-board, and with a broad knife spread portions of the mixture thickly and smoothly upon it. The thickness must be equal all through; therefore spread it carefully and evenly, as the dough will be too soft to roll out. Then with the edge of a tumbler dipped in flour, cut it out into round cakes. Have ready square pans, slightly buttered; lay the cakes in them sufficiently far apart to prevent their running into each other when baked. Set the pans into a brisk oven, and bake the cakes well, seeing that they do not burn.

You may cut them out small with the lid of a cannister (or something similar) the usual size of gingerbread nuts.

These cakes will keep during a long voyage, and are frequently carried to sea. Many persons find highly-spiced gingerbread a preventive to sea-sickness.

Spanish Ham, and a recipe for Meat Omelet (1851.)

Today, as promised, I follow-on from yesterday’s post and give you another section from Gatherings from Spain, (1851) by Richard Ford. The piece is clearly in praise of the pig – the Spanish variety, that is:

Bacon throughout the length and breadth of the Peninsula is more honoured than this, or than any one or all the fathers of the church of Rome; the hunger after the flesh of the pig is equalled only by the thirst for the contents of what is put afterwards into his skin; and with reason, for the pork of Spain has always been, and is, unequalled in flavour; the bacon is fat and flavoured, the sausages delicious, and the hams transcendantly superlative, to use the very expression of Diodorus Siculus, a man of great taste, learning, and judgment. Of all the things of Spain, no one need feeling ashamed to plead guilty to a predilection and preference to the pig. A few particulars may be therefore pardoned.

In Spain pigs are more numerous even than asses, since they pervade the provinces. As those of Estremadura, the Hampshire of the Peninsula, are the most esteemed, they alone will be now noticed. That province, although so little visited by Spaniards or strangers, is full of interest to the antiquarian and naturalist; and many are the rides at different periods which we have made through its tangled ilex groves, and over its depopulated and aromatic wastes. A granary under Roman and Moor, its very existence seems to be all but forgotten by the Madrid government, who have abandoned it to feræ naturæ, to wandering sheep, locusts, and swine. The entomology of Estremadura is endless, and perfectly uninvestigated—de minimis non curat Hispanus; but the heavens and earth teem with the minute creation; there nature is most busy and prolific, where man is most idle and unproductive; and in these lonely wastes, where no human voice disturbs the silence, the balmy air resounds with the buzzing hum of multitudinous insects, which career about on their business of love or food without settlements or kitchens, rejoicing in the fine weather which is the joy of their tiny souls, and short-lived pleasant existence. Sheep, pigs, locusts, and doves are the only living things which the traveller will see for hours and hours. Now and then a man occurs, just to prove how rare his species is here. Vast districts of this unreclaimed province are covered with woods of oak, beech, and chesnut; but these park-like scenes have no charms for native eyes; blind to the picturesque, they only are thinking of the number of pigs which can be fattened on the mast and acorns, which are sweeter and larger than those of our oaks. The acorns are still called bellota, the Arabic bollot — belot being the Scriptural term for the tree and the gland, which, with water, formed the original diet of the aboriginal Iberian, as well as of his pig; when dry, the acorns were ground, say the classical authors, into bread, and, when fresh, they were served up as the second course. And in our time ladies of high rank at Madrid constantly ate them at the opera and elsewhere; they were the presents sent by Sancho Panza's wife to the Duchess, and formed the text on which Don Quixote preached so eloquently to the goatherds, on the joys and innocence of the golden age and pastoral happiness, in which they constituted the foundation of the kitchen. The pigs during the greater part of the year are left to support nature as they can, and in gauntness resemble those greyhound-looking animals which pass for porkers in France. When the acorns are ripe and fall from the trees, the greedy animals are turned out in legions from the villages, which more correctly may be termed coalitions of pigsties. They return from the woods at night, of their own accord, and without a swine's general. On entering the hamlet, all set off at a full gallop, like a legion possessed with devils, in a handicap for home, into which each single pig turns, never making a mistake. We have more than once been caught in one of these pig-deluges, and nearly carried away horse and all, as befell Don Quixote, when really swept away by the "far-spread and grunting drove." In his own home each truant is welcomed like a prodigal son or a domestic father. These pigs are the pets of the peasants; they are alcalde of the town, to the lover of delicious hams; each jamon averages about 12 lb.; they are sold at the rate of 7 ½  reales, about 18d., for the libra carnicera, which weighs 32 of our ounces. The duties in England are now very trifling; we have for many years had an annual supply of these delicacies, through the favour of a kind friend at the Puerto. The fat of these jamones, whence our word ham and gammon, when they are boiled, looks like melted topazes, and the flavour defies language, although we have dined on one this very day, in order to secure accuracy and undeniable prose, like Lope de Vega, who, according to his biographer, Dr. Montalvan, never could write poetry unless inspired by a rasher; "Toda es cosa vil," said he, "á donde falta un pernil" (in which word we recognize the precise perna whereby Horace was restored) :—

Therefore all writing is a sham,

Where there is wanting Spanish ham.

Those of Gallicia and Catalonia are also celebrated, but are not to be compared for a moment with those of Montanches, which are fit to set before an emperor. Their only rivals are the sweet hams of the Alpujarras, which are made at Trevelez, a pig-hamlet situated under the snowy mountains on the opposite side of Granada, to which also we have made a pilgrimage. They are called dulces or sweet, because scarcely any salt is used in the curing; the ham is placed in a weak pickle for eight days, and is then hung up in the snow; it can only be done at this place, where the exact temperature necessary is certain.

… So much space has been filled with these meritorious bacons and hams, that we must be brief with our remaining bill of fare. For a pisto or meat omelette take eggs, which are to be got almost everywhere; see that they are fresh by being pellucid; beat these huevos trasparentes well up; chop up onions and whatever savoury herbs you have with you; add small slices of any meat out of your hamper, cold turkey, ham, &c.; beat it all up together and fry it quickly. Most Spaniards have a peculiar knack in making these tortillas, revueltas de huevos, which to fastidious stomachs are, as in most parts of the Continent, a sure resource to fall back upon. The Guisado, or stew, like the olla, can only be really done in a Spanish pipkin, and of those which we import, the Andalucian ones draw flavour out the best. This dish is always well done by every cook in every venta, barring that they are apt to put in bad oil, and too much garlic, pepper, and saffron. Superintend it, therefore, yourself, and take hare, partridge, rabbit, chicken, or whatever you may have foraged on the road; it is capital also with pheasant, as we proved only yesterday; cut it up, save the blood, the liver, and the giblets; do not wash the pieces, but dry them in a cloth; fry them with onions in a teacup of oil till browned; take an olla, put in these bits with the oil, equal portions of wine and water, but stock is better than water; claret answers well, Valdepeñas better; add a bit of bacon, onions, garlic, salt, pepper, pimientos, a bunch of thyme or herbs; let it simmer, carefully skimming it; half an hour before serving add the giblets; when done, which can be tested by feeling with a fork, serve hot. The stew should be constantly stirred with a wooden spoon, and grease, the ruin of all cookery, carefully skimmed off as it rises to the surface. When made with proper care and with a good salad, it forms a supper for a cardinal, or for Santiago himself. 

The Garbanzo in Spanish Cookery in 1851.

Do you have any thoughts on garbanzos (or chickpeas, if you prefer)? In 1851 they were not as well-known in Britain and the USA as they are today, so the author of Gatherings from Spain, (Richard Ford) published the same year, felt it necessary to discuss them in detail. The particular chapter heading reads, in full:

A Spanish Cook—Philosophy of Spanish Cuisine—Sauce—Difficulty of Commissariat—The Provend—Spanish Hares and Rabbits—The Olla— Garbanzo—Spanish Pigs—Bacon and Hams—Omelette—Salad and Gazpacho.

The complete chapter is far too lengthy to include here in its entirety, so I have edited it significantly, - but included the recipe, of course - and have saved the equally interesting section on Spanish Pigs for tomorrow. The author opines first of all on Spanish cooking in general:

It would exhaust a couple of Colonial numbers at least to discuss properly the merits and digest Spanish cookery. All that can be now done is to skim the subject, which is indeed fat and unctuous. Those meats and drinks will be briefly noticed which are of daily occurrence, and those dishes described which we have often helped to make, and oftener helped to eat, in the most larderless ventas and hungriest districts of the Peninsula, and which provident wayfarers may make and eat again, and, as we pray, with no worse appetite. To be a good cook, which few Spaniards are, a man must not only understand his master's taste, but be able to make something out of nothing; just as a clever French artiste converts an old shoe into an epigramme d'agneau, or a Parisian milliner dresses up two deal boards into a fine live Madame, whose only fault is the appearance of too much embonpoint. Genuine and legitimate Spanish dishes are excellent in their way, for no man nor man-cook ever is ridiculous when he does not attempt to be what he is not. The au naturel may occasionally be somewhat plain, but seldom makes one sick; at all events it would be as hopeless to make a Spaniard understand real French cookery as to endeavour to explain to a depute the meaning of our constitution or parliament. The ruin of Spanish cooks is their futile attempts to imitate foreign ones: just as their silly grandees murder the glorious Castilian tongue, by substituting what they fancy is pure Parisian, which they speak comme des vaches Espagnoles. Dis moi ce que tu manges etje te dirai ce que tu es is "un mot profond " of the great equity judge, Brillat Savarin, who also discovered that "Les destinies des nations dependent de la maniere dont elles se nourrissent;" since which General Foy has attributed all the accidental victories of the British to rum and beef. And this great fact much enhances our serious respect for punch, and our true love for the ros-bif of old England, of which, by the way, very little will be got in the Peninsula, where bulls are bred for baiting, and oxen for the plough, not the spit. The national cookery of Spain is for the most part Oriental; and the ruling principle of its preparation is stewing; for, from a scarcity of fuel, roasting is almost unknown; their notion of which is putting meat into a pan, setting it in hot ashes, and then covering the lid with burning embers. The pot, or olla, has accordingly become a synonyme for the dinner of Spaniards, just as beefsteaks or frogs are vulgarly supposed to constitute the whole bill of fare of two other mighty nations. Wherever meats are bad and thin, the sauce is very important; it is based in Spain on oil, garlic, saffron, and red peppers. In hot countries, where beasts are lean, oil supplies the place of fat, as garlic does the want of flavour, while a stimulating condiment excites or curries up the coats of a languid stomach. It has been said of our heretical countrymen that we have but one form of sauce—melted butter—and a hundred different forms of religion, whereas in orthodox Spain there is but one of each, and, as with religion, so to change this sauce would be little short of heresy.

…. The olla is only well made in Andalucia, and there alone in careful, well-appointed houses; it is called a puchero in the rest of Spain, where it is but a poor affair, made of dry beef, or rather cow, boiled with garbanzos or chick peas, and a few sausages. These garbanzos are the vegetable, the potato of the land; and their use argues a low state of horticultural knowledge. The taste for them was introduced by the Carthaginians—the puls punica, which (like the fides punica, an especial ingredient in all Spanish governments and finance) afforded such merriment to Plautus, that he introduced the chick-pea eating Pcenus, pultiphagonides, speaking Punic, just as Shakspere did the toasted cheese eating Welshman talking Welsh. These garbanzos require much soaking, being otherwise hard as bullets; indeed, a lively Frenchman, after what he calls an apology for a dinner, compared them, in his empty stomach, as he was jumbled away in the dilly, to peas rattling in a child's drum. The veritable olla—the ancient time-honoured olla podrida, or pot pourri—the epithet is now obsolete—is difficult to be made: a tolerable one is never to be eaten out of Spain, since it requires many Spanish things to concoct it, and much care; the cook must throw his whole soul into the pan, or rather pot; it may be made in one, but two are better. They must be of earthenware; for, like the French pot au feu, the dish is good for nothing when made in an iron or copper vessel; take therefore two, and put them on their separate stoves with water. Place into No. 1, Garbanzos, which have been placed to soak over-night. Add a good piece of beef, a chicken, a large piece of bacon; let it boil once and quickly; then let it simmer; it requires four or five hours to be well done. Meanwhile place into No. 2, with water, whatever vegetables are to be had: lettuces, cabbage, a slice of gourd, of beef, carrots, beans, celery, endive, onions and garlic, long peppers. These must be previously well washed and cut, as if they were destined to make a salad; then add red sausages, or "chorizos;" half a salted pig's face, which should have been soaked over-night. When all is sufficiently boiled, strain off the water, and throw it away. Remember constantly to skim the scum of both saucepans. When all this is sufficiently dressed, take a large dish, lay in the bottom the vegetables, the beef in the centre, flanked by the bacon, chicken, and pig's face. The sausages should be arranged around, en couronne; pour over some of the soup of No. 1, and serve hot, as Horace did: "Uncta satis—ponuntur oluscula lardo." No violets come up to the perfume which a coming olla casts before it; the mouth-watering bystanders sigh, as they see and smell the rich freight steaming away from them.

This is the olla en grande, such as Don Quixote says was eaten only by canons and presidents of colleges; like turtle-soup, it is so rich and satisfactory that it is a dinner of itself. A worthy dignitary of Seville, in the good old times, before reform and appropriation had put out the churches' kitchen fire, and whose daily pot-luck was transcendental, told us, as a wrinkle, that he on feast-days used turkeys instead of chickens, and added two sharp Ronda apples, and three sweet potatoes of Malaga. His advice is worth attention: he was a good Roman Catholic canon, who believed everything, absolved everything, drank everything, ate everything, and digested everything. In fact, as a general rule, anything that is good in itself is good for an olla, provided, as old Spanish books always conclude, that it contains nothing contrary to the holy mother church, to orthodoxy, and to good manners—"que no contiene cosa que se oponga d nuestra madre Iglesia, y santa fe catolica, y buenas costumbres." Such an olla as this is not to be got on the road, but may be made to restore exhausted nature when halting in the cities. Of course, every olla must everywhere be made according to what can be got. In private families the contents of No. 1, the soup, is served up with bread, in a tureen, and the frugal table decked with the separate contents of the olla in separate platters; the remains coldly serve, or are warmed up, for supper. The vegetables and bacon are absolute necessaries; without the former an olla has neither grace nor sustenance; la olla sin verdura, ni tiene gracia ni hartura, while the latter is as essential in this stew as a text from Saint Augustine is in a sermon:

No hay olla sin tocino,

Ni sermon sin Agustino.

[No pot without bacon,

Nor sermon without Augustine.]

Packed Lunches for a Whole Week, from 1943.

I have some simple, useful advice for you today, to help with one of the tedious chores of the week – what to put in the packed lunches for the family. The suggestions may appear a little un-exciting at first glance, but they are from a very challenging time, food-wise, and are testament to human ingenuity, I think. From the British Wartime Ministry of Food’s Food Facts leaflet number 160, produced in July 1943, may I share the following ideas with you?

Packed Lunches for a Whole Week.

Six suggestions for a packed meal that are tasty, nourishing, and full of variety.

Are you stumped to know what to put in the packed lunches your family take off to work? It is a problem.

You don’t want to give them the same old thing every day – and it’s not good for them, either. People do best on variety, and they need a balance of body-building and energy-giving good, including plenty of protective food, especially greenstuff.

Follow these suggestions. They’ll take a load off your mind for a whole week, and they’ll make sure the lunches you put up contain proper nourishment.

MONDAY.

Sandwiches filled with a mixture of cold mashed potato, grated cheese, chutney, and chopped fresh parsley.

Lettuce

Jam turnover.

TUESDAY

Turnover filled with mixture of chopped cooked beans, melted cheese, and chopped parsley; tomato

Raw cabbage salad in a screw-top jar

Chocolate Pin Wheels.

WEDNESDAY

Potato scones filled with scrambled dried eggs, cooked mixed vegetables, and chopped parsley

Watercress

Prune dumplings

THURSDAY

Rissoles made with cooked meat, cooked beans, and mashed potato

Raw spinach and lettuce

Fruit turnovers

FRIDAY

Soup

Sandwiches filled with scrambled dried eggs, mashed potato, and chopped fried bacon

Radishes or tomatoes

Lettuce

SATURDAY

Turnover filled with sausage meat, cooked dried peas, herbs, chopped parsley, and chopped leek or onion

Raw cabbage salad in a screw-top jar

Oatmeal scones and jam

The leaflet added that “Recipes for any of the above may be had from the Ministry of Food, Portman Square, London, W1.” I have, however, been unable to find a recipe for the Chocolate Pin Wheels given in the Tuesday menu. Instead, I give you the instructions for using dried egg to make an omelette, from a Food Facts leaflet of July 1942 – it might be a good alternative to the scrambled dried egg sandwich filling.

Spanish Omelette

Time: Preparation 15 minutes. Cooking 10 minutes. Ingredients: 2 eggs (2 level tablespoons of dried egg mixed with 4 tablespoonfuls of water), 8 oz. shredded mixed vegetables, 1 ½ oz. margarine or dripping, 2 tablespoonfuls water,  a pinch of salt and pepper, a little chopped spring onion or parsley. Quantity: 2 helpings. Method: Beat the eggs. Heat the fat in a frying pan and fry the vegetables and spring onion until tender. Add the eggs, water, and seasoning, stir until the eggs are set, form into a roll, and serve immediately.