The Eight Different Kinds of Drunkards.

On Friday last week I gave you a short extract from a very long article in London Society. An Illustrated Magazine of Light and Amusing Literature for the Hours of Relaxation, published in 1867. I cannot resist giving you a few more paragraphs from the same piece, and hope you find them amusing and interesting.

A treatise might be written upon our ancient drinking customs. What wine-bibbers and beer-bibbers were the Elizabethan swash-bucklers, and the Stuart cavaliers! No thin potations; no half-filled cups for them! In those days he was nobody that could not ' drink superoragulum;' 'carouse the hunter's hoope;' or ' quaff upse freeze crosse.' The satirist Nash gives a curious picture of society in the thirsty Tudor days. He delineates eight different kinds of drunkards, and each must have been sufficiently common to enable him so accurately to detect and describe their humours. ' The first,' he says,' is Ape-drunk, and he leaps and sings, and hollows and dances for the heavens; the second is Lyon-drunk, and he flings the pots about the house, breaks the glass windows with his dagger, and is apt to quarrel with any man that speaks to him; the third is Swine-drunk, heavy, lumpish, and sleepy, and cries for a little more drink, and a few more clothes; the fourth is Sheep-drunk, wise in his own conceit when he cannot bring forth a right word ; the fifth is Maudlin-drunk, when a fellow will weep for kindness in the midst of his drink, and kiss you, saying, " By God, captain, I love thee; go thy ways, thou dost not think so often of me as I do of thee: I would (if it pleased God) I could not love thee as I do;" and then he puts his finger in his eye and cries. The sixth is Martin-drunk, when a man is drunk, and drinks himself sober ere he stir; the seventh is Goat-drunk, when in his drunkenness he had no mind but on lechery. The eighth is Fox-drunk, when he is crafty drunk, as many of the Dutchmen be, which will never bargain but when they are drank. All these species, and more, I have seen practised in one company at one sitting; when I have been permitted to remain sober amongst them only to note their several humours.'

To drink super-ragulum, that if, on the rail, is thus explained by Nash: 'After a man has turned up the bottom of his cup, a drop was allowed to settle on the thumb-nail. If more than a drop trickled down, the drinker was compelled to drink again by way of penance.'

As the recipe for the day, may I give you a lovely champagne punch?

Champagne Punch, (Per bottle.)

1 quart bottle of wine,

4 lb. of sugar.

1 orange sliced.

The juice of a lemon.

3 slices of pine apple.

1 wine-glass of raspberry or strawberry syrup. Ornament with fruits in season, and serve in champagne goblets. This can be made in any quantity by observing the proportions of the ingredients as given above. Four bottles of wine make a gallon, and a gallon is generally sufficient for fifteen persons in a mixed party.

How to Mix Drinks, or, The Bon-vivant's Companion (1862) by Jerry Thomas.

Curiosities of Fashion in The Matter of One’s Food.

It is time for a change of topic – I fear that too much more on food words may make some eyes glaze over. I have a nineteenth century piece on fashion in food for you, and I think much of it will resonate with you today, thereby proving that some topics have almost eternal lives and are regularly resurrected or reincarnated at the whim of one or more bored food writers, cooks, or diners.

The article is extremely long, so I have selected the paragraphs that particularly appeal to me. I do feel that the author of the piece in London Society. An Illustrated Magazine of Light and Amusing Literature for the Hours of Relaxation, (Volume 11; 1867) is rather harsh about cooks – but very funny all the same. 

Curiosities of Fashion in The Matter of One’s Food.

FASHION is society's Chancellor of the Exchequer, and fails not to tax the lieges with ingenuity and unrelenting sternness of purpose. … Fashion tempts you to live on a thousand a year when your income is only eight hundred. … Fashion makes you wear a hat that pinches your ample brow, and puts on Amanda’s head a bonnet that does not become her. Fashion tempts you to live on a thousand a year when your income is only eight hundred. …

But perhaps the most personal and humiliating of Fashion's provocations is its interference with our food. Not even the kitchen and the salle à manger are safe from its vexatious intrusion. As sternly as an Abernethy to a dyspeptic patient, it says to society, “This thou shalt eat, and this thou shalt not eat. This dish is vulgar; yonder plat is obsolete; none but the canaille partake of melted butter; only the ignorant immerse their souls in beer.” And changeable as that sex which is supposed to worship it most humbly, Fashion proscribes in 1863 what it sanctioned in 1763; and approves now, what in the days when George III was king - consule planes - it most sternly condemned. The meals which now do (too often) coldly furnish forth the table were regarded with contempt by our great- great-grand fathers. Fancy Sir Roger de Coverley examining a salmi des perdrix or a pâté de foie gras! 

In like manner the Honourable Fitzplantagenet Smith would regard as 'deuced low' the boar's head that delighted his cavalier ancestor, or the peacock pie that smoked upon Elizabethan boards.

… The great ministers of Fashion, its agents in enforcing its decrees upon unhappy society, have been the cooks - always a potent, a conceited, and, sooth to say, an ignorant fraternity. From the days of Aristoxenes and Archestratus to those of Ude - Ude, who refused four hundred a year and a carriage when offered by the Duke of Richmond, Lord Lieutenant of Ireland, because there was no Opera at Dublin - from the days of Archestratus to those of Ude, they have studied rather the display of their inventive powers than the laws of physiology and the stomachs f their patrons. Ben Jonson furnishes us with an admirable description of one of these gentry, who are more solicitous about the invention of wonderful novelties than the provision of a wholesome and sufficient dinner :- ' A master cook!' exclaims the poet;

Why, he’s the man of men

For a professor; he designs, he draws,

He paints, he carves, he builds, he fortifies;

Makes citadels of curious fowl and fish.

Some he dry-dishes, some moats around with broths,

Mounts marrow-bones, cuts fifty-angled custards

Tears bulwark pies, and for his outerworks

He raiseth ramparts of immortal crust;

And teacheth all the tactics at one dinner:

What ranks, what files to put his dishes in;

The whole art military. Then he knows

The influence of the stars upon his meats,

And all their seasons, tempers, qualities;

And so to fit his relishes and sauces,

He has Nature in a pot, ‘bove all the chemists

Or airy brethren of the Rosy-Cross.

He is an architect, an engineer,

A soldier, a physician, a philosopher,

A general mathematician!

It is the cooks who are responsible for the untasteful monstrosities and semi-poisonous plâts that still figure in our bills of fare. Just as the cooks of ancient Rome served up to their patrons the membranous parts of the matrices of a sow, the echinus or sea-hedgehog, the flesh of young hawks, and especially rejoiced in a whole pig, boiled on one side and roasted on the other—the belly stuffed with thrushes, and yolks of eggs, and hens, and spiced meats; so the cooks of modern London love to disguise our food with an infinite variety of flavours, until the natural is entirely lost, and the most curious examiner is at a loss to detect the component arts of any particular dish. The ancient cooks, with a vegetable, could counterfeit the shape and the taste of fish and flesh. We are told that a king of Bithynia having, in one of his expeditions, strayed to a great distance from the seaside, conceived a violent longing for a small fish called aphy, either a pilchard, an anchovy, or a herring. His cook was a genius, however, and could conquer obstacles. He had no aphy, but he had a turnip. This he cut into a perfect imitation of the fish; then fried in oil, salted, and powdered thoroughly with the grains of a dozen black poppies. His majesty ate, and was delighted! Never had he eaten a more delicious aphy! But our modern cooks are not inferior to the ancient. Give them a partridge or a pheasant, a veal cutlet or a mutton chop, and they will so dish you up each savoury article that nothing of its original flavour shall be discernible. O Fashion! O cooks! O confectioners ! We are your slaves, your victims; and our stomachs the laboratories in which you coolly carry out your experiments. Look, for instance, at vegetables: no food more wholesome, or more simple, and yet how the cooks do torture and manipulate them, until the salutary properties of these cibi innocentes utterly disappear!

… The vagaries of fashion have not as yet introduced frogs into our English bills of fare, and, as far as our own taste is concerned, we trust no such innovation will be attempted. But if ever frogs should figure on our tables, it is some consolation to reflect that our cooks will prevent them from tasting like frogs,—they will so spice, and flavor, and combine, and dilute the dish. As Sam Slick says, — ' Veal to be good, must look like anything else but veal. You mustn't know it when you see it, or it's vulgar; mutton must be incog., too; beef must have a mask on; any thin' that looks solid, take a spoon to; any thin' that looks light, cut with a knife; if a thing looks like fish, you take your oath it is flesh; and if it seems real flesh, it's only disguised, for it's sure to be fish; nothin' must be nateral—natur is out of fashion here. This is a manufacturin' country; everything is done by machinery, and that that aint, must be made to look like it; and I must say, the dinner machinery is perfect.'

I give you as the recipe of the day, a strictly no-nonsense, no-frills, completely undisguised way of dealing with leftover veal from The Englishwoman’s Cookery Book, published in 1872 several years after the death of Isabella Beeton, to whom it is attributed.

BAKED VEAL (Cold Meat Cookery).

Ingredients.— ½ lb. cold roast veal, a few slices bacon, 1 pint bread crumbs, ½ pint good veal gravy, ½ teaspoonful minced lemon-peel, 1 blade pounded mace, cayenne and salt to taste, 4 eggs.

Mode.—Mince finely the veal and bacon; add the bread crumbs, gravy, and seasoning, and stir these ingredients well together. Beat up the eggs; add these, mix the whole well together, put into a dish, and bake from ¾ to 1 hour. A little good gravy may be served in a tureen as an accompaniment.

Time, from ¾ to 1 hour. Average cost, exclusive of the cold meat, 9d. Sufficient for 3 or 4 persons. Seasonable from March to October.

What, exactly, is a Ramekin?

I was hoping to find some interesting word-stories to share with you this week as we approach World Dictionary Day, and I think I may just have another one in the word ramekin.

A ramekin is a small, single-serving sized round dish, usually with ribbed sides, is it not? That would have been my definition anyway. The Oxford English Dictionary agrees that a ramekin is a dish.

Ramekin: A small mould or dish, traditionally round with a fluted exterior, in which ramekins or other individual portions of food, such as soufflés or mousses, are baked and served; (also) a small container for an individual serving of sauce.

The first supporting quotation is:

1895   I. K. Funk et al. Standard Dictionary of the English Language: Ramekin, a dish in which ramekins are baked.

A ramekin is a dish in which ramekins are baked? Let us back-track.

This particular definition from the OED is of the second usage of the word ramekin. The first meaning given is:

Ramekin: A type of savoury dish based on cheese, mixed with butter, eggs, and seasonings, and usually baked and served in a small mould or dish (or formerly in a paper case). Formerly also: a dish of minced meat, pounded onion, or melted cheese, toasted with butter and other ingredients on bread.

The first two citations given are from the seventeenth century, almost two and a half centuries before the ‘ramekin as a dish’ usage:

1653   tr. F. P. de la Varenne French Cook Alphabet. Table sig. A12,   Ramequin, it is a kind of toste.

1653   tr. F. P. de la Varenne French Cook 88   Ramequin of kidney... Ramequin of flesh... Ramequin of Cheese. Take some cheese, melt it with some butter, on onion whole, or stamped … spread all upon bread, pass the fire shovell over it red hot, and serve it warme.

So, the food ultimately gave its name to the container. Nothing really unusual there. The fun is in the etymology. The French word ramequin has its roots Flemish, and in the mid-sixteenth century was had military connotations. It seems to have referred to a battering ram – although the OED says “the semantic motivation is unclear.”

But … in 1547 there was a small sea-fort constructed in Zealand. It was called Fort Rammeken, and it was “of angular and pointed design.” From 1585 to 1616 this little military outpost was under the control of the English, and the name was adopted to refer to similar small fortifications. Florio’s English-Italian Worlde of Wordes, published in 1598 has:

Belloardo, Bellouardo, a bulwarke, a blockhouse, a skonce, a forte, a ramekin.

So, a small dish with a rather turret-like shape and with the name ramekin is not a great stretch, is it? Which makes it all the more puzzling that it was not recorded as a dish until 1895.

I leave further thoughts on the subject to my logophile friends, and leave you with two fine version of ramequins from The Art of Cookery (182) by John Mollard.

Ramequins.

Warm in a stewpan two spoonsful of milk with two ounces of fresh butter; mix over a slow fire for five minutes with three ounces of sifted flour then add two ounces of fresh butter, four ounces of grated Parmesan cheese, two eggs, a small quantity of mignionette pounded with a little sugar, the white of an egg beaten to a solid froth with a table spoonful of cream, and a little salt; mix the ingredients well together. Put the mixture in cases of writing paper four inches square, wash the tops with yolk of egg, bake in a brisk oven for a quarter of an hour, and serve hot.

Ramequins (another way).

Roll out puff paste, and strew grated Parmesan cheese over it; fold, and roll it again. Stamp it with a patty cutter, mark the top with a smaller cutter, brush over with yolk of egg, and bake of a light colour. Before serving, take out the top, and fill with bechamel.

Recipes from the Oxford English Dictionary.

Have you ever played that conversation game in which you have to say which book (you are only allowed one) you would want if you were shipwrecked on a desert island? A wilderness survival manual would probably be a good choice, but I would probably decide in favour of the Oxford English Dictionary (am I allowed all volumes?) There is a world of information and fun in the OED.

As a matter of fact, there is a great deal of cooking information in the greatest dictionary in the world. Cook books are not uncommonly cited as sources for word-usages – sometimes the first known usage. This seems to happen particularly in the case of food and dishes ‘foreign’ to Britain. One example is The Belgian Cook Book, a compilation of recipes provided by Belgian refugees to England during World War II. It is the source of the first reference given by the OED to Croque-monsieur – which is, after all, only a posh Continental version of cheese on toast, a concept already very familiar to the English. I give you the complete recipe from which the reference is taken: I have placed the phrase selected by the editors of the OED in italics.

Entrée (Croque-monsieur)

Cut out some rounds of crumb of bread, of equal size, with a tin cutter; or, failing that, with a wine-glass. Butter all the rounds and sprinkle them with grated cheese — for preference with Gruyere. On half the number of rounds place a bit of ham cut to the same size. Put a lump of butter the weight of egg into a pan, and fry with the rounds

in it, till they become golden. When they are a nice color, place one round dressed with cheese on a round dressed with ham, so as to have the golden bread both above and below. Serve them very hot, and garnished with fried parsley.

Rather interestingly, under the primary word “hash”, the first reference for “hashed brown potatoes” is given as appearing in The Complete Cook Book, by Jennie Day Rees (Philadelphia, 1900.)  I would have expected an earlier instance than 1900 (as “hash browns,” the word appears in 1917)– so if you find one, please let the editors of the OED know.

The definition of “hashed browns” is “chiefly U.S., a dish made of cooked potatoes, chopped (often pressed together to form a cake) and then fried until brown.”

Here is the full recipe from which the reference is taken:

Hashed Brown Potatoes.

One large boiled potato chopped fine; grease a pan with one tablespoonful of butter and press the potatoes into it with the palm of your hand. Dust with a little salt and sprinkle over the top one tablespoonful of finely chopped parsley. Place in the oven and when brown fold like an omelet and serve.

The OED even includes a definition of Lobster Newburg. It is, as you know, “lobster cooked in a thick cream sauce containing sherry or brandy.” The first supporting references is The Century Cook Book by Mary Ronald (New York, 1895.)  Here is the complete recipe:

Lobster à la Newburg.

One and a half cupfuls of boiled lobster meat cut into pieces one inch

square.

            1 tablespoonful of butter.

            ¾ cup of Madeira or sherry.

             1 cupful of cream.

             Yolk of two eggs.

            1 truffle chopped.

            ¼ teaspoonful of salt.

            Dash of cayenne or paprica.

Put the butter in a saucepan; when it has melted add the lobster meat, the chopped truffle, the salt, and the pepper; cover and let simmer for five minutes; then add the wine, and cook three minutes longer.

Have ready two yolks and one cupful of cream well beaten together; add this to the lobster, shake the saucepan until the mixture is thickened, and serve immediately. This dish will not keep without curdling, and should not be put together until just in time to serve. The lobster may be prepared and kept hot. The rest of the cooking, from the time the wine goes in, requires but five minutes, so the time can be easily calculated. If the mixture is stirred the meat will be broken; shaking the pan mixes it sufficiently. This is a very good dish, and easily prepared; but it will not be right unless served as soon as it is

cooked. The quantity given is enough for six people. Crab meat may be used in the same way.

I don’t suppose for one minute that you will go to the Oxford English Dictionary for cooking information – but you could. I do hope however that you enjoy the idea!

Grub, Glorious Grub.

I know that many of you can hardly wait for World Dictionary Day on Friday of next week, and I am sure you are planning your celebrations already. My own plan - or challenge, if you like – in the build-up to the day, is to entertain you with some posts inspired by food words. These little stories are especially dedicated to fellow logophiles and writers, and of course, every marvelous librarian and other type of book custodian in the galaxy.

Firstly, to explain World Dictionary Day. This is celebrated on the anniversary of te birth of Noah Webster in colonial Connecticut in 1758. Webster was a lexicographer, educationist, and spelling reformer who produced his first word-book, A Grammatical Institute of the English Language in 1783, a blue-bound text which remained a school-room classic for over a century. In 1806 he published his first dictionary-proper, A Compendious Dictionary of the English Language. It was another two decades before (in 1828), the work for which he is best known was published - the two-volume American Dictionary of the English Language.

Today, to start things off, I want to consider the food-word ‘grub.’

Interestingly, the 1857 edition of Webster’s American Dictionary of the English Language does not contain any food-related uses of the word ‘grub’. I find this surprising, as the Oxford English Dictionary cites the first written occurrence of the word as referring to food as being in 1659. The reference is from A Dialogue betwixt an Exciseman and Death, which is “transcribed from a printed copy in the British Museum” and appears in Ancient Poems, Ballads, and Songs of the Peasantry of England, published in 1846.

1659:  Exciseman:

Let's joyne together; I'le pass my word this night

Shall yield us grub, before the morning light.

It seems strange to me that a word in use in England in 1659 did not find its way into a nineteenth century American dictionary. Perhaps it was lost in the migration. Or perhaps I have simply not done enough research.

So, let us see what else the OED has to say about the word “grub. As a slang expression, it means “Food or Provender of any kind.” No surprises there. The etymology is related to the verb, “to grub”, meaning “to dig superficially; to break up the surface of the ground,” and has very old Germanic roots. No doubt the meaning of grub as food relates to the foraging for, or storage of, very basic root crops, or perhaps even grubs as “larvae of insects …”  

Other dictionaries, you ask?

The English writer Samuel Johnson’s famous work A Dictionary of the English Language was first published in 1755, so pre-dated Webster’s seminal work by over seven decades.  It gives the noun ‘grub’ as having two meanings: (1) a small worm, and (2) a short thick man, a dwarf. Hmmm … no food reference, in spite of the OED’s (admittedly second-hand) citation from 1659. I find it hard to believe that Johnson made an error of omission. Methinks one of us ought to find a copy of A Dialogue betwixt an Exciseman and Death, and check the authenticity of the reference. When one of us has the time, of course.

Time is fleeting however, so proper research must wait. In the meanwhile, may I give you a recipe from a cookery book published in the same year as Samuel Johnson’s dictionary? I have chosen Poor Knights of Windsor, a variation on the theme of French toast from A New and Easy Method of Cookery, by Elizabeth Cleland (Edinburgh, 1755.) I have given a recipe for a World War II version of Poor Knights of Windsor previously, so I thought it might be an interesting comparison – and very fine grub indeed.

Poor Knights of Windsor.

Take a Roll, and cut it into Slices; soke them in Sack [sherry], then dip them in Yolks of Eggs, and fry them; serve them up with beat Butter, Sack, and Sugar.

A Funeral Procession for a Cook.

I have a piece of fun for you today. We have had a few heavy-duty topics over the last week, so it is time for a laugh. I retrieved the following satirical piece from the Early American Newspapers database a very long time ago, but unfortunately omitted to record the actual newspaper. I do have the date however – the article was dated 30 June 1803.  I would love to know the background to the story – I am sure it is a story in itself! 

Funeral Procession of Bonaparte’s Cook.

The First Consul, impressed with a deep loss in the death of this favorite domestic, and anxious to show the world he knows, as well as Moreau, or any man in France, to appreciate the service of his household officers, has decreed funeral honours to his cook, as follows:

ORDER OF PROCESSION.

Scullions of the Palace, to clear the way.

Marrow bones and cleavers, muffled.

Under Cooks, bearing the Great Knife, sheathed.

Others, with tureens and dishes empty.

The Salt Box of State, borne by four.

Cooks to Foreign Ambassadors, bearing the implements

of modern cookery.

The Hearse.

Eight principal Cooks, for pall bearers, supporting a tablecloth.

Servants, two, and two, bearing the implements of ancient cookery.

Mamelukes, carrying the ladle and kettle.

French Officers from Egypt, bearing monuments of ancient Egyptian cookery.

Delegates from the Beef steak Club in London.

An allegorical personage to “signify Good Living,” bearing garlick and frogs for sacrifice.

Under Cooks, trailing the gridiron of the deceased.

Kettle drums and sauce-pans, muffled.

Cooks, Under-cooks, Scullions, Helpers, Dishwasher, &c. to close the procession.

The recipes for the day are from Cookery for English Households. By a French Lady (London, 1864)

Grenouilles (Frogs).

I shall venture to give receipts for cooking frogs, although I know that English people have very strong prejudices against this dish, for to express their contempt for French people they frequently call them frog-eaters and even toad-eaters; we plead guilty to the first offence, we are innocent of the second, and if my readers find courage enough to try the dreadful experiment of frog-eating, I fancy that they might become as barbarous as the French.

None except river frogs are to be used; it is easy to know them by their green colour and black spots; the hind part only is employed, the rest being cut off. Young frogs taste like young chickens, old ones like thread. In the French markets frogs are sold ready for cooking, that is, skinned.

Grenouilles a la poulette.

Have some boiling water into which you throw the thighs of the frogs, previously skinned, let them remain a minute, take them out and throw them into cold water; drain them and put them in a pan on a slow fire, with six ounces of fresh butter, a handful of mushrooms, some parsley, a little garlic, thyme and bay-leaf, salt and pepper. Sprinkle a tablespoonful of flour, and a wine-glass of white Burgundy or white Bordeaux; let it boil slowly for half an hour. Take the pan off the fire and dish the frogs; take the parsley, thyme and bay-leaf out of the pan; add a liaison to the sauce (see Liaison, No. 66), to thicken it, and pour it upon the frogs.

Extreme Kitchen DIY: Kephir.

In a post a number of years ago, I explored one of the health-food fads of the late nineteenth century – koumiss, or fermented mares’ milk. I recently saw mention of another fermented milk product called kephir, but unfortunately the article did not clarify for me how it differed from koumiss.

My starting point in this sort of situation is the Oxford English Dictionary. About koumiss it says:

Koumiss: A fermented liquor prepared from mare's milk, commonly used as a beverage by the Tartars and other Asiatic nomadic peoples; also applied to a spirituous liquor distilled from this.

The fermented beverage is used dietetically and medicinally in various diseases, as phthisis, catarrhal affections, anæmia, chlorosis, etc., and for these purposes imitations are also prepared from asses' milk and cow's milk.

The first couple of references given in the OED support an early awareness of the koumiss in Europe:

1598   R. Hakluyt tr. W. de Rubruquis in Princ. Navigations (new ed.) I. 97   Their drinke called Cosmos, which is mares milke.

1607   E. Topsell Hist. Fovre-footed Beastes 332   The Tartarians drinke Mares milke, which they dresse like white wine, and call it Chumis.

And now we move to the OED on kephir:

Kephir: An effervescent liquor resembling koumiss, prepared from milk which has been fermented; employed as a medicine or food for invalids.

Interestingly, the first references given in the OED suggest that kephir is a relatively new beverage even in Russia.

1884   Nature 3 July 216/2   Kephir has only been generally known even in Russia for about two years.

1894   Lancet 3 Nov. 1072   Koumiss and kefyr and examples of sour fermented milk containing an excess of carbonic acid gas.

I was still unclear about the difference, but an English doctor by the name of Willliam Tibbles came to my rescue with his comprehensive reference on Foods, their origin, composition and manufacture (London, 1912.)  One of the topics covered was that of fermented milk products – including both koumiss and kephir. He goes into some detail about the production of the latter:

Kephir is made by means of kephir grains, which contain a special ferment. The mode of its preparation is as follows: Goat's milk is put into a sheepskin bottle, and coagulated with a piece of calf's or sheep's stomach. The bottle is agitated from time to time, more milk being added as the former coagulates. In the process of time yellowish bodies of a seed-like character, and about the size

of a pea, are formed in the mass. These are the kephir grains or nuts, whose formation is essential for the production of the beverage. When about to make kephir, one of these grains is soaked in a small quantity of milk until it swells or is "ripe." The ripened "grain" is then put into the milk, previously warmed, which is to be fermented. Lactic and alcoholic fermentation begins in a few hours,

and is allowed to proceed from one to three days.

Commercial Kephir, according to Zuber, is made as follows: A teaspoonful of the ferment is added to a bottle of milk, which is maintained at the temperature of 15° R. (65° F.) for twenty-four hours, being frequently agitated. It is then filtered, the casein being broken down, transferred to another bottle, securely corked,

and agitated for another twenty-four hours. It is then filtered and transferred to another bottle, and at the end of the third day forms a strong kephir. It should be free from coagula of casein, foam abundantly on removing the cork, and have a creamy consistence."

In Europe and America a similar beverage is made by the fermentation of cow's milk with yeast, and is indifferently called "kephir " or "koumiss." But cow's milk does not contain sufficient sugar to permit of fermentation in this manner without reducing the saccharine content below the point esteemed desirable for

palatability. It has therefore become the custom to add some milk-sugar, cane-sugar, honey, extract of malt, or about 2 per cent, of wheat flour, to the milk. When these substances are added, koumiss can be prepared from cow's milk in the manner indicated above, or by fermentation with ordinary yeast. The following recipes are suitable:

I
Milk	1 pint
Brown sugar	10 grains
Extract of malt	1 ½ ounces
Compressed yeast	20 grains
II
Milk	16 ounces
Water	4 ounces
Brown sugar	2 ½ drachms
Milk sugar	4 drachms
Compressed yeast	30 grains

The yeast and sugar are rubbed together with a little milk until a solution is formed ; then the extract of malt is rubbed into it (when that substance is used). The milk is warmed, the foregoing mixture strained and added to it, and the whole put into a strong glass bottle, corked and wired. The bottle is inverted, and kept at a temperature of 55° to 60° F. for two or three days. It should be agitated daily to prevent the precipitate from forming a dense coagulum, and to enable the ferment to permeate the mass. The milk becomes sour after a few days, and forms a pleasantly acid, thick, creamy, foaming liquid. It should be agitated before being poured out, to insure a mixture of all the ingredients. 

Wanted – New Meat for the English Bill-of-Fare.

The desire for new and exotic tastes is an extreme privilege of the extremely over-privileged, and the article I reproduce for you below shows that it is not a new pursuit. The piece is taken from the English publication, the Spectator of 17 October, 1891.

Wanted – A New Meat.

The lack of variety in those meats which, whether flesh or fowl, must always form the ground-work and basis of an English bill-of-fare, is a want keenly felt, but most difficult to remedy. To judge from the list of fresh food which the improved transport of the last few years has made available for the London dinner-table, a natural inference would be that, so far as novelty has been studied, we had made provision, not for man as humanised by Schools of Cookery, but for a race of fruit-eating apes. We have a dozen new fruits, shaddocks, limes, custard-apples, bananas, pines, Italian figs, pomegranates, lichees, ground-nuts, gourds, water-melons, and avocado pears. But among the thousands of tons of foreign game imported yearly, there is hardly a beast or bird which may not be had in better quality and condition at home, except the prairie-bird and the quail; for those canvas-backed ducks which escape the keen search of the New York dealers and find their way across the Atlantic, alight only on the tables of City Companies and millionaires, like the caladrus of old, that appeared only at the deaths of Kings. Yet there are probably twenty people in this country who have eaten canvas-backed duck for one who has ever tasted swan, or rather cygnet, the finest water-fowl for the table alike in size and flavour, a bird easy to rear, most prolific, rivalling even the breast of a teal, without the fatal drawback of that excellent little bird, that no one has ever been able to get enough of it. Even now, though so neglected by the world, swans may be had from the Norwich Swan-Pit for £2 each. They weigh some sixteen pounds, and with them is forwarded an ancient recipe for cooking them,—"done into rhyme by a Person of Quality."

Another "fowl" which was once reserved for the tables of Kings, and is now hardly thought good enough for aldermen, is the peacock. What roast swan is to roast goose, such is roast peacock to roast turkey. Many owners of county houses who keep peacocks and let them run wild and nest in their woods and shrubberies, take little trouble either to fatten or cook the pea-chicks. If they did, they would perhaps take more pains to rear these birds for the table. The meat is very white, and of exceedingly fine and close grain, and has the true game-flavour, with none of the stringiness of the common turkey. The American wild turkey is, however, an even finer bird for the table than the peacock. Those which appear in the poulterers' shops of London generally arrive in such bad condition from careless packing and refrigerating, that they are inferior to the domestic bird. But when allowed to run wild and nest in English woods, as is done on some estates, on its merits, and apart from any tricks of cookery, it is perhaps the very best land-bird that is available for food. The game-flavour is not too pronounced, but gives a character to the whole which is altogether absent in the tame black turkeys of the farmyard.

But flesh, and not fowl, is what is mainly desired to widen the possibilities of the dinner-table. Fatted swans, or peacocks, or American turkeys might be increased and multiplied without affording more than an occasional relief to the monotony of the menu and the brain-searching of housekeepers. What is wanted is some new and large animal, whose flesh has a character of its own which would readily distinguish it from beef or mutton, and an excellence which shall make it in- dependent of any special treatment in cooking,—something which shall combine the game-flavour with the substantial solidity of a leg of mutton. An increase in the quantity of venison reared in this country naturally suggests itself ; and it is not impossible that, in neglecting the produce of our deer-parks, we are hardly less careless than in losing sight of the culinary possibilities of the swannery. Good doe-venison may be bought in the neighbourhood of some large parks at a much lower price than mutton ; and the quantity of first-class venison which finds its way to London is surprisingly little, considering the number of parks and private herds in the country. It is objected that deer can never pay to fat for food, because the annual growth of their horns reduces them so much in condition as for a time to make the venison worth- less. But this applies only to the bucks; stags might be kept like bullocks, and doe-venison might still be remunerative. As early as 1740, an enterprising Jersey squire, of the name of Chevalier, who had succeeded to an estate in Suffolk —whose descendants still constantly sit in Parliament— had formed a small park for fattening deer and sending them up to London. His accounts of the cost and profits of the enterprise are still preserved, and he abandoned the scheme, not from difficulties encountered in fattening or selling the deer, but because of the uncertainty of carriage to London. Venison, even when reared under the present unscientific method, or rather, want of method, varies greatly in quality, that from certain parks being much superior to that grown on less suitable pasture; and it is not too much to hope that, if bred and fattened solely for the table, venison would be in demand as something more than an occasional luxury.

But swan, peacock, and venison are, after all, only revivals of the old bill-of-fare which was available in the households of Old England. To find a new meat, we must take stock of the world's resources of animal food, and inquire, after due survey, if there does not still exist some neglected quadruped which will furnish what we seek. Roughly speaking, our main supply of animal food is drawn either from the rodents, the ruminants, or the pachyderms,—represented by the rabbit, the ox or sheep, and the pig. To vary the supply at our disposal, we shall probably not be able to go beyond these limits; for the general experience of civilised man has already pronounced judgment on the question, and science supports the verdict. It is no good to eat a wolf; for the wolf has already got the benefit of eating the lamb, and left no surplus for us. Of the three great tribes, the rodents may be dismissed from our search; for those that are not already used as food are either too small to be useful, as the lemming or the guinea-pig, or too repulsive in appearance, like the capybara, or in habits, like the rat. Of the pachyderms, we find only one which is domesticated for food, the dear, familiar Berkshire or Yorkshire piggie. The larger pachyderms are too big; the smaller, like the peccary, too savage; the wart-hog and other African varieties too repulsive. Clearly, then, we must have recourse to the list of ruminants if we are to find one to add to the British bill-of-fare. At first, the choice seems wide enough. It embraces all the deer-tribe, the wild sheep and antelopes, goats and ibexes, which are numerous; but all have a rank and disagreeable flavour, which must prevent their coming into the list of first-class food. The possibility of extending the supply of venison, we have already considered. The wild sheep would probably differ too little in flavour from mutton to make it worthwhile to domesticate them, though those of the Himalaya will breed freely in confinement. The antelopes, therefore, alone remain, and it is among their number that the animal wanted must be found, if it is to be found at all. If the accounts of African hunters are to be relied on, the venison obtained from the larger kinds of antelope found in South and Central Africa is really excellent, that of the koodoo, the oryx, and the eland being the best. Perhaps the highest and most modern authority available for quotation on the subject is Lord Randolph Churchill. Those of his Lordship's admirers who have read and sympathised with his sufferings under the cuisine of the Donald Currie line, and the intolerable roast and boiled of South African dinners in his honour, will have marked with a feeling of relief that he confesses to have "made an excellent supper off stewed roan antelope," on the eve of his encounter with the lion. His Lordship's verdict on the eland, the flesh of which is said to surpass that of all other antelopes as much as Welsh mutton does Lincolnshire "teg," will be of material interest to the present inquiry. Less educated palates have pronounced it peculiarly excellent, having in addition the valuable property of being tender immediately after the animal is killed, which makes it much appreciated in Central Africa, where the meat is usually as tough as shoe-leather and nearly as dry." In addition to the quality of the meat, the eland has the additional requisite of large size. A full-grown eland is as large as a two-year-old shorthorn, and has far more the appearance of a high-bred bullock than an antelope. Its horns are short and straight, pointing backwards, and it has a dewlap like an ox. It can live on the hardest fare, and soon grows very fat on good pasture. Best of all, it becomes quite tame, and is easily acclimatised. The writer remembers to have seen a splendid group of these fine animals in the Jardin d'Acclimatation in the Bois de Boulogne, an old bull nearly sixteen bands high, a cow, and two young, apparently a yearling and a two-year-old. They were in good condition, though living in a paddock with only an open shed to shelter them from the weather. The late Lord Derby kept them at Knowsley Park for many years. It seems to be a waste of the resources of Nature to allow these fine creatures to be exterminated, as they soon will be, in our new African Empire. The argument that because the South African Negroes have not tamed them we should not attempt it, is of little force. The African keeps cows to give milk; meat was supplied in inexhaustible quantities by the wild antelopes, until the white man came with guns, and with far less trouble than domesticated animals give. We are far too apt to forget that England owes the best of her trees, vegetables, and animals to other countries. All are now so good, that we are prone to think that they can neither be added to, nor improved. Perhaps Admiral Rous was right when he declared that it made him " simply sick," when an "Arab cross" was suggested as a means of improving our thoroughbreds. But why should we not save the eland, the harness antelope, the koodoo, and other large African antelopes from extermination,—and even try to rear some in England? The experiment may be recommended to some of the noble owners of parks and chases, who have already done so much to preserve our own deer and wild cattle from extermination. America has allowed the bison to perish. Shall we not take warning, and preserve for our own use the splendid African antelopes which, within the memory of man, were a thousand times more numerous than they are to-day?

As the recipe for the day, I give you the instructions for cooking antelope (or venison) from The Table: how to buy food, how to cook it, and how to serve it (New York) by Alexander Filipini.

Antelope Chops, Port Wine Sauce.

Broil six fine antelope chops exactly the same as in No. 885*. Heat a glassful of port wine in a saucepan, add two cloves, one bay-leaf, eighteen whole peppers, a gill of currant jelly, thoroughly stir until the jelly is completely dissolved, then thicken with half a gill of sauce Espagnole, lightly heat again; then strain on a hot serving-dish, neatly dress the chops over it, and send to the table very hot.