The First Oyster-Eater.

Jonathan Swift is credited with saying “he was a brave man who first ate an oyster.” I suspect that the truth is, he was a hungry man, but never mind. I was pondering upon this first man one day, and came across a wonderfully florid description of who he might have been, and how his oyster-eating might have come about, in Sayings, Wise and Otherwise (New York; 1880) Actually, it is two stories, as if the author could not decide on a happy or tragic ending. Here it is:

“ … we infer that oysters came originally from Britain. The word is unquestionably primitive. The broad open vowelly sound is, beyond a doubt, the primal, spontaneous thought that found utterance when the soft, seductive mollusc first exposed its white bosom in its pearly shell to the enraptured gaze of aboriginal man! Is there a question about it? Does not everyone know, when he sees an oyster, that that is its name? And hence we reason that it originated in Britain, was latinized by the Romans, replevined by the Saxons, corrupted by the Teutons and finally barbecued by the French. Oh, philological ladder by which we mount upward, until we emerge beneath the clear vertical light of Truth ! ! Methinks I see the FIRST OYSTER-EATER! A brawny, naked savage, with his wild hair matted over his wild eyes, a zodiac of fiery stars tattooed across his muscular breast — unclad, unsandaled, hirsute and hungry — he breaks through the underwoods that margin the beach, and stands alone upon the sea-shore, with nothing in one hand but his unsuccessful boar-spear, and nothing in the other but his fist. There he beholds a splendid panorama! The west all aglow; the conscious waves blushing as the warm sun sinks to their embraces; the blue sea on his left; the interminable forest on his right; and the creamy sea-sand curving in delicate tracery between. A Picture and a Child of Nature! Delightedly he plunges in the foam, and swims to the bald crown of a rock that uplifts itself above the waves. Seating himself he gazes upon the calm expanse beyond, and swings his legs against the moss that spins its filmy tendrils in the brine. Suddenly he utters a cry; springs up; the blood streams from his foot. With barbarous fury he tears up masses of sea moss, and with it clustering families of testacea. Dashing them down upon the rock, he perceives a liquor exuding from the fragments; he sees the white pulpy delicate morsel half hidden in the cracked shell, and instinctively reaching upward, his hand finds his mouth, and amidst a savage, triumphant deglutition, he murmurs — OYSTER ! ! Champing in his uncouth fashion bits of shell and sea-weed, with uncontrollable pleasure he masters this mystery of a new sensation, and not until the gray veil of night is drawn over the distant waters, does he leave the rock, covered with the trophies of his victory.

We date from this epoch the maritime history of England. Ere long, the reedy cabins of her aborigines clustered upon the banks of beautiful inlets, and overspread her long lines of level beaches; or penciled with delicate wreaths of smoke the savage aspect of her rocky coasts. The sword was beaten into the oyster-knife, and the spear into oyster rakes. Commerce spread her white wings along the shores of happy Albion, and man emerged at once into civilization from a nomadic state. From this people arose the mighty nation of Ostrogoths, from the Ostraphagi of Ancient Britain came the custom of Ostracism — that is, sending political delinquents to that place where they can get no more oysters.

There is a strange fatality attending all discoverers. Our Briton saw a mighty change come over his country — a change beyond the reach of memory or speculation. — Neighboring tribes, formerly hostile, were now linked together in bonds of amity. A sylvan, warlike people had become a peaceful, piscivorous community; and he himself, once the lowest of his race, was now elevated above the dreams of his ambition. He stood alone upon the sea-shore, looking toward the rock, which, years ago, had been his stepping-stone to power, and a desire to revisit it came over him. He stands now upon it. The season, the hour, the westerly sky, remind him of former times. He sits and meditates. Suddenly a flush of pleasure overspreads his countenance; for there just below the flood, he sees a gigantic bivalve — alone — with mouth agape, as if yawning with very weariness at the solitude in which it found itself. What I am about to describe may be untrue. But I believe it. I have heard of the waggish propensities of oysters. I have known them, from mere humor, to clap suddenly upon a rat’s tail at night; and, what with the squeaking and the clatter, we verily thought the devil had broken loose in the cellar. Moreover, I am told upon another occasion, when a demijohn of brandy had burst, a large “Blue-pointer” was found, lying in a little pool of liquor, just drunk enough to be careless of consequences — opening and shutting his shells with a “devil-may-care” air, as if he didn’t value anybody a brass farthing, but was going to be as noisy as he possibly could.

But to return. When our Briton saw the oyster in this defenseless attitude, he knelt down, and gradually reaching his arm toward it, he suddenly thrust his fingers in the aperture, and the oyster closed upon them with a spasmodic snap! In vain the Briton tugged and roared; he might as well have tried to uproot the solid rock as to move that oyster! In vain he called upon his heathen gods — Gog and Magog — older than Woden and Thor; and with huge, uncouth, druidical oaths consigned all shell-fish to Nidhogg, Hela, and the submarines. Bivalve held on with “a will.” It was nuts for him certainly. Here was a great, lubberly, chuckle-headed fellow, the destroyer of his tribe, with his fingers in chancery, and the tide rising! A fellow who had thought, like ancient Pistol, to make the world his oyster, and here was the oyster making a world of him. Strange mutation! The poor Briton raised his eyes: there were the huts of his people; he could even distinguish his own, with its slender spiral of smoke; they were probably preparing a roast for him; how he detested a roast! Then a thought of his wife, his little ones awaiting him, tugged at his heart. The waters rose around him. He struggled, screamed in his anguish; but the remorseless winds dispersed the sounds, and ere the evening moon arose and flung her white radiance upon the placid waves, the last billow had rolled over the FIRST OYSTER-EATER!”

Most of the oyster aficionados that I know will not countenance anything other than the ultra-fresh, live, naked, raw beast, straight from the shell – the only accompaniment being a glass of chilled champagne. Such purists eschew any form of cooking, however brief. The following recipe is for the less-than pure, who hanker for the days when oysters were food for the poor, and a cheap filler for pies and stews.

Oyster Sausages.

Take ½ lb lean mutton, ¾ lb beef suet, ½ lb oysters, scalded and with their beards taken off. Chop all up together, add the yolks of 2 eggs, season with salt and pepper, and make up in the form of sausages, frying lightly in the usual way.

The Food Journal Vol. 11 (London, 1872)

Quotation for the Day.

An oyster, sir, is one of the elements of social existence, a delicacy of no age, sex, or condition, but patent to the universal family of man. Good in a scallop, better in a stew, best of all in the shell; good in pickle, in curry, in sauce, good at luncheon, before dinner, at supper; good to entertain a friend, good to eat by yourself; good when you are hungry’ good, moreover, when you are not.

The Irish Oyster-Eater.

How to Burn Onions.

In most kitchens, domestic or professional, a significant amount of the cook’s attention is directed towards avoiding a dish being burnt. To come across recipes in old cookery books which specifically instruct that something must be burnt therefore causes me a momentary frisson of discomfort. These recipes are not rare – a few have already found their way into this blog: Burnt Coffee, Eggs with Burnt Butter, and Burnt Cream (Crème Brulée), for example.

Of course, the word in this context most commonly means deeply and brownly caramelised not deeply blackly charred. Nevertheless, the word does (in my mind at least) sit rather uncomfortably in my culinary wordlist.

I came across another example of deliberate ‘burning’ recently, and want to share it with you. It is for something to use for browning your sauces.

Burnt Onions for Gravies.

Half a pound of onions, half a pint of water, half a pound of moist sugar, a third of a pint of vinegar. Pell and chop the onions fine, and put them in a stewpan (not tinned), with the water; let them boil for five minutes, then add the sugar, and simmer gently until the mixture becomes nearly black, and throws out bubbles of smoke. Have ready the above proportions of boiling vinegar, strain the liqor gradually to it, and keep stirring with a woooden spoon until it is well incorporated. When cold, bottle for use.

The New Dominion Monthly (Canada, 1870)

Here is another recipe for using your DIY gravy-browning:

Veal Collops.

Cut some slices from the upper part of the leg, and then prepare some grated bread seasoned with Cayenne pepper and salt. Rub the slices over with the yolk of egg, and then dip them in the bread-crumbs. Fry them in a stewpan in a small quantity of butter, until both sides are nicely browned; then place them on one side,

Prepare a gravy with a teacup-full of water, a small piece of butter rubbed in flour, half a dozen sprigs of parsley, some sweet herbs, two burnt onions, three cloves, and a little mushroom catsup. Let these simmer on a slow fire for half an hour, stirring occasionally. Strain through a common sieve, and in this sauce warm up the collops. Garnish with lemon.
The Magazine of Domestic Economy, and Family Review, Volume 1(1843)

It seems that in the nineteenth century, these “nearly black” onions were considered so useful that they were made commercially:

Burnt Onions or Black-onion Balls (to be bought of every good grocer or Italian warehouse), kept in wide-mouthed bottles, are indispensable on the sauce-shelf. They supply a savory, sightly, and wholesome means of browning a great variety of dishes.

Wholesome Fare; or, The Doctor and the Cook, by E.S. and E.J. Delamere (London, 1868)

Methinks that I should perhaps add this recipe to the ‘Extreme Kitchen DIY’ folder, Yes?

I think also that there will be a future post on alternative methods of browning your gravies, for it doesn’t always come down to onions.

Quotation for the Day.

Banish (the onion) from the kitchen and the pleasure flies with it. Its presence lends color and enchantment to the most modest dish; its absence reduces the rarest delicacy to hopeless insipidity, and dinner to despair.”

Elizabeth Robbins Pennell.

Garlic and Gillyflowers.

Once again, I want to steal some gems from Panzoologicomineralogia (1661) – that wonderful seventeenth century source on all things zoological, mineralogical, and botanical. In previous posts (here, and here) I focused on the suggestions for various sauces, and today I want to continue with the theme. I have selected a few of the author’s comments on fish, and do hope you enjoy them.

Lobster: clove and gilly-floure vin[e]gar is their best sauce; also buttered with vinegar and pepper they give strong nourishment to an indifferent stomach.

Sea Hauke. Aquila marina. .... Hath a moist and soft flesh ... and rank, therefore to be eaten with alliate sauce. Its an unpleasant fish, and not sweet, therefore only eaten by poor people.

Salmon: they are best sod [boiled] in wine vinegar and salt, or else parboild, being cut into pieces and stuck with cloves, broild upon a gridiron, basted with butter, and served in with sauce made of vineger, cinamon, and sugar.

There are some interesting ideas here for sauces to serve with fish. For lobster, the author appears to suggest ‘clove and gilly-flower vinegar’, suggesting two ingredients. It may be that he meant only the single ingredient of the ‘clove gillyflower’ (Dianthus caryophyllus), or Clove pink – a clove-scented variety of the Carnation.  This flower was widely used in recipes and herbal remedies in the past - a gillyflower sauce for beef was noted in Wynken de Worde’s Book of Kerynge [Carving] (1508.)

Gillyflower Vinegar.

Gillyflowers infused in Vinegar and set in the Sun for certaine dayes, as we do for Rose Vinegar do make a very pleasant and comfortable vinegar, good to be used at times of contagious sickness, and very profitable at all times for such as have feeble spirits.

Acetaria (1699), John Evelyn

The Sea Hauke was a small mystery to me, but I think it refers to the Eagle-ray, now designated Myliobatis Aquila. The suggested accompaniment is none other than garlic sauce – a suitably strongly-flavoured and rank (to some) sauce for the ‘rank flesh’ of this fish. The word comes from Allium, ‘A large genus of Liliaceous plants, of which garlic, the onion, leek, chive, shallot, and the British wild flower Ramsons are species.’

Garlicke Sauce (No. 272.)

Pound two cloves of garlick in a marble mortar, with a piece of fresh butter about as big as a nutmeg; rub it through a double hair sieve, and stir it into half a pint of melted butter, or beef gravy.

Apicius redivivus:or, the Cook’s Oracle,(1817) by William Kitchiner.

As for the salmon, I am greatly intrigued by the idea of the sweet-sour-spicy sauce of vinegar, sugar, and cinnamon suggested by the writer, but am unable to find a specific recipe for you. It would be easy enough to concoct, however, following the basic principles of infusing  the spice in hot vinegar, and sweetening to taste.

I sense a post on flavoured vinegars on the horizon.

Quotation for the Day.

If I had the choice between smoked salmon and tinned salmon, I'd have it tinned. With vinegar.

Harold Wilson.

A Condensed Breakfast.

The technological advances of the nineteenth century were a rich source of material for newspaper journalists of the time. In the area of food science and technology this was particularly true, for every reader also has to eat - and most want to do it as economically as possible. The New York Times of April 24, 1870 contained an article with the header ‘Cheap Living’ which focussed on the new science of ‘condensed’ food - with the writer musing on the potential evolutionary changes to the physique of ‘the coming man.’

Condensed Food as an Alimentary Element.

The whole tendency of Americanism is to abridge the processes – to grasp the essential as the essential, rejecting the husks in which it is enveloped. Mastication was long since out of date, especially in large cities, and the day may not be far distant when digestion will have been abrogated also, and nutrition will have been reduced to the single process of assimilation – when eating, considered as eating, will have become extinct. What curious modifications of physique may result from the abrogation of the processes constitutes a question for speculative scientists. For instance, whether the coming man will have teeth, not having occasion to use them; whether the occasion for gastric juices having passed away with the abrogation of the digestive process the coming man will secrete that fluid; what essential modifications of internal structure will occur in respect to the coming man:- these are questions for the evolution of learned papers to be read before learned associations.

There followed a discussion of the development, advantages and disadvantages, and future of condensed foods, and finally, the section of most interest here on this blog – the actual, practical use for the consumer (which includes our ‘recipes’ for the day.)

Useful Hints for Bachelors.

In a city like New York, where two hundred thousand people live in lodging-houses, owing to its convenience, the application of the art to alimentation has been very rapid. The sales of condensed beef, condensed milk, and other condensed articles, have attained an enormous figure. Given a small room at $6 a week, and one may limit his expenses for lodging and food to $10. You prepare your breakfast, needing only (for one) a cup and saucer, a quart of boiling water, a can of condensed milk, a pound of block sugar, and egg or two, a bottle of tomato or other sauce for flavouring, a couple of bowls, a couple of teaspoons, a couple of tablespoons, three or four plates, and a little coffee or tea. A pound of beef extract will last four weeks at an average taking of a pound and a half of beef per day. Take a bowl with two gills of boiling water, break an egg or a couple of eggs in it, and beat them in the water. In a minute they are completely cooked. Dissolve next a teaspoonful of extract of meat in the liquid; add a large spoonful of salt, a teaspoonful of butter, and a teaspoonful and a half of tomato sauce – stirring until all the elements are thoroughly dissolved; and you have created a nectar which is equal in nutrition to two eggs, ten ounces of beef, and the ordinary quantity of butter used in cooking it. Fill a coffee-cup with boiling water; add a tablespoonful of [cocoa?] paste and a teaspoonful of condensed milk, stirring well together, and you have a cup of the theobroma that an epicure might envy. A little fruit and ten cent’s worth of bakers products completes the breakfast, and constitutes a meal the nutrition and digestibility of which are complete. The menu, so various are the condensed articles in the diet, may be varied indefinitely … The advantage is that the preparation of the diet requires no skill, no appliance beyond the few articles mentioned, and  a quart of boiling water, and takes not more than from seven to ten minutes… and the whole repertoire may be packed within a cubic foot daily of space – bread and fruits, which you renew daily, excepted. It is obvious that condensed living therefore, is, both in point of economy and convenience, adapted to the wants of a large class of population, who are now compelled to bear the heavy pecuniary strain engendered by restaurant profits, on small salaries …

Quotation for the Day.

Gastronomers of the year 1825, who find sateity in the lap of abundance, and dream of some newly-made dishes, you will not enjoy the discoveries which science has in store for the year 1900, such as foods drawn from the mineral kingdom, liqueurs produced by the pressure of a hundred atmospheres; you will never see the importations which travelers yet unborn will bring to you from that half of the globe which has still to be discovered or explored. How I pity you!

Jean-Antheleme Brillat-Savarin  (1755-1826)

Lentils Forever.

Lentils are exceedingly virtuous things. They are nutritious. They are tasty. They are cheap. They are filling. They are versatile. They are acceptable to vegans.

One thing that lentils are not - I feel sure even their greatest fans would agree here - is exciting. Perhaps the very virtuousness of lentils obviates the possibility of their generating excitement?

Don’t get me wrong, I love lentils, but I use them to make soup, I do not share adventures with them. Is my feeling towards lentils shared? I decided to seek opinions in the literature.

First and foremost however, as is my wont, I must explore the origin of the word 'lentil.' According to the Oxford English Dictionary, the name means "little lens," which sounds right, and therefore is surely correct? A couple of eighteenth and nineteenth century sources however, give quite different opinions on the etymology of the word, as well as adding to the list of the virtues of the vegetable.

From A Treatise Of All Sorts Of Foods: Both Animal And Vegetable (1745) by Louis Lémery:

Of Lentils.

There are two Sorts of Lentils; the first of which are small, orbicular, thin towards the Edges, raised up in the Middle, round, hard, flatted, white, yellowish, or blackish, and two or three of them together in small Cods; these in Latin are called Lentes minores: The other are twice or thrice as big as those of the first Sort, and you must chuse both of the one and the other, such as are plump and easily boiled.
Lentils afford indifferent Nourishment, allay the Over-fervency of the Blood; are detersive and binding, when you eat them whole, but laxative when the plain Decoction of them is only used.
Lentils produce gross and tartarous Humours, cause Obstructions in the Bowels, and are look'd upon to weaken the Eye-sight.
They contain an indifferent Quantity of essential Salt, and much Oil and Earth.
Lentils agree at all times, and at any Age, with Persons of a hot and choleric Nature, and phlegrmatic Constitution; but those who are melancholy, and abound with earthy and gross Humours, ought to abstain from them.
Remarks.
Lentils are much us'd in Lent-time; they bind up and qualify the too great Motion of the Humours, by their gross and earthy Juice, which thickens the Liquors, and gives them a greater Consistence than before.
Lentils loosen the Body, when us'd in Decoctions, because the Water dissolves no more than the essential Salts of this Pulse, which are proper to produce this Effect, leaving their earthy Parts behind, which chiefly contribute to make the Lentils astringent, as we have observ'd already.
Lentils in Latin are called Lentes a Lenis, sweet, because they formerly believed the Use of Lentils would make the Humours sweet; or because Lentils are smooth, and soft to the Taste.

And the mid-nineteenth century English viewpoint, from Alexis Soyer's The Pantropheon, Or, History of Food, and Its Preparation (1853):

                                                        Lentils.
The Egyptians, whose ideas were sometimes most eccentric, imagined it was sufficient to feed children with lentils to enlighten their minds, open their hearts, and render them cheerful. That people, therefore, consumed an immense quantity of this vegetable, which from infancy had been their principal food.
The Greeks also highly esteemed this aliment, and their ancient philosophers regaled themselves with lentils. Zeno would not trust to any one the cooking of them; it is true that the stoics had for their maxim: "A wise man acts always with reason, and prepares his lentils himself." We must confess that the great wit of these words escapes us, although we are willing to believe there is some in them.
However it may be, lentils were abundant in Greece and in the East; and many persons, otherwise very sensible, maintained, with the most serious countenance in the world, that they softened the temper and disposed the mind to study.
It is hardly necessary to observe that this plant was well known to the Hebrews. The red pottage of lentils for which Esau sold his birthright, the present of Shobi to David, the victory of Shammah in the field of lentils, and, lastly, the bread of Ezekiel," sufficiently prove that the Jews numbered this vegetable as one of those in ordinary use among them.
The Romans had not the same esteem for it as the nations we have mentioned. According to them, the moisture in lentils could only cause heaviness to the mind, and render men reserved, indolent, and lazy. The name of this vegetable pretty well shows, they said, the bad effect it produces. Lentil derives its origin from the word lentus (slow) "Lens a lente."
And, as if enough had not been alleged to disgrace this unfortunate plant, and to give the finish to the ill-fame it had acquired, it was placed amongst funereal and ill-omened foods. Thus Marcus Crassus, waging war against the Parthians, was convinced that his army would be defeated, because his corn was exhausted, and his men were obliged to have recourse to lentils."
How was it possible to resist such attacks! The humble plant gave way in spite of the few flattering words of the poetic Virgil, and the assurance of Pliny that this food produced two uncommon virtues— mildness and moderation."

Recipe for the Day.

As the recipe for the day, I give you an idea from an Australian newspaper in 1913 - a recipe which to my mind, comes out on the nutritious but not mouth-wateringly delicious end of the spectrum.

Vegetable Brawn
Three cups of brown lentils, 1 cup of white haricot beans, 1/4 lb of butter, 1/4 lb. of sago, salt, pepper, herbs, to taste. Wash the lentils and beans well, put them in an enamelled saucepan with plenty of water, salt, and pepper, a small piece of butter, and a good sized onion; let it boil for three our four hours, addding more water if needed. When quite soft put in fresh herbs, 1/4 lb of butter, and add slowly the sago. Boil for a few minutes, stirring all the time, then turn into a basin, put a tin plate on top, and leave in a slow oven for two or three hours. Turn out next morning.
The Mail (Adelaide) June 7, 1913

Interestingly, this exact recipe was submitted to another Australian newspaper in 1935, as an entry to a competition for recipes utilising pulses. It was subsequently published in the Barrier Miner (Broken Hill, NSW) on 22 June of that year. What does this indicate? That to plagiarise recipes was OK in the 1930's, or at least was not policeable? Can we or should we assume that the person who submitted the recipe to the competition did know its provenance? Could she, or should she have known it (ignorance of the law being no excuse and all that)? Perhaps the recipe came to her on a tatty card handed down to her from her mother?

Quotation for the Day
"I hate with a bitter hatred the names of lentils haricots -- those pretentious cheats of the appetite, those tabulated humbugs, those certified aridites calling themselves human food!"



George Robert Gissing, English novelist (1857-1903)

Coffee House Rules, 1741.

The coffee houses of London in the eighteenth century were where the movers and shakers of the time (and no doubt the usual associated contingent of hopefuls and hangers-on,) gathered and talked and gossiped, and made deals, and read newspapers. I recently came across the following rather tongue-in-cheek 'rules' of the time for coffee-house behaviour, and want to share them with you.  In the final analysis, these rules come down to simple good manners, so perhaps they are in some way applicable to correct etiquette in the modern bookshop-cum-coffeeshop.

From The Gentleman's and London Magazine (1741), here are:

Coffee House Rules, or rules necessary to be observed in all Coffee Houses.

In the first place, no politician has any right to sleep over a paper; or, in other words, to read it as slow as if he was perusing some long-laboured metaphysical tract, or any other studied composition.

All news-papers (especially when the coffee-house is full of company) should be constantly read with a little polite, genteel, well-bred hurry.

For any one to enter upon a regular re-reading of advertisements before he has delivered the paper to another gentleman, is by no means the thing; because it not only discovers little or no genius for news-papers, but at the same time, it creates very considerable stagnation in the general steam of politics, and may possibly favour of the Nimis severa serutandi methodus.

QUERY: - Whether the truly learned in politics do not look upon the re-reading of advertisements as a sort of otium politicum?

To the following rule I beg all proper attention may be paid:

No one should be too sedulous in reading out in a coffee-house, or in descanting upon a particular point, unless he is prodigiously deep in matters of state, and, at the same time, particularly desired by a select JUNTO of the most approved politicians.

If any one, in reading of a newspaper, should meet with an ingenious sentiment: of any sort, or what is generally called a striking passage, he should be vastly cautious in how he breaks out into any sudden, instantaneous, vociferous, oh! or ah! or any other laconic expression; because such sort of laconism is often too much of a startling kind to the rest of the company, and is fruitful of bad consequences in all political assemblies.

To hold a paper quite snug and quiet in one hand, and to read another at the same time, is very injudicious, if not selfish, and partakes of what the gentlemen of law call a MONOPOLY.

To peep over a gentleman’s shoulder in order to read a paper, (or rather to partake of one) is being in too great a hurry to gratify a political spirit. This is a method which I beg leave to discountenance.

As for the act of bowing, either at coming into a coffee-house, or going out, I could never see the necessity or propriety of it. It seems to make no difference between a public or a private room, and every body knows that a mis-application of good manners degenerates into no manners at all.

But not to be too serious.

In order to preserve a proper decency and decorum, no one should loll upon his chair, or incline too much either to the right hand or to the left. Because a considerable number of lollers at the same time (according to my rule of perspective) makes a very awkward and ridiculous appearance.

 As the recipe for the day, I give you a lovely coffee cream from the eighteenth century.

Coffee Cream.

Roast one ounce of coffee, put it hot into a pint and a half of boiling cream; boil these together a little, take it off, put in two dried gizzards; cover this close, let it stand one hour, sweeten with double-refined sugar; pass it two or three times through a sieve, with a wooden spoon; put it into a dish with a tin on the top, set the dish on a gentle stove, put fire on the top upon the tin; when it has taken, set it by; serve it cold.

Tea cream is made in the same manner.

The lady's assistant for regulating and supplying her table (1787), by Charlotte Mason, 1777

Quotation for the Day

These consumers are always ordering mutant beverages with names like "mocha-almond-honey-vinaigrette lattespressacino,"' beverages that must be made one at a time via a lengthy and complex process involving approximately one coffee bean, three quarts of dairy products and what appears to be a small nuclear reactor.

Dave Barry, "Decaf Poopacino" (1997)

The Mutton of Monday.

Methinks there is an entire thesis which could be written on the subject of mutton in the Victorian era. Some time ago I gave you a story called “How Many Legs Has a Sheep”, which was essentially about the ‘inevitability’ of the leg of mutton on the nineteenth century dinner table. The real challenge for the cook or housekeeper was to find acceptable ways of using the inevitable leftovers in the next day or so (this being in the days before refrigeration of course.) One can be forgiven for thinking, given the large amount of cookery book space given to the problem, that it was a rare Monday dinner that did not consist of some re-invention of the previous day’s roast.  

The editor of The Family Friend (London, 1866) went so far as to give over several pages to ‘The Mutton of Monday”, and I give them to you today, in their entirety, as there are many hints and ideas therin.

The Mutton of Monday.

Much has been said and written of late upon domestic difficulties, the scarcity of good servants, especially cooks, and the necessity of all ladies of moderate incomes learning the art and mystery of plain cooking; but, so far as the present writer is aware, no one has, as yet, set about informing the uninstructed what it is to learn cooking, and how they should apply themselves to the study. The Family Friend hopes, therefore, that a little discourse on the subject may not be unwelcome, especially if it tend to show that the art in question is much easier of acquirement than is generally supposed.

The very first thing to note is that not everybody knows how to use their cookery book. The writer is afraid that nine young mistresses out of ten think that if they look over the recipe they want, and go through it with their cook, it is the book's fault or the cook's if the dish be not a success, whereas in all good cookery books - Miss Acton's par excellence -the recipes are carefully classed, and the preliminary chapter to each division of the book is of as much importance as all the particular recipes in the division taken together. The principles on which each operation is performed, whether of roasting, boiling, stewing, or hashing, are what the mistress - or rather every young lady before she becomes the mistress of a household - should endeavour to learn, and she will find that an infinite variety of dishes are at her command when she shall have once thoroughly learned some half dozen rules, all of them easy to understand and to remember. There is also to be learned in her preliminary studies the management of the various provisions in common use.

As. then, the Family Friend hopes to visit many a home in which comfort depends much on good economy, and where the professed cook's services are unattainable, the first little chapter presented shall, without apology, be on

The Economy of a Leg or Shoulder of Mutton.—It is presumed that the Family Friend is addressing those who care nothing for appearances, and everything for making the most of the joint. As soon, then, as the meat is delivered by the man in the blue apron, cut off not merely the shank, but the joint of bone next to the shank, with its little round piece of meat attached. This should be put on at once in a stewpan or saucepan, to make broth or stock; while in cool weather the joint itself may perhaps be improved by hanging three or four days. Here come in three rules: 1. Meat for making broth cannot be too fresh ; 2. Meat for roasting should be hung till tender, since that mode of cooking will never reduce tough meat to tenderness (an excellent gift in juvenile spinsters and elderly sheep !); 3. If meat must be dressed, although quite fresh, it may be boiled - that is, not really boiled, but only simmered, till perfectly tender. Note well, the blue boy should always be asked, on delivering meat, "When was this killed?" and the joint be dealt with accordingly.

To proceed with the economy of the joint in question. The main portion will, of course, be roasted or boiled, as may be preferred, and in carving this and every joint it should always be endeavoured not to put on the plates any tough parts that are likely to be left uneaten; those tough parts have their own good use. Having been carefully avoided for helps in the first carving, and cut out and put aside in preparing hash or mince, these cautions to mastication, including brown and skinny outsides, add wonderfully to the wealth of the stock-pot.

Now, be it noted that this "economy of a leg of mutton" applies equally to every other joint, with the addition that from joints which have too much fat (such as loin of mutton, beef, pork, or veal) the surplus fat should be removed and chopped up while quite fresh, dredging in flour at the same time, and carefully picking out every meaty, or pink, or skinny morsel, the morsel aforesaid being good for the omnivorous stock-pot, always at hand.

To recapitulate in brief :- The good parts only - by which is meant such part as will be eaten - are for helping round at the first cut.

All superfluous fat is equivalent to suet. All bones and coarse parts, gristle, skin and scraps, are for the stock-pot.

The cookery books will tell how to roast, and how to manage a stock-pot, and some of of them tell how to boil, or rather how not to boil, but they do not tell clearly and so as to ensure success, how to make hash, and the writer believes that more uncomfortable dinners are owing to ignorance of this simple dish (hashed mutton or beef) than lo any other single failure in kitchen management.

There is a strong opinion in the minds of many people that all twice-cooked meats are unwholesome; and so they avoid, if they can, all hashes, minces, and such like. And well they may if the hash be twice cooked, but the very first rule for hash and for minced and all made dishes of fish, flesh, or fowl, is that they must not be twice cooked. The once-cooking mode of making hash is as follows ;- Cut the meat from the cooked joint in rather thin slices, as nice as its condition will allow; not avoiding a duo proportion of fat, if the family party eat fat, for by this receipt the fat on the meat will not grease the gravy. Be sure to cut off into a separate plate all gristly and skinny parts, and put them into the ever-open stockpot, according to the rule already given.

Then set about the gravy according to the resources at hand. Perhaps the joint was roasted, in which case there must be some rich gravy under the dripping, somewhere in a basin. Perhaps there is only some liquor in which meat has been plainly boiled. Perhaps there is nothing at all!

If there is roast meat gravy, about three tablespoonfuls made up with water to half a pint will be a good foundation to begin upon. If there is only liquor, the foundation must be simply as much as is required of that. If there is nothing at all, it is to be hoped that there is at least a little sweet dripping, or fat off broth, in the larder, for if not "F. F." cannot concoct a good gravy out of nothing. But this may be done. Put on a small frying-pan, with as much dripping, or other fat, as being melted shall very well cover the bottom of the pan. When the fat boils, flour well all the scraps in the plate for the stock-pot (these scraps will be just as good for the soup, even after they have been fried in the boiling fat, and then put into the stock-pot), also some sliced onions, if there be any at hand, much or little, according to the family taste. Fry the scraps and the onions, and, when all arc nicely frizzled, fish them all out into a plate, pour off' the fat into a basin, not draining the frying-pan very dry, and then pour about half a pint of hot water into the frying pan, shake it well round, and, in fact, rinse the frying-pan well with the water, using a spoon to help the process. This will serve as a very tolerable foundation for a gravy.

Having achieved the half-pint of suitable something, put it in a saucepan over the fire, while that which is called thickening is prepared, which must be done as follows :- Put into a cup about two tablespoonfuls of cold water or liquor, and rub quite smoothly down into it a good heaped teaspoonfnl of flour; then stir in any sauce-flavouring that is liked - a dessertspoonful of ketchup, and a teaspoonful of Reading, or a half teaspoonful of Worcester sauce (if the latter, shake the bottle well). The contents of the thickening cup being smoothly mixed, the gravy on the fire is by this time probably almost boiling; now watch the stewpan, cup in hand, and the moment the gravy boils, pour in the thickening, stirring quickly, and continuing to stir for a minute or two. If decidedly brown gravy be liked, burn a little moist sugar in an iron spoon and stir it in. Now the stewpan must be placed - not merely off the hottest part of the fire, but on the hob, and when the gravy tab quite ceased to bubble - or squeak - and not before, the meat, whether  it be in slices or minced, must be put in, and the cover shut close down. And there, on the hob, the hash must stand, simply soaking till it is time to dish up; and if the meat should have come off a joint not quite lender, il will be all the better  if it stand a good half-hour, otherwise ten minutes will do. Serve with sippets of toast, and send in any pickles that may be liked. If the meat be beef (in Paris it would be horse-beef - a little grated horse-radish is a good seasoning.

Now let the young housekeeper elect observe that the principles on which this dish proceeds are—1st.  the gravy must boil, or it will not take the thickening; 2nd, that the meat must not  boil. Further be it noted, that these two rules apply to every sort of made dish done in gravy, whether white or brown, such as stewed fish, soles or eels, or the like (this is nothing but to make a gravy as above described, using suitable flavourings, and putting in the fish at last, just as is directed for meat), fricasseed fowl or rabbit, stewed cutlets, and even with curry, harries, or Irish stew the finishing part of the process is much the same. The meat must never be twice cooked.

One more observation, and the present article shall be concluded. Such a misfortune will occasionally turn up as a joint sent to table uneatable, tough, and undone, for we sometimes have a practical exemplification that

Heaven gives us good meat,

But Old Harry sends the cooks.

What is to be done? Meat may not indeed be twice cooked, but the cooking process, if incomplete the first time, may be taken up and continued. Set the joint on next day at 9 o'clock in the morning, if for 1 o'clock dinner, in a pot that will both hold it, and just enough water or liquor to cover it; there let it simmer, very gently - only just a bead upon the surface - a bubble rising to the brim - till the delightful hour of dinner. Then the meat will be found - if of good quality - like the Douglas of the ballad, tender and true, soft as silk, and juicy as a peach that melts in your mouth in September.

Most often, as the writer above suggested, the mutton was ‘hashed’. There is no way that ‘hash’ is ever going to sound tempting. The name itself inevitably suggests a leftover, chopped up, reheated mess of a meal. The very least a sensible cook should do is make its name a little more tempting, such as in the following recipe, from The lady's assistant for regulating and supplying her table (1787), by Charlotte Mason, 1777. Note that in this case however, the mutton appears to be cooked (or rather, undercooked) specifically in order to make this dish – which is clearly a ‘hash’ according to the above writer.

A Shoulder of Mutton in Disguise.

LET a shoulder be half-roasted ; then take it up and cut off the two upper joints, and both the flaps, to make the blade round ; score the blade in diamonds; then strew over it a little pepper and salt, some crumbs of bread, a little grated lemon-peel, and nutmeg; set it in the oven to brown ; then cut the meat off the shank and the flaps in thin slices; put them to the gravy that runs from the mutton, and put a little good made mutton gravy to it, with two spoonsuls of walnut catchup, one of the colouring, some chyan pepper, and one or two eschalots cut small; the meat must be done just tender, if it is done too much, it will be hard: thicken the sauce with butter rolled in flower, lay the hash in the dish with the sauce, and the blade-bone in the middle, which must be of a fine brown, put some pickles in the dish.

Quotation for the Day.

A very man – not one of nature’s clods –

With human feelings, whether saint or sinner;

Endowed, perhaps, with genius from the gods

But apt to take his temper from his dinner.

                                    John G Saxe.