Food History

I gave you the cookbook, but I forgot to return with the novel. My excuse is that I’ve developed a pleasant and mild case of flu. Well, it’s not that pleasant, but it is quite mild and I am dealing with it. I kept wondering where all those aches and pains came from.

I always think of children’s books as having lots of food. I think of Billy Bunter and Harry Potter, The Famous Five and the Redwall inhabitants. All very fond of a good meal. The books they star in feature some very memorable foodie moments.

Peter Pan isn’t quite so foodie. The table of contents gives no indication that children eat. The landscape of titles is littered with fairies and mermaids and pirates, but no banquets or feasts.

The first mention of food in the book is in terms of accounts - “at first she kept the books perfectly, almost gleefully, as if it were a game, not so much as a brussels sprout was missing; but by and by whole cauliflowers dropped out, and instead of them there were pictures of babies without faces.” Food is an aspect of householding. It has no inherent joy.

Alas, food remains in householding for a while thereafter and returns to it again and again. Milk is something that leads to poverty, because it means money spent or it is something that children must drink. Coffee gets cut to help pay the costs for a baby. This may be a very real description of life in the lower middles classes at that time and place, but it’s terribly depressing.

Food is mostly prosaic, but not quite always. It can provide the significant detail that makes a scene, whether it’s a squabble over milk, or why stealing food from an eagle in flight won’t feed hungry children. What food is, however, is minor. It’s a part of the mechanics of bigger things. Barrie is a clever enough writer not to dismiss it entirely, but the focus of the novel is on mysteries and magic and relationships. Not food.

I can see why he does this. If food were a focus, then what would lure children to Neverland?

There’s enough food to bring us into the story with the taste of things (Nana drinking the milk-coloured medicine is very much a scene that depends on taste) but the joy of eating is almost always absent. The first moment when eating is a pleasure is when John crows about his nippiness in taking some food from an eagle’s mouth.

The joy of cooking doesn’t exist at all. The closest to joy in cooking is when Hook cooks “a large rich cake of a jolly thickness with green sugar on it.” His joy is in the thought of making the Lost Boys sick, rather than in making that large rich cake. More functional food. Even this cake reaches an ignominious end: Barrie sums up its fate in one unadventurous paragraph, quite a bit further on. It’s as if he lost interest in its story.

When Barrie maps the glories and mysteries of people’s minds, early in the book, the only food that appears is chocolate pudding. This says much. The thing about J.M. Barrie, though, is that his writing leaves room for the imaginations of others. His dim and dull view of food isn’t mine, and re-reading Peter Pan makes me dream.

Right now my head is entirely filled with a vision of Tinkerbell as cook. She would be the type of grand chef capable of throwing pots and pans and burning down kitchens. She would be impossible and magnificent. But what dishes would she make?

I’ve fallen in love with the idea of posts on ingredients. I’ve had to answer so many different questions from so many of the recipe testers for the Regency Gothic Banquet that it struck me that we don’t all have a common cooking vocabulary. Besides, ingredients are FUN. Just for a little, then, I’ll do two or three posts a week on specific ingredients so when I say ‘aniseed myrtle’ and talk about its historic use , you know I’m not talking about aniseed or myrtle or even lemon myrtle. And so I can sneak in bad jokes while you’re not watching.

Speaking of aniseed flavoured spices, I thought a couple of them would be a good thing for today. My useless bit of Medieval trivia for the day is that aniseed was coated in sugar and used to aid digestion after giant meals. If that bit of trivia ever proves useful, let me know and I’ll upgrade it from ‘useless’ to ‘almost handy.’

Anise, aniseed or Sweet Cumin (pimpinella anisum) - in French is anise, in German is anis, in Italian is anice , but in Malaysian is jintan manis. It was originally from the Middle East and was used by the ancient Egyptians, Greeks and Romans.

The name anise refers to the green leaves of the plant and not to the seeds. Oddly enough, the seeds are known as aniseed (sorry, sarcasm mode is now off). Star anise has a flavour that depends on the same essential oil (anethole), that is found in anise, aniseed and cultivated fennel but is a different plant (illicum verum), a small evergreen tree belonging to the Magnolia family. I always think star anise tastes great but looks like big black spiders invading your stew. I use it to terrify small children.

Aniseed myrtle (backhousia anisata) also called aniseed tree or ringwood (if you ringbark it, does that mean you have ringwood ringbarked?) is a native of New South Wales and Queensland. The anise scented leaves does wonders for stews, and is also magic in salad dressing.

Almonds used to be called amygdalus communis - which give rise to all sorts of strange names for almond-shaped decorations, but now they are prunus dulcis for sweet almonds and prunus amar for the bitter. It’s a shame about the name change, because I would have been all set up for bad Star Wars jokes otherwise.

In Turkish they are badem, in French amande, in German mandel, in Italian mandorla (which is handy to know if you are an art-enthusiast), in Spanish almendra, in Japanese hentou, and in Hebrew they are shaked which is the term also used for tonsils. Female French lovers of almonds are amantes des amandes, which is cute.

The English name comes from the Latin, while the Latin name comes from the Greek. Almonds themselves didn’t originate in Greece at all, though. Almonds are originally from Asia and Africa.

To keep things historic, there are some great medieval French and English almond-based recipes. My favourite is an apple-almond pudding - light and delectable. Almond is, of course, the base for marzipan, though whether it is the sweet almond we know and love or the bitter almond some Malaysian friends once fed me in a soup is something about which I have seen different opinions in different recipes - whichever you choose, just make sure it is a non-poisonous variety, since almonds are related to other kernels which have more than their share of prussic acid.

What I love about almonds (and nuts in general) is their amazingly high oil content. You can actually light almonds (kemiri and macadamias, too, but almonds are more flame shaped, which makes lighting them most impressive) - just lop a bit of the base so they will stand upright, and they’re ready to go. Who needs candles on a birthday cake?

Note: I am incredibly artistically inclined (don’t laugh, that was meant sarcastically) and from here on in will code the posts about specific ingredients with the picture used here. The picture will help you spot the posts about ingredients and it will save me from having to hunt down photos of grains of paradise.

Duologies are coming into fashion. Two novels that are linked. I’m not going to do that to you, though it is tempting. Instead I’m going to do two posts.

Tonight I want to introduce you to a tiny little cookbook. Tomorrow I thought it would be fun to look at a bit of the food in the book the cookbook relates to.

The booklet is “Lunching with Peter Pan”. It’s only sixteen pages long, without dates but with many dreams inside. It’s not linked to the Children’s Hospital that has lived for so many years on the royalties of Peter Pan. Instead, it’s recipes from “the Committee and some supporters” of Peter Pan Kindergarten, Paddington NSW. In other words, Sydney, Australia.

So what food does the Peter Pan Kindergarten recommend? And just when was this cookbook from?

The second question is straightforward. Library catalogues are just wonderful things. The National Libary of Australia says it was published in ‘196-’. Maybe towards the earlier end of the decade rather than the later, because everything is so very pre-metric and the names of the recipe donors are particularly formal. Mrs. Neville Manning gave the Barley Water recipe and Mrs. Stephen Hewlett a recipe for a Gimlet, while Mrs. William Adams tells how to make Rum and Pineapple Juice and Mrs. Leo Cook Cucumber Soup.

That gives you an idea of the type of recipes. This is a beautifully trendy booklet. The fashionable foods, from Lettuce Soup to Camembert in Aspic. There’s Curried Chicken in Grapefruit Cases, Duck with Olives, Oysters in Prawn Sauce Nola and Beetroot with Orange Sauce. Everything you need for an elegant sixties dinner.

For dessert you might want Angel Mousse, or you might prefer Lemon Ice, either served with creme-de-menthe or white rum, or sprinkled with “powdered expresso coffee.”

Maybe I’ll do a Swinging Sixties dinner from this booklet one day. I even have a suitable black lace dress with a rather mini skirt. See, a booklet of dreams.

Oh, the excitement! I’m jumping up and down with it. More tests!! Or I would be jumping excitedly if we weren’t in the middle of yet another heatwave, this one with a nice dose of bushfire smoke added to the mix.

I managed to cook five more recipes before cumulative heat got to me and I’ve been feeding them to visitors ever since.

There was “A Made Dish”, which was actually scrambled egg with fresh asparagus. Nice, but nothing to write home about. It will make a good side dish if we’re short of them because asparagus and egg are a rather nice combo, but it’s not on my little list of adorably charming ‘must eats’.

What is on that list is Burnt Almonds. I’ve been told by one friend that if there aren’t some of these left for her when she next visits, I’ll suffer consequences. They’re a variant of Viennese almonds, but the sugar has been crystallised rather than caramelised. The almonds and sugar have combined flavour rather complementing each other and the effect is slightly nutty, quite sweet and very, very more-ish. Perfect for post-Banquet nibbles.

Chocolate cream wasn’t as successful. We all liked it - very smooth and creamy chocolate drink, but it was just too rich for modern tastes. A spoonful with fruit might be good, perhaps, but not as part of a series of cakes and creams. The tasting team said it was good but missing magic. That it would have been better as a mousse. And that it was rich. Very, very rich.

Oddly, it wasn’t the cream that made it overpoweringly rich, it was the egg-white. I might play with it one day and make it work for modern tastes, but not now, and not for the banquet. The fact that it uses 100% chocolate is a plus, but it needs a different texture and more nuanced flavours.

On the other hand the raspberry cream was near perfect. Think of raspberries and cream, combined to garnet perfection. It’s a pouring dessert and will, I think, go rather well with the plainer cakes. I’m going to try it with mixed berries next, just for my own joy and delight. In the meantime, it’s on the long list.

The last dish looked as if it would become bog-ordinary baked tomatoes. It demonstrated why we’re actually cooking things, rather than guessing results. The resulting cooked dish was not bog-ordinary.

One of my tasters said “I don’t normally like baked tomatoes, but this is yummy.” The acid was brought out with lots of strewn herbs, and every ounce of fruity sweetness emerged along with it. It’s a good side dish of one of the main courses, but I’m also going to try blending some of the tomatoes because it would make a beautiful sauce.

And I am done with tasting for a bit. If anyone else gives me results I will report back, promise. In the interim, I might nibble on some of those burnt almonds.

Today you deserve a URL. This is a site devoted to reviews of historical cookbooks. Everyone needs more reviews of historical cookbooks in their lives.

And no, the carrots have nothing to do with the book - I’ve been testing early nineteenth century recipes tonight and carrots represent the way I feel. Very, very orange and exhausted.

My favourite number right now is 1 March - that’s when all the recipe tests are due.

My second favourite number is 31 - that’s how many recipes we have on the long list right now.

I have to email one batch of recipes to a tester and cook ten more recipes myself and that’s an end of sending untried recipes out. I’ve already made my shopping list.

Finally, just so that your mouth can water a little, this is the list of recipes take on by Melbournians (I said they cooked!!):

Apple puffs
Spanish puffs
Moonshine pudding
Fennel sauce
Burnt cream
Herb pie
Peppermint drops
Spinach and eggs
Tomata sauce
Stewed chicken
Spring fruit pudding
Cauliflower
Caper sauce
Brenton sauce
Brentford rolls
Potatoes and cream
Kisses
Preserved pineapple
Lemon cheesecake
Lemon cream
Lemon custards
Lemon puffs
Lemon sauce
Another lemon sauce
Norfolk punch
Parsely and butter
Green peas soup
Savoury vegetables
Ragoo onions
Milk punch
Cinnamon cake
Charlottte
Jumbles
Lemon cake
Roast beef
Roast lamb
Roast duck (stuffing)
Sauce Robart
Gingerbreads
Savoy biscuits

From March the magic begins as lists of dishes start turning into a menu. A lot of the end result right now depends on people testing and getting the results back quickly.

And all this makes me hungry. Excuse me while I take a tea break :).

This is a quick update to let you know that there’s a new blog carnival. The Carnival of Dining Out looks very handy (and yes, one of my posts is in there) - I’m going to keep an eye on it.

I love kitchen superstitions, beliefs, lore. The stuff we do without thinking about it because we’ve always done it that way or because our mother taught us or because our best friend said. Some of this is genuinely good cooking technique. Some of this was good cooking but the food we eat has changed and it just doesn’t apply any more. And some of it is pure bumpf.

This site on food myths looks at some of the stories about food and its qualities and explains why certain things are popular but not true (I like the alcohol evaporation one, myself - I have always wondered how people managed to get tipsy on fruitcake) and so on. It’s not a terribly technical site and it makes for very fun reading. It’s a pity about the carb soda, though.

PS The incorrect factoid I come across most often is how long chick peas need to cook. Australian chick peas only need 15-20 minutes if they’ve ben soaked, because they’re a particular variety. I always look at country of origin when I buy chick peas and I adjust preparation times accordingly. This isn’t a food myth though - this is a side effect of breeding plant varieties. Like lettuce not really being a bitter herb any more, because iceberg lettuce has almost all the bitterness bred out of it.

Last night’s post got me thinking. Some people integrate their health issues with their food and have a wonderfully co-ordinated existence and some of us have sad addictions to chocolate and chips and spend a lot of the time in justification.

It’s never as simple as understanding current medical principles and applying them. Every now and then a book emerges that explains the current views in simple or suposedly simple terms and gives guidelines. I thought it would be a good idea to introduce one of these books today.

If you’re interested in exploring food and health in more modern ways, then Talia, who comments here from time to time, has a forum with lots of stuff on emotional aspects of eating and lots of information branching off it. Emotional aspects of eating are only one part of food as medicine - if you want more, just say so in the notes and I’ll find you links to other parts.

Today’s book is Food Remedies. Facts About Foods and Their Medicinal Uses. It’s by Florence Daniel and was published in 1908. In theory, there are no remnants of Medieval science - it’s a thoroughly modern book (just not very recent). In practice, as early as the introduction, Daniel acknowledges a debt to Culpepper, and Culpepper frames his whole herbal in terms of the elements and humours and planetary influences. So her influences are modern (Dr Fernie’s Meals Medicinal), Ancient (the Talmud - though I guess it depends which part of the Talmud just how Ancient), late Medieval/Renaissance (Culpepper) and traditional (her mother).

Daniel takes us through a range of fruits and vegetables and discusses their medicinal uses. These plants are:
Almond, Apple, Asparagus, Banana, Barley, Blackberry, Blackcurrant, Brazil Nuts, Beans, Peas, Lentils, Beet, Cabbage, Caraway Seed, Carrot, Celery, Cresses, Chestnut, Cinnamon, Coconut, Coffee, Date, Elderberry, Fig, Grape, Gooseberry, Lavender, Lemon, Lettuce, Nettle, Nuts, Oats, Olive, Onion, Orange, Parsley, Pear, Peanut, Pineapple, Pine Kernel, Plum, Prune, Potato, Radish, Raspberry, Rice, Rhubarb, Sage, Strawberry, Spinach, Tomato, Turnip, Thyme, Walnut and Wheat. Quite a list, but also quite a limited list. And the rest of the book comprises indices - ways of getting at the information on each of these frutis and vegetables and herbs.

Florence Daniel is strongly fruitarian. She says on page 3 “I have myself known wonderful cures to follow on the adoption of a fruitarian dietary in cases of cancer, tumour, gout, eczema, all kinds of inflammatory complaints, and wounds that refused to heal.” She gives a general justifcation for this and cites pros and cons from various authorities.

From a modern scientific point of view, the material in this books lack validation and proof. From a food history point of view it’s fascinating.

Take her first article, on almonds. She suggests that almond soup is an excellent substitute for beef-tea for convalescents. Beef-tea was terribly standard for the invalid in 1908 - it was a pure bouillon made from good meat. Her almond soup alternative, however, is an old dish - I have seen similar recipes for broth to be used as a base for dishes five hundred years earlier.

It is made by simply blanching and pounding a quarter of a pound of sweet almonds with half a pint of milk, or vegetable stock. Another pint of milk or stock is then to be added and the whole warmed. After this add another pint and a half of stock if the soup is to be a vegetable one, or rice water if milk has been used.

In other words, one way in which older recipes have been retained or reintroduced into our diets has been through fads in food medicine. This is why Culpepper is as important in Daniel’s introduction as Dr Fernie.

I love these food history byways.

I wonder if anyone is collating medicinal treatises and food medicine books and comparing them with much earlier cookbooks? I hope so. If no-one is, then maybe one day I will. Food history is so much more than the history of cookbooks, and these food-as-medicine-manuals give us important clues on some of the wider roles food can play in a society.