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Life changes

Wednesday, August 6th, 2008

My life this week keeps zig-zagging. Some amazing and wonderful things kept me from normal work and now some sad events

I don’t remember what I promised for today’s post, but I know what you’re getting.

When someone dies, it’s usually better to remember them and the highlights of their life and what they have given you rather than collapse in a puddle. Puddles are tempting, I admit. But if there’s anything that can lure most people out of those puddles, it’s chocolate cake.

No-one knew this better than Betty. She made the best chocolate cake of my childhood. This took some doing, because I come from a family of excellent cooks and was brought up surrounded by women who knew how to bake properly.

When I started this blog, nearly two years ago, I sneaked a look into my mother’s scrapbook. Of course she had asked Betty for that chocolate cake recipe, and of course Betty had given it.

Small sequences add up, one on one, and create a lasting memory, a bit of food history.

The sad moment in the sequence came yesterday, when Betty died. Her daughter was my best friend at primary school and through quite a chunk of high school. We’ve never not been good friends, even though we’re as different as chalk and cheese. Both of us will be carrying this recipe with us, in the future, and every time we make it, we will be keeping Betty’s memory alive. Not that it needs much keeping – she was much beloved.

Betty’s chocolate cake

2 oz melted butter
¾ cup caster sugar
1 egg
2 tbs dark cocoa
vanilla essence
½ cup milk
1 ½ cups self raising flour
¼ cup boiling water

Pour melted butter over sugar. Beat. Add egg. Beat. Add vanilla.

Sift flour and cocoa. Add alternatively with milk.

Lastly, fold in boiling water.

Quickly pour into greased floured tin. Bake in slow oven for 40 minutes.

This is only a base – can steam or add other ingredients (left over chocolates are good!)

Oysters and the US grocer 1911

Saturday, August 2nd, 2008

Oysters make an interesting entry in The Grocers’ Encyclopedia. What I like about it is their importance in this book reflects their importance in American popular literature. One winter I got addicted to US books from the early twentieth century and it seemed as if everyone had scenes of opening cans of oysters or eating oysters with dinner. In London in the Middle Ages, they were cheap and not prized: the relative values of foodstuffs change according to place and time. (Do you feel educated yet?):

“OYSTERS. One of the most democratic of food luxuries is the oyster–you find it in high favor in the most expensive establishments, yet it is equally abundant in “popular price” restaurants, in lunch rooms and in the cheapest of eating stalls. In stores, it is sold both in and out of the shell, fresh and canned, and it is eaten in every conceivable way!

Among the best known varieties are: Blue Points, Rockaways, Lynnhavens, Saddle Rocks, Cotuits, Cape Cods, Buzzard Bays, etc.

These titles have in many sections lost much of their first significance by trade misuse. “Blue Point,” for example, is often, though incorrectly, applied to all small oysters, irrespective of their geographical source; and “Rockaway” and “Saddle Rock,” particularly the former, are similarly employed for large sizes. As a matter of fact, there are both small and large oysters of all varieties, the difference in size being chiefly that of age.

A small quantity of European oysters is imported every year–particularly of the French Marennes, which has a greenish color from feeding on a green seaweed, but it is intended only for limited consumption in a few cosmopolitan establishments. The general trend is the other way ’round, for every year sees large exports of American oysters, which are almost universally conceded to be the finest in the world.

Oysters have been enjoyed as food as far back as history takes us and have been an object of special culture for a couple of thousand years. Every country has its own particular method of cultivation, for within the last century even those sections where the natural crop is largest have been compelled to resort to special growing to keep pace with the enormous annual consumption.
In England, the most popular method consists in spreading the brood-oysters over smooth, hard, clean areas. In Holland and France, they are bred on tiles ranged sideways in rows along the shores and thence later removed to the deeper waters from which they are dredged for the market. In this country, the seed-oysters are generally spread on a carefully laid bed of old shells–oyster shells, mussel shells, etc.

The growing period intervening between the first setting and the final shifting, is ordinarily three years, but is subject to variations in accordance with the size of the seed when planted, its rate of growth, the size desired, etc. On some grounds the rate of growth is much more rapid than on others.
Between March 1 and July 1, the planter shifts the oysters he intends to market in the fall, from beds of soft bottom to those of hard bottom. This change has been found beneficial to the oyster, as it clears it of mud and other extraneous substances and improves its color and flavor, and it also gives an opportunity for separating the clusters, when necessary, into single oysters. The bed thus cleared by shifting is replanted with seed-oysters, obtained generally from natural beds.

The season for marketing opens with September. The oysters are taken by means of dredges and tongs and are prepared for the market by “culling” or sorting by sizes, the dirt and attached shells being removed during the process. In some cases the cleaning is assisted by dumping them on the sand at low tide, removing them at the next low tide.

The three sizes chiefly recognized in the trade are “half-shells,” the smallest, usually preferred for eating raw; “culls,” medium size, for consumption raw, stewing, etc.; and “box,” the largest, generally for frying–although true oyster lovers take delight in large Lynnhavens or other deep sea oysters “on the half-shell.”

The eating of oysters raw is as correct from a hygienic standpoint as from that of the epicure. Raw, the component parts of the oyster practically digest themselves in the human stomach. Cooked, the human stomach must do the work as for other food.

California oysters are very much like those of the Mediterranean and other parts of Europe–small and of the same coppery taste. Those found further north, on the coasts of Oregon and Washington, are similar to the Atlantic varieties.

Large quantities are grown also in Japan and China, and in the latter country there is a heavy trade in dried oysters, the bivalves being cooked and then sun-dried.

The oyster is peculiar in the fact that age makes no difference in its tenderness. Custom and trade demands result in its being consumed while still young and comparatively small, but if left to live until old and very much larger, the flesh is just as tender and fresh. The illustration on page 444 shows the average size of an oyster at the ages of one, two, six and eight years.

By almost universal custom, oysters are tabooed during the months of May, June, July and August, but there is really no good reason for thus banishing them from the bill of fare. The oyster is not a desirable article of diet when spawning, which period covers from three to four weeks, but as the time of spawning differs in various localities, no elimination of certain fixed invariable months can ensure protection against their use in that condition, and the same care that is now exercised during eight months in the year could certainly be extended to cover the remaining four.

The rule is, however, a tradition of great and venerable age! It was first, we believe, put on record in 1599,recored in 1599, by a certain Dr. Butler, the vicar of an English country parish–but he can hardly be considered an authority sufficiently weighty to bind the human race for all time to come! The custom has been sustained with some reservations by recent European investigations, because of a disease apparently peculiar to that hemisphere to which oysters cultivated there are subject during the summer months, but the symptoms noted have not been found in this country to any appreciable extent and to little, if any, greater degree in summer than at other seasons. In some sections of the United States, oysters have indeed always been eaten as freely in summer as in winter without any bad effects being noted.”

A valuable peculiarity of oysters is the ease with which their lives can be sustained for a long time after being removed from their native element. Placed in a cool damp place, with the deep shell down and occasionally sprinkled with brackish water, they may be kept alive and in good condition for weeks. This tenacity is attributed to the liquor in the shells, which serves to sustain the respiratory currents.

When removed from the shell or “shucked,” the oyster may still be kept in edible condition for several days, but it is then necessary to remove its liquor, for, although this is the medium by which existence is sustained while in the shell, it has been found to have the opposite effect after shucking. Shucked oysters which are to be transported any considerable distance, are carefully washed, frequently in five or six waters, until no particle of any substance but the bivalve itself remains. Thus prepared, packed in air-tight receptacles and kept cold, they may be held eight to ten days without injuring their flavor or otherwise affecting them as an article of food.

Oysters should always be kept in a cool place, but never where there is any danger of freezing.”

Kangaroovian history

Friday, August 1st, 2008

This is an unexpected entry from the Grocers’ Encyclopedia. Kangaroo tails! In fact, canned ‘roo tails, in the early twentieth century in the US. This reminds me of something: I’ll post it when I remember what it is. I promise. In the meantime, dream of kangaroos.

“KANGAROO TAILS. The flesh of the various members of the Kangaroo family–the big grey Kangaroo, the Wallaby, etc.–is an important food item among the natives of Australia, and hunting the larger animals is a favorite sport of white residents. Kangaroo meat proper seldom reaches the United States, but there is a limited importation of canned Kangaroo Tails. When preparing for the table, first warm the can, then draw off the jelly and gravy and make it into a hot sauce with port wine and seasoning, strain, add the pieces of tail and serve with croutons of fried bread around.”

To balance that, here’s an Aussie mention of the delicacy that is kangaroo tail. This is from Steele Rudd’s On Our Selection, which was published in 1899, but has never really gone out of fashion, keeping the popularity of ‘roo tail at a generally low level in Australia.

“Dad stood with his back to the fire while Mother was putting a stitch in his trousers. “There’s nothing for it but to watch them at night,” he was saying, when old Anderson appeared and asked “if I could have those few pounds.” Dad asked Mother if she had any money in the house? Of course she hadn’t. Then he told Anderson he would let him have it when he got the deeds. Anderson left, and Dad sat on the edge of the sofa and seemed to be counting the grains on a corn-cob that he lifted from the floor, while Mother sat looking at a kangaroo-tail on the table and didn’t notice the cat drag it off. At last Dad said, “Ah, well!–it won’t be long now, Ellen, before we have the deeds!”"

In 1980 or 1981, I went on a student camp. The idea was to turn all of us into writers or artists or painters or critics. John Bluthal was one of the guests. He told us about the time he was in a radio version of On Our Selection. He hadn’t read the script in advance.

The character was slow of mind and slow of voice. Every word emerged from his mouth with a struggle. “Daaaaad” he drawled, “I think you should know.” Bluthal is a master of voices and he spun this out to its fullest possible extent. Then he turned the page, “The shed’s on fire!”

I think we need more Steele Rudd to finish with:

“The wedding was on a Wednesday, and at three o’clock in the afternoon. Most of the people came before dinner; the Hamiltons arrived just after breakfast. Talk of drays!–the little paddock couldn’t hold them.

Jim Mullins was the only one who came in to dinner; the others mostly sat on their heels in a row and waited in the shade of the wire-fence. The parson was the last to come, and as he passed in he knocked his head against the kangaroo-leg hanging under the verandah. Dad saw it swinging, and said angrily to Joe: “Didn’t I tell you to take that down this morning?”

Joe unhooked it and said: “But if I hang it anywhere else the dog’ll get it.”

Dad tried to laugh at Joe, and said, loudly, “And what else is it for?” Then he bustled Joe off before he could answer him again.

Joe didn’t understand.

Then Dad said (putting the leg in a bag): “Do you want everyone to know we eat it, —- you?”

Joe understood.”

Food Network Star - the winner answers my questions (poor soul)

Wednesday, July 30th, 2008

Time to update you on a post from the beginning of a US TV season.

You may remember that I was sent a DVD with information about the next Food Network Star (season 4). This sort of TV programme can give fascinating insights into aspects of our food culture and where our food history is leading us, so I might be tempted to report on these sorts of programmes again if they come my way.

In the interim, I was given the opportunity to ask a couple of questions of the winner, Aaron McCargo. If I had been living in the right country, I could have asked the questions directly. Frankly, I feel much less intimidated by what actually happened, which was that I emailed my questions to the PR person and someone acted as my proxy. I was then sent a transcript of the conference call, and I’m pasting extracts from that conference call below my comments,.

The limits of the conference call and working from a transcript mean that the answers are short and without much nuance. If I were asking the same questions directly, I would have McCargo’s inflections and tone and other clues as to nuance. In an ideal interview there are also follow-up questions.

This is a limit common to formal group interviews and products that belong to the very wide market. They’re trimmed and tidied to fit the few seconds available. Can you see where I’m heading? Every historical source has its biases: this type of historical source has ones that are quite subtle and worth taking a look at.

“Q: How has your family’s food habits influenced what you want to present in your new show?
A: His family’s food habits have really influenced how he will cook on the show. He will be cooking a lot with his mother and his father and his whole family on the show.
“We’re all about big portions. My mother always was into flavoring food a lot and that is what I plan to present to the audience in Big Daddy’s House.””

Q: Can you tell us about your favourite family food tradition?
A: “My favourite family food tradition had to be fish on Fridays. And because of my Italian background with a Roman Catholic upbringing, I would always prepare pasta on Wednesdays. So on Fridays I started to combine the two into a unique dish to serve to my family.”

He also says, elsewhere in the call “The history is very important. I call my food Soul Food but I keep it with an ethnic twist. It’s about food that is flavourful and fun. ”

US readers can discover the nuances themselves from his comments during his 6 week show: Sunday, August 3rd at 1:30pm/12:30c for “Big Daddy’s House” on the Food Network. I’d love to know more, if any of you have particular insights to share. Those few sentences are so much in need of fleshing out!

Women and their knives

Tuesday, July 29th, 2008

What I love about the Hannah Woolley extract I gave you the other day is what it says about women. Firstly, it says that women carved at table. That it was a permissible activity for gentlewomen. That part of the carving entailed knowing what one was carving and being able to describe the activity correctly. It also says that Hannah Woolley felt that not every gentlewoman had the knowledge to present themselves well in this endeavour.

It’s exactly like Francatelli helping the poor. Woolley was extending a courteously educational hand to the ill-educated gentlewoman. With Francatelli, we knew that there was a great loss in food culture in London in the nineteenth century. Can we say the same thing about the middle and lower gentry in the second half of the seventeenth century?

Woolley isn’t talking about cooks in this chapter. She’s talking about high level food knowledge specific to a particular role in society. Traditionally, in a perfect world, a gentlewoman would be taught this knowledge by her mother. That’s the theory, anyway.

What happened to make Woolley want to list common small birds and how to describe their carving (’thigh that Woodcock,’ ‘display that crane, ‘ ‘dismember that hern’)? Is it a loss in transmission of that important cultural facet? Or is it something different?

What I think is that it was multiple factors. One was the rise of the printed cookbook, which a story unto itself.

The second is the return of the monarchy after several years of Cromwell. Whether that period of time was enough to break cultural patterns is something I can’t say. It’s really not a period I know that well. The fact that people felt there was a break (and they do, even today) means that maybe there was an effort to bring back everything that was lot. Bring back maypoles, morris dancing, and proper instructions on carving for gentlewomen.

The third major possibility is the rise of many members of the merchant and trading classes into the gentry. Women of good business families could marry up, and their vast knowledge of other issues would not stand them in good stead at the dinner tables of their husband’s friends.

This is another set of thoughts that I’m playing with because I don’t have time to research them. They’re worth thinking about. There are so many reasons that people can give for writing books that purport to instruct.

On a final and entirely irrelevant note, I love knowing (from Woolley) that one lists a swan by slitting her. It sounds so much more obscure that it really is!

More about safe food in the 19th century

Wednesday, July 23rd, 2008

I’ve been thinking about how much effort most of us put into buying food that’s safe to eat. We get instructed on how to store meat (on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator, well-wrapped) and to check use-by dates on package food from the supermarket.

I’ve spoken before about the lack of food standards in the English speaking world in the nineteenth century, and how quite a few books of household advice said things like “Don’t buy pickles – make them. Bought pickles can have dangerous chemicals to turn them green.” There’s a ton of information out there on bad food practices, in fact.

It wasn’t just the writers of cookbooks and household guides who tried to address the issue. There is legislation of interesting sorts, and one day I might hunt some up to show you. There was verbal advice given to servants and anyone intending to run a household. There was patent medicine to solve the illnesses caused by food that may well have had similar components to the patent medicine.

And there were advertisements. Manufacturers and producers had a rather big stake in convincing potential consumers that “Those foods raddled with evil stuff, we don’t produce them. We’re on the side of the angels and what we produce will not kill you. Promise. Cross our hearts and hope to die. Cross our hearts and hope you won’t die, too.”

This is one of those advertisements, from an 1891 British vegetarian cookbook.

“For Puddings, Blanc−Mange, Custards, CHILDREN’S AND INVALIDS’
DIET, And all the Uses of Arrowroot,
BROWN & POLSON’S CORN FLOUR
HAS A WORLD−WIDE REPUTATION, AND IS DISTINGUISHED
FOR UNIFORMLY SUPERIOR QUALITY.
NOTE.−−Purchasers should insist on being supplied with BROWN &
POLSON’S CORN FLOUR. Inferior qualities, asserting fictitious claims,
are being offered.”

Transmission of foodways (almost a serious post)

Thursday, July 10th, 2008

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My life is entirely void of food history insights. Maybe I should be a bit more accurate and say that my day is actually devoid of such things. My life is still more than a little bit oriented towards food history.

My usual way of dealing with thinking about other matters or being over-busy or way too stressed is to find some really interesting recipes and subtly place them instead of a post. I have bunches prepared in the background for such eventualities. The thing is, though, that after the long break you had when the server was out of operation, you don’t need an excuse for a post. You need something with a bit more bite.

One of the things that I see very often in pop history books and one of the things that I use a lot in teaching are the cool stories. Often they’re cool stories about cool people. The ideal cool stories have some intrinsic humour or some intrinsic gross-out factor. My favourite cool stories recently have been the Franklin Expedition and the Molasses Factory Accident.

John Scalzi is the cause of a minor food history incident. He has kindly traced its progress through internetland over the time since he taped bacon onto his cat, and today he points out just how it has affected his blog. Go read his blog and trace the bacon-cat story back to its inception and you can see how foodlore can develop and how it can entirely eclipse otherwise significant items in a life.

This is an extended version (become more extended because of changes in how we get our information) of local foodways and family stories. The tens of thousands of people who know about John’s cat are the equivalent of the town full of people who would have known about it three hundred years ago. Dissemination of foodways depends very much on who talks to whom and how.

So, that was your food history theory of the day – now go and mess with Scalzi’s brain. Tell him you’re using him as an example of how foodways are created and shared. I dare you.

PS There is no bacon picture on this post: I’m Jewish. Instead, I give you the moustache cup.

Jewish-Iraqi cooking (and lots you probably don’t want to know about Gillian’s life)

Tuesday, July 8th, 2008

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I nearly forgot today’s post. I had an unexpected request for a short story for an anthology.

Notice how very casually I threw that statement in – it’s actually my first unexpected request of that sort and it means that at least one publisher trusts me rather a lot. Anyhow, I wrote the story and I discussed it with the publisher and it has been accepted subject to not-very-big edits, all of which I agreed were essential. All this since Friday, but most of it since about lunchtime yesterday. I’ve even done the first round of edits already. You can see why I almost forgot to post.

I still have some questions to answer from a few weeks ago. I haven’t forgotten. I think my life is running on strange timelines right now – things don’t get forgotten (much) but they do appear unexpectedly and at odd moments.

The unexpected today is a totally gorgeous cookbook. I have so many recipes with scraps of papers reminding me that I need to cook them that it’s almost impossible to open the book safely. A frenzy of notes will hit me in the face and suffocate me if I don’t open it with extreme care.

As cookbooks go, it’s not that big. Less than 200 pages, in fact. And as cookbooks go, it has a fair number of recipes, but not a vast number. It’s the quality of the recipes that count and the particular interest of their cultural background.

The book is Rivka Goldman’s Mama Nazima’s Jewish-Iraqi Cuisine. I wish it was much longer with way more detail, because what it says about that particular Jewish culture and set of foodways has left me hungry for more. My mouth waters every page. I want to go out instantly and buy a chicken and stuff it with meat (except it’s midnight and zero degrees and I am going to be strong and restrain myself). I want to make her stuffed quince, too. In fact, I can do that for my Friday night dinner – all I need to buy are pine-nuts and raisins.

Do you know the lovely thing about working so hard on one thing that I forgot another? I get to dream of Mama Nazima’s recipes all night. This is a good thing, as my story was a horror story and last night I spooked myself so entirely that I couldn’t get to sleep till 3 am.

On my way to bed I shall detour via the kitchen, I think, and tell the quinces they are going to get stuffed.

Pancakes, the solstice and international finances

Saturday, June 21st, 2008

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I ought to be struggling with international finances ($130 worth) and instead I’m writing a blog entry. This means I’m conceding defeat on the international finances issue, I guess. I’ve written an email asking for help at the US end of payments for several encyclopedia articles, since the Australian bank has already said “Of course we can cash a cheque – we’ll take most of it in the process, of course.” My scanner refuses to communicate with my computer, so I can’t scan contracts and send then – the publisher will have to wait for the post, and I will then get another cheque that will fuel my banks prosperity. I’m kinda hoping the publisher will be gentle and nice and decide it’s possible to pay me using paypal, but I bet they don’t have that facility.

Anyhow, all this is why I have no food history to tell you about. Instead (once all the forms get back to the publisher) I will have a lovely and rather controversial big article in a new encyclopedia.

The closest I can come to food history tonight is a stray remark that a stranger made to me when we were queuing for pancakes at the market this morning. She said that the pancakes were for the solstice.

I wanted to ask her what kind of background she had and if it was a regional custom or had to do with New Ages stuff. We got talking and it sounded very much as if she meant it to be one of those ancient customs that were invented in the last twenty years. Except… what if I’m letting my biases get in the way of me learning a new bit of food history? If anyone out there ahs a history of eating pancakes on the morning of the solstice, please tell me! I would especially like to hear if your traditions can be clearly attested back at least a hundred years.

Polar expeditions and food in the 19th century

Friday, June 20th, 2008

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I’ve been reading again. I can’t remember if I blogged about this particular book and I’m too lazy to check, so you get to know all about the current book that resides in my handbag.

I was following through some thoughts on the Franklin Expedition. I blogged about it ages ago, focusing on the purely shockworthy. I mentioned the possibility of the lead solder in the tin cans leading to botulism and I might have mentioned cannibalism. What I didn’t say is that expeditions are a great deal more than speculations as to the sad fate of the souls therein. And that, however much fun there is in whispering ‘cannibalism’ with a note of slight terror, finding out about the food realities of a successful polar expeditions are even more interesting. Not as capable of providing frissons, but entirely fascinating in their own right.

That’s what I’m reading right now. McClintock was the leader of one of the expeditions that found out what happened to Franklin and his men. Possibly the most successful expedition, too. It was funded mainly by Franklin’s widow, though it appears to have attracted a lot of support from elsewhere. McClintock turned a yacht into an icebreaker and did some amazing stuff.

I’m totally in love with the food history elements of his report. Pemmican, hunting parties on the ice, keeping scurvy at bay. Reports of food and where it was obtained and how it was prepared lard his report. He talks about how he took his ship westwards late in the season and what food was on board for period when the ship could not travel. There’s so much stuff I don’t know what else to tell you. Except that this little volume will be inhabiting my handbag for the next few weeks. I could read it in a day, but where would be the fun in that? I’m saving it for cold winter bus trips, so that I feel wimpish when the cold bites. Canberra, you see, is far, far warmer than the Arctic.

If there’s a lot more food later in the book, I might do another post. While you wait, let me tell you how to make pemmican.

Air-dry your beef and then shred it as finely as you can. Pound it and mix it with generous amounts (I think McClintock said 50%) of pure beef fat. Now you’re ready for an Artic winter. Or maybe you’re just ready to read Swallows and Amazons.

Escoffier and The Next Food Network Star

Saturday, May 31st, 2008

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I should learn.

Every time I promise you things, life gets in the way. Last night I couldn’t get onto the Food History site to post and today I marketed in the morning and have slept since. If I don’t make promises to blog on a particular subject and a particular day, then all is well, isn’t it? It’s only when I say something that the universe steps in and says “No, not gonna do that.”

So, The Next Food Network Star. What did I see in it that got me so excited?

First of all, it’s a fairly typical reality show in a bunch of ways. Each of the contestants fits at least one of our assumptions of what an aspiring star ought to be. There is the young and sensitive lad who knows not of the Big World and cried when he fails. There’s the chirpy battler with scads of personality. There’s the comedienne who tells herself so often she has to be funny that she dries up when push comes to shove. There’s the man who calls someone else a diva and puts her down then finds himself paired with her for an exercise. All reality shows have this feeling to the first episode. We only find out who the contestants actually are as the season progresses, and sometimes not even then.

This means I’m interested in the contestants that were selected, but not fascinated. I was fascinated by the number of them who, given a half hour to cook something, chose comfort food that was hard to cook in a hurry. I was enthralled by the fact that all those cooking qualifications don’t actually engender depth of food knowledge.

I was intrigued by the TV food expert who explained the essence of TV food in his first sentence. He pointed out the obvious: we can taste or smell or touch the food through the TV screen, yet food is something that appeals to all senses, not just sight. He instructed the finalists to remember that they had to do something special in terms of communicating, given that screen between viewers and the food they talk about.

One of my students commented that you can’t taste the food from a recipe. That’s only true for some people. At least one of my friends and I look at each other when we encounter ingredients. We combine them in our mind and yes, we can taste them ahead of time. What surprised me was that my student was right in terms of the cooking show: we couldn’t taste what they were doing. Somehow, instead of creating a bond between us and food, they put up barriers.

I wish that I could see the whole season. I want to learn how those barriers break down as these cooks learn to communicate with their audience. I want to see who fails and why. I want to know if any of them communicate what Jennifer and I do instinctively – taste food by thinking of it. That’s what the successful cooking show host does, after all: they connect us with food and make it special and worth pursuing.

Mostly, I want to know if the guy from Iron Chef will be subtitled the whole season and if he says any more condemning things about dishes. He’s obviously the no-holds-barred judge and he has a very good way with a one-liner.

From a food history point of view, this program would be very revealing. It’s worth watching to see if using the spotting and development of celebrity through competition leads to changes in the way we identify with cooks and see our food. It’s a new juxtaposition of old components. Celebrity chefs (Taillevent – the Middle Ages), celebrity teachers (Francatelli and Soyer – 19th century), celebrity gourmands (Apicius – Ancient Rome) – these have all appeared separately in lots of our pasts. Now, though, they all appear together, in a competition to find an Escoffier. Except it isn’t really a competition to find an Escoffier. It’s a competition to find a TV host for a food show. A kind of mini-Escoffier. Somewhere down the food chain. Popular, but not a world leader.

I so wish that this was being shown in Australia. American Idol for foodies has so much potential for entertainment of the snarky sort and so much inherent possibility for food history analysis.

It starts this week. And yes, I still want to know who left the show that first episode, should any of you happen to see it.

The Next Food Network Star, Series 2 - background

Thursday, May 29th, 2008

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Today is day #1 of a special two day post. The Food Network kindly sent me a DVD of the first episode of the next season of “The Next Food Network Star.” I have some thoughts on its value for food history, but I’ll get to them tomorrow. Today I have two quite particular things to say.

The first was that the review DVD did not include the final few minutes of the session (for obvious reasons), where I would have found who was thrown out that day. May I put in a plea to at least one of my US readers to let me know what happens? I so want to know who leaves the show and why!!

The second was that food TV is becoming an increasing part of our food history. Sometimes it plays the same part as the 1920s detailed instruction manuals I was reading earlier in the year. Sometime it gives teaching techniques to the novice, and fills part of the role of nineteenth century writers like Francatelli. Sometimes it has that star factor and gives us the temper tantrums and joyous antics of the famous chef or gourmand (I’m hoping that they follow Escoffier in this and not Apcius).

Food TV doesn’t meet just one aspect of our food needs – it covers a whole range of them. So what about the “The Food Network Star”? What roles does it fill?

See you again, same time, same station, where all will be revealed.

PS I’m still open to additions to my list of topics to explore here over the next six months. Speak up, and speak often, which is way more ethical than voting early and often.

Medlars, persimmons and the shape of the world

Monday, May 19th, 2008

Table talk tin

Today I’m posting a little early. By ‘a little early,’ I mean at least twelve hours early. This is because today is unbelievably busy and I really don’t want to do what I normally do on an unbelievably busy day and post after midnight. Tomorrow, you see, is likewise frantic.

Today I want to talk about persimmons and medlars. This is partly because I have both in the house. I have one small bowl of medlars and have just made three giant jars of liqueur not to be opened for at least eighteen months. I have a giant bowl of persimmons and still have to decide what to do with them.

When the English settlers saw persimmons in North America, they compared them to medlars because both have very distinctive ways of ripening. You can’t eat them straight from the tree, but have to wait until they go all mushy. Both of them are early winter fruit and the ‘rotting’ that has to happen to make the fruit edible is triggered by frost, I believe.

This is called ‘bletting’ in a medlar, and I talked about it this time last year, when I set myself the exciting task of watching many medlars undergo the process. This year I was all kinds of blasé about bletting until I discovered the link made with persimmons because of it. I think my favourite mention (courtesy the OED because I couldn’t remember where I aw the quote originally) is from around 1612 where a guy called Strachey wrote in a work about Virginia “They haue a Plomb which they call Pessemmins like to a Meddeler in England, but of a deepe tawny cullour.”

Anyhow, all that is the background. What’s interesting about the Strachey statement and others is that they imply that persimmons were new to each and every one of the writers in question. This implies that they are solely found in North America.

Persimmons are North American, true, but they’re also found in China and Japan, as native species. What’s more, at least one of the major Japanese varieties doesn’t need its innards to jellify before it’s perfectly edible. You can cut it like an apple and crunch into it the moment you have it in your hands.

What’s interesting about this is that it means that the great travelers who wrote about persimmons in North America and compared them to plums and medlars had not actually traveled in China and Japan or to any place close enough to them to know about persimmons. This is using food history to help show the shape of the world. Lots of people knew lots about China and Japan in the seventeenth century. Just not everyone.

I guess I’m saying that different groups had different understanding of the world. Those people who were focused on the New World didn’t necessarily know much about other parts of the Old World.

There are good reasons for this, political and religious and socio-cultural, but what’s interesting to me is that how those people who were curious about all these new places could be entirely ignorant of the foodstuffs of their neighbours (from the same continent equals neighbouring in my book!). The Silk Road meant that there was far more regular travel between the two regions, than between Europe and North America at the same time. Yet regular contact still only meant irregular knowledge.

This is how persimmons and medlars can help us understand the shape of knowledge. Understanding the history of the way we see fruit can help us understand the way we see ourselves and our place in the world.

Food history from secondary sources - a couple of Medievalish thoughts

Sunday, May 18th, 2008

medlar-2.jpg

Dave Postles is someone I want to meet one day. He is consistently generous with his research results, making sure that anyone with an interest in any of his subjects is well-treated. Once he sent me a book on names and I kept meaning to email a thank-you, but then I changed computers and lost his email. So he doesn’t know me from a bar of soap, unless he remembers me very slightly as an ungrateful Australian.

Anyhow, his latest gift to the world has some food history connotations, so I thought you needed to know about it and about him. He has put a whole book of his online, free for the taking. It’s called Oseney Abbey Studies and was officially published in Leicester in 2008.

The whole book is full of fascinating stuff for other types of history, but the bits of particular interest for food history start on p. 124, where he talks about markets in Oxfordshire from 1086-1350. These aren’t the international cloth markets or places to buy high-bred horses or Spanish leather, but markets for rural produce, some of which might have been the Medieval equivalent of the market I bought my persimmons at today. (I was going to write a post about those persimmons and their strange relationship with medlars, but it can wait. If you don’t want it to wait too long, though, you might have to remind me.) (more…)

Recipes from a Country Christening 5

Saturday, April 26th, 2008

broad-shot-of-farm.jpg

Sharyn’s children are all christened. I couldn’t be there, because seventh day Passover and christenings really don’t match, but my thoughts were with them all.

She says that she has a couple of posts to take us through the missing food elements and then that’s it: we will have a complete documentation of a rural Australian christening with stories. Although I admit, I wasn’t expecting the Mayan aspect of today’s post.

“Perhaps this one should be called ‘Recipes from before a Country Christening,’ because when you have a wedding, 21st, christening etc in rural Australia, you have people coming from all over the place, and you are never catering for just the one meal. We already have friends here, from both interstate and overseas, more family and friends are expected today, although precise numbers are unclear. So, not being one hundred per cent certain of how many I’ll be feeding, I decided late last night, while roasting the chicken for the ‘Chicken, Leek, and Tarragon Pie’, to make pumpkin soup, and get the makings out for a casserole.

It then made sense, while I had the oven on, to prepare the bread cases for the ‘Smoked Salmon Tartlets’, and one of my houseguests decided to pitch in with her own favourite recipe, what she calls her ‘Sinking Mud Muffins’, so we’ll have something to offer with coffee & tea today. And after all, doesn’t everyone make muffins at midnight?

But she couldn’t have chosen a better comfort food for me. Chocolate has been used as important parts of people’s social and religious lives, since the Mayans grew it in Mesoamerica (250-900 AD). Modern studies have proven what is in it that makes us feel so good, and as a child, my best friend’s mother used to make the darkest, moistest, absolute best chocolate cake. She knew I was somewhat partial to it, so weekends when I stayed over there would always be a big slab of frosted chocolate cake to have with our morning tea mugs of Milo.

As a teenager I moved to Wodonga for work, and my friend moved to Benalla. Whenever she came home, even unexpected visits, she’d ring me, and I’d head straight out to see her. It took me half an hour to get out there and I’d walk in the door, just as her Mum would be removing a freshly baked chocolate cake from the oven. “I knew you were coming?, she’d grin, “so I made you a cake.? It’s not really any wonder I named one of my daughters after this woman.

So today, while I raise a glass in honour of the Anzac’s, make ‘Frangelico Truffles’ as gifts for my boys god-parents, eat chocolate muffins, and my house fills with more of the people I love, I’m sharing my recipe for the truffles. To my mind, nothing else could quite say thank you, to those people for making the commitment they have chosen to make to my children, like handmade chocolate.

Frangelico Chocolate Truffles

Ganache
8 oz (230 g) dark sweet chocolate
2/3 c. heavy cream
2 Tablespoons Frangelico.
Dipping
16 oz. (450 g) dark sweet chocolate
1/4 cup vegetable oil

Garnish
2 cups chocolate shavings.

When chocolate and cream ganache have cooled to room temperature, stir in sherry before refrigerating. Roll dipped truffle in chocolate shavings. “

About Food History

A few herbs, a pinch of spice and foods of the past create your perfect foodie recipe at Food History. Expand your palate with everything from hot scones to hot websites without leaving your computer. At Food History there's a gourmet’s delight of food, health, history, and an amazing side of mushrooms. From holiday food customs to any number of fabulous recipes, you can find out anything and everything about your favorite tasty tidbits.

Food History Author(s)
    » Gillian-Polack

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