Food History

Chocolate tomorrow. Today I’m playing with old files, since I’m moving all my digital cookbooks and some of my historical digital books to something more portable than my hard drive. I like finding food quotes in old books so much that I might do a few more of these sorts of posts, if no-one objects. If you want to object, please do so in the comments.

In the evening, the products were found to be one small nugget weighing a quarter of an ounce, and in gold-dust eight pennyweights, ten grains, being worth, at the digging price for gold, about thirty-five shillings. This was rather less than we hard less calculated upon, and Richard signified his intention of returning to Melbourne, “He could no longer put up with such ungentlemanly work in so very unintellectual a neighbourhood, with bad living into the bargain.” These last words, which were pronounced SOTTO VOCE, gave us a slight clue to the real cause of his dislike to the diggings, though we, did not thoroughly understand it till next morning. It originated in some bottles of mixed pickles which he had in vain wanted Frank, who this week was caterer for the party, to purchase at four shillings a bottle, which sum, as we were all on economical thoughts intent, Frank refused to expend on any unnecessary article of food. This we learnt next morning at breakfast, when Richard congratulated himself on that being the last meal he should make of tea, damper and muton, without the latter having something to render it eatable. The puddling and cradling work had, I fancy, given the finishing stroke to his disgust. Poor Dick! he met with little commiseration: we could not but remember the thousands in the old country who would have rejoiced at the simple fare he so much despised. William, in his laughing way, observed, “that he was too great a pickle himself, without buying fresh ones.”

from A Lady’s Visit to the Gold Diggings of Australia in 1852-53 by Mrs Charles Clacy

It is not for my feeble pen to detail the glories of that day. The little township—buried as it was beneath the shadow of the purple hills, and yet preserving in itself all the petty malice, the local jealousy, the blatant conceit of larger towns—gave loose on this one occasion to the wildest merriment. Local feuds were forgotten, personal hatreds forgiven or suspended. Even Mr. McTaggart, a rabid Orangeman from Derry, forbore to attack Mr. Michael Murphy, a rabid Ribbandman from Clare, and going out into the solitude of the bridge, drank in silence his favourite toast of ‘Here’s the Pope in the devil’s belly, and Martin Luther pitching red hot priests at him!’ a toast which was wont to cause Mr. Murphy’s ‘bhlood to bhoil, bhoys,’ and to bring about wrathful combats. Fighting Fitz, the poundkeeper, who was at daggers drawn with Dick Mossop, Scabby Barton’s overseer, on account of a brindled poley bullock branded P.W. over T.S. on the off rump, with a notch in both ears, and a star on the forehead, consented to be friends again, and even offered to sell Dick a certain bay mare in defiance of the Impounding Act. Rapersole, of course, could not be kept from politics, and insisted on putting what he was pleased to call ’supposititious’ cases in such numbers that Neil Gow, vowing him a bletherin’ bumbee’s byke, took him by the collar, and flourishing the stump of his arm menacingly, deposited him in an empty buggy. The breakfast was an immense success. Tom Trowbridge presided, having formally asked permission to lay aside his unaccustomed coat, and carved a noble round of beef with the air of a gold stick in waiting. But a round of beef was not the only viand. There was mutton broth and cow-heel, and an ox’s head decorated with flowers, and rump steaks, and sweetbreads, and a haggis, and lamb’s head, and sheep’s trotters, and cold saddle of mutton, and preserved peaches, and tins of jam, and sago pudding, and plum duff, and bottled ale, and tea, and sweet cake, and brandy, and rum, and one bottle of champagne for the ladies.

‘My eyes that’s a merry tightener!’ said Chirrup, the mail-boy. ‘Could you eat any more, Archy?’ ‘No fear!’ said Archy, ruefully, ‘them blessed puff-tillooners did my business.’ After the breakfast and the speeches—you should have heard Rapersole’s!—and the digestive smoke, drinking and dancing commenced, Trowbridge doing his best to carry out his promise to Neil Gow and vindicate his self-impugned title to his name. Some notion of the result may be gleaned from a glance at his bill, duly paid by Mrs. Keturah Harris two days afterwards.

To Mr. George Harris’ weding brakefast:-
… … … Pounds shilg. d.
The brakefast … … … 10 0 0
Noblers … … … 0 2 0
8 spiders … … … 0 8 0
Dit o … … … 0 8 0
Refreshments for lades … … … 2 0 0
Peppermint drops … … … 0 1 0
ginger Bear and bitters … … … 0 0 6
Drinks, phromiskus … … … 1 10 0
Squar gin for six … … … 0 3 6
Kake speshul … … … 1 10 0
Shout round … … … 5 0 0
Dit o … … … 5 0 0
Music … … … 2 0 0
Drinks for same … … … 0 10 0
Rossin … … … 0 2 6
10 noblers … … … 0 5 0
24 spiders … … … 1 4 0
Tobaco … … … 0 2 0
24 noblers … … … 1 4 0
2 broken chares … … … 1 0 0
1 winder … … … 2 10 0
Hoarse feed … … … 9 0 0
Shout all round … … … 5 10 0
Dit o parting … … … 5 10 0
Beds for 12 … … … 2 0 0
Shampane for lades … … … 1 0 0
Tottal … … … 56 0 6
Received by cash … … … 56 0 6

T. TROWBRIDGE.

In the consumption of such items as those mentioned above did the day wear out; and Trowbridge nobly fulfilled his promise. Of the sixty or seventy persons present, but a very insignificant number went home sober. Indeed, had it not been for the coquetry of Jenny Joyce, who, riding her father’s bay horse, Walkover, dared any of the young men to give her five minutes’ start and catch her before she reached the Bluff, there is no saying what might have happened.

from Australian Tales, 1896, by Marcus Clarke