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Royal Jelly

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Jim Broadbent as King William IV having a row with the Duchess of Kent in front of an assemblage of some of my Georgian dessert food, including some Savoy cakes and a moulded ice cream in the form of a palm tree.
About five years ago I recreated King William IV's birthday dinner for The Young Victoria, which has recently been repeated on BBC television here in the UK. I remember arriving at the chosen location Arundel Castle in my rather small Citroen with enough food to set up a vast dessert table for one hundred diners. Nobody on the set could believe how a repast of such ambitious scale could emerge from the back of such a modest vehicle. I guess it was a kind of regal retake on the miracle of the loaves and fishes. However, having a background in decorative arts and museums, I was horrified by the rather inappropriate tableware that was provided by the prop department. At the original entertainment in 1836 at Windsor Castle, William's table was dressed with brother George VI's Grand Service, still used by the present Queen for state banquets. This was far, far grander than the bric-a-brac we were given to dress our table. The food stylist Katherine Tidy and I set about attempting to hide all the late Victorian crockery under the food. I think we succeeded in creating a fairly royal impression as the dishes were so glamorous, the rather poor stuff upon which they sat fortunately went unnoticed. 

A hundred diners sat down to William's birthday table in 1836. It was much grander than this version we produced for The Young Victoria, as the table was laid with the Grand Service purchased by William's brother earlier in the century from the London goldsmiths Rundell, Bridge and Rundell. 
If you have not seen this film, it is a love story spiced with some juicy dynastic intrigue in its early stages. It attempts to give an impression of the grandeur of court life at this period with lots of fancy frocks and ringlets - and with the food of course. However for me the more successful moments were the quieter ones which explored the passionate love which developed between the young queen and her handsome prince, eventually culminating in their marriage. In real life they had twenty happy years together, but Albert sadly died at the age of forty-two and Victoria mourned him for the rest of her long life. Whenever I walk past my kitchen dresser I tend to think about the lonely widowed queen, as in a prominent position sits a solitary jelly mould made in her image. It is a typical neo-gothic creation surmounted with a profile of the young queen. When it was issued to commemorate the royal marriage in 1840, it had a pendant - another mould, which I do not possess, representing Prince Albert. So sadly the young queen sits in my kitchen alone, just as she did for 40 years after her Prince Consort's death.
Queen Victoria (1819-1901)
Below is the royal jelly anthropomorph which the mould creates, looking somewhat like a cameo. Just recently I was offered a matching Albert mould, but at such an inflated price, that I am afraid Victoria continues to sit alone on my dresser.
  

The other half of the pair - Prince Albert of Sax-Coburg and Gotha (1819-1861).
Would look good with a clean, but too many $$$$s, so Victoria remains widowed

The Royal pair were also made in this plainer version
Has any nation other than Britian celebrated their rulers in this eccentric way? 


Chef Comes To Pemberley

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And Throws His Teddy Bear Out Of The Pram!

A still from a kitchen scene in Death Comes to Pemberley, a BBC drama production based on the novel by P.D. James
Earlier this year I was invited to dress a couple of food scenes in the three-part period drama series Death Comes to Pemberley, which is currently screening on BBC television. One of them, a very ambitious ball supper table that features in an Elizabeth Darcy day dream, hardly made it into the final edit. A pity, because it was truly spectacular. But two brief kitchen scenes I set up did get used. In order to make the kitchen sequence exciting from a cinematic point of view, I suggested to the director that I should train the actors to carry out real culinary tasks from the Regency period - larding meat, icing Savoy cakes, garnishing hatelet skewers and unmoulding jellies. I thought these would be more visually exciting alternatives to the stereotypical choppy-choppy, kneady-kneady activities that had been suggested. He thought this was a great idea and put it to me that I actually play the chef. I had some reservations, but accepted the role as I thought it would actually make my job easier supervising the kitchen activities, so my measurements were passed on to the wardrobe department.

The ball supper that never happened. A somewhat out of focus pan of a few dishes made it into the final edit
I enjoy doing this sort of thing for film and television, but I come from a different world and I sometimes get annoyed by the rather elastic licence that is frequently taken by media creatives with the word 'authentic'. It is usually given as the reason for involving me in productions of this kind. When I was first invited to work on this one I was told, 'We want the kitchen table to be really, really authentic and you are the man to do it'. Now that is fine, because I have built a career on attempting to recreate period food in all of its glory in historic settings. So why was I more than a little surprised when I saw the way in which the wonderful kitchen at Harewood House had been set up by the art department prior to my arrival? 

Blood drips from the game birds on to the fine pastry and elaborate ball supper dishes below, but it does n't half frame the shot!
The flagged kitchen floor had been covered with numerous large sacks of vegetables, making it look more like a market place than a palace kitchen. Hanging from an improvised gantry over the ancient Harewood work table were dozens of pheasants and rabbits. Now what is wrong with that you might well ask? Surely it sets the scene and creates a great atmosphere of a busy kitchen, the hanging game framing the shot perfectly. 

Let us take the vegetables first. The only vegetables that found their way into a kitchen of this status were ones that has been cleaned, peeled and prepared for the chef and his maids by the scullery staff. Raw vegetables were stored well away from the hot kitchen in specially designed bins to keep them cool and from under the feet of the staff. As for the game, there was a specialised game larder for that. Any game bird that came into the kitchen at Pemberley would have been plucked, cleaned and singed in the scullery before it arrived in the kitchen. Some great houses, like Chatsworth, the main location for the production, actually had a specialised 'plucking room'. The last thing you would hang over a table that was designed for the preparation of very fine food were game birds and rabbits dripping blood. I pointed this out and added the observation that the pheasants were in fact hanging by their legs when they should have been hanging by their necks. I was reassured that 'nobody will notice'. A few minutes later Lady Harewood, whose family owns the house, popped in to see how her wonderful kitchen had been dressed and expressed exactly the same concerns about the inappropriate game birds that I had. When told, 'but don't they look good', she replied, 'they look ridiculous'. 

An hour or so later, I noticed the pheasants had been hung the right way round, but remained suspended over a table dressed with delicate pastries and dessert dishes. This was the moment I decided that I did not want to be seen dead in front of it as a member of the cast and told the director that I was turning down my 'bijou' role as the chef. I threw my teddy bear out of the pram! A stand-in was found - a real actor, who suited the part much better than me and the show went on. However, you will notice my hands unmoulding an intricate macedoine jelly at one point. 

Despite my misgivings about the way in which the kitchen had been decorated, I really enjoyed working on the production. The crew and cast were delightful. And it is always a pleasure to work at Harewood, a house with which I have a long professional association.
Mrs Darcy (Anna Maxwell Martin) and Mrs Reynolds the housekeeper (Joanna Scanlan) inspect the preparations for the ball supper in the Harewood kitchen.

To Roast a Pound of Butter

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Some butter rotates 'a good distance from the fire' on a wooden spit in an abortive attempt to roast a pound of butter according to instructions from William Ellis, The Family Companion (London: 1750). 
From Hannah Glasse, The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy (London: 1747)
Don't waste your time with this one. Although if you do try it and actually succeed in making this mysterious dish, please let me know exactly how you did it, as you may have stumbled across the culinary holy grail. Over the past three decades I have tried many times 'to roast a pound of butter'. All my attempts failed. On each occasion, I was convinced I had overlooked (or not understood) some important detail in the recipe. Some time after each frustrating failure, I would foolishly have another go. Over the years I have tried three different recipes - that reproduced above from Hannah Glasse (1747) -  the earliest printed recipe I know from Gervase Markham (1615) - and a so-called Irish method from William Ellis (1750) - recipes below. All have ended in failure and I have tried all these slightly different methods more than once. Yet something tells me that this was not a joke or hoax and it could have been successfully done. Or perhaps I am a gullible fool. So where have I gone wrong?

From Gervase Markham, The English Housewife (London: 1656 edition - first published 1615)
Markham's recipe is different from the others. Sugar and sweet butter (meaning freshly churned and unsalted butter) are beaten up with egg yolks as in the early stages of mixing a cake. This was the first recipe I ever tried. I found that in order to get the mixture onto a spit it was necessary to let it stiffen by putting it in a cold place. I 'clapped' the stiffened butter preparation on an old wrought iron spit, probably made in Markham's lifetime, and since I understood the term 'soft fire' as a low fire I cautiously rotated it about twenty-five inches in front of the flames. Remember that roasting takes place in front of the fire and 'not over the fire' as many who should know much better often say. As the outside softened I dredged it with a mixture of breadcrumbs, currants, sugar and salt as advised by Markham in the previous recipe for roasting a suckling pig - see below. So far so good. The rotating mass was soon covered with a jacket of uncooked breadcrumbs, but when I brought this a little closer to the fire to 'roast it brown' the breadcrumbs started to slide off as the butter below melted. I dredged these 'bald areas', but gradually more globules of butter mixed with the dredging would fall off. Finally, the iron spit got hot and the whole sorry project fell off into the dripping pan below. Failure number one.

From Gervase Markham, The English Housewife (London: 1656 edition - first published 1615)
I realised that using an iron spit was not a good idea. I had noticed that in his 1750 version of the dish, the Hertfordshire farmer William Ellis suggests using a wooden spit. I thought this was a more sensible approach because metal conducts the heat more quickly, resulting in the butter falling off before the process can be completed. The recipe was given to Ellis by 'a certain Irish woman' who claims to have made twenty-seven pounds of roasted butter one Christmas Eve. I first had a go at doing it this way about twenty years ago. Although the butter did not fall off, the dredging of oatmeal did. Failure number two. 

From William Ellis, The Family Companion, (London: 1750).
I eventually attempted Hannah Glasse's 1747 method, but using a wooden spit as advised by Ellis. This time the butter was dredged with breadcrumbs before it was put down to the fire and basted with egg yolks. Again the dredging dropped off as the butter softened. The dripping pan filled with a soft buttery porridge! I am glad I did not waste any oysters, which would have been covered in this unpleasant looking gloop. Failure number three. John Timbs in his Things Not Generally Known (London: 1859) describes Glasse's recipe as 'a culinary folly'.

Just for fun this year, I had another go at Ellis's 'Irish' method. Some Irish friends who turned up on Christmas Eve were intrigued when I told them that roasting a pound of butter could have been an old Irish Christmas Eve tradition. Since I had a fire in the hearth, we had another go at it and the photographs below record that latest attempt. I am always hopeful that I can get this to work, but as you can see it was just another failure.

A pound of butter is put on a wooden spit
Fine oatmeal is dusted on the rotating butter.
The oatmeal crust is shed as the butter underneath melts.
Now all this begs the question - was Markham pulling our leg? If so, he certainly made a gull out of me. So was this just an old culinary joke? If this was the case it does not surprise me that Hannah Glasse was taken in by the ruse. Despite what many others think about her, this particular lady is certainly no kitchen heroine of mine. I agree with her contemporary rival, the Hexham innkeeper Ann Cook, that Glasse was a high-born charlatan who almost certainly did not cook any of the dishes she describes in her book (more on this particular issue one day in another post). Surprisingly Cook does not specifically attack her rival's instructions for roasting a pound of butter in her toxic sixty-eight page critique of Glasse's recipes in Professed Cookery (Newcastle: 1754). However, I doubt very much that Hannah ever had a go at it. 

So how about the Irishwoman who claimed to Ellis that she had roasted 'twenty- seven pounds so' in a day? In my experiments I found that things started to go wrong after about twenty minutes in front of a slow fire. If she succeeded in producing the quantity she claimed, it would have been a long working day on that particular Christmas Eve. Was she feeding Ellis the Blarney? It is obvious from his account that he had not actually witnessed the process or eaten the results. I suspect she may have been lying because I am unaware of any other Irish accounts of this dish. Put me right if you do. 

Now I am aware of various techniques for deep frying butter coated in breadcrumbs or batter, but that is a completely different technique from this particular 'culinary folly'. Alexis Soyer for instance, gives a recipe for Croustades de Beurre in The Gastronomic Regenerator (London: 1846) in which little cylinders of very cold butter are rolled in breadcrumbs three times and then deep fried, resulting in little hollow croustades that can be filled with some savoury preparation. Modern dishes similar to Soyer's Croustades de Beurre (see the link below) instruct us to freeze the butter before it is deep fried. Perhaps the Irish lady put her butter out in the cold to freeze hard before she roasted it. Glasse's instructions to brine the butter before roasting it may have had a minor refrigerant effect, but I think I am clutching at straws here. Even when it is frozen hard the coating still falls of in front of a soft fire and even more rapidly in front of a fierce one. 


Macedoine Jelly Revisited

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A couple of glamorous victorian entremets in my kitchen

Just a quickie. I have just spent a couple of days filming with a BBC crew making a number of items of period food. Yesterday I put together a couple of nineteenth century maraschino fruit macedoine jellies to show how glamorous Victorian food could be - at least on the upper class table. I am posting a few iPhone snapshots I took in my kitchen this morning of the jellies with their fruit garnitures. I have garnished them with a couple of nice silver hatelet skewers from the 1870s, which gives them a striking sense of formality.

A neo-gothic macedoine mould and liner from Urbain Dubois, Cosmopolitan Cookery (London: 1870). I am fortunate enough to own a complete example of this two component mould, so am able to replicate these stunning Victorian entremets with a great deal of accuracy. 
Two different macedoine jellies with their moulds. To stop it moving or floating in the jelly, the inner liner is clipped to the outer mould.


If you are tempted by these dishes, why not learn how to make them yourself on my Jellies and Moulded Foods Course

A Medieval Meal for Real

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The roasting range in the kitchen of Gainsborough Hall, probably being used for the first time in four hundred years as it was intended, for roasting a full range of meats and poultry for a high status meal. A goose sawce madame, four rabbits, four mallard, a woodcock and other game birds roast on the hand turned spits.
I am often rather grumpy about the way in which food history is represented on British television. Commissioning editors in this country seem to regard it as a niche subject area only suitable for three minute intercuts into popular food programmes such as The Great British Bake Off. I suspect the purpose of these bijou interludes is to afford viewers a brief moment to make a coffee between the thrills and spills of the great cupcake, or gingerbread house challenge. Another approach has been the 'Carry on Banqueting' comedic slant, such as that of the Supersizers series some years ago, when Giles Coren and Sue Perkins took the piss out of our culinary past, while a medley of well-known celebrity chefs made fools of themselves making a mess at recreating ancient dishes. Because the food genre is considered a branch of entertainment, there has never been a serious cultural survey of our food traditions. You might say, 'what about the living history programmes, such as The Tudor Farm, or Clarissa Dixon-Wright's Hannah Glasse or The King's Cooks?' I don't suppose I am going to be popular for saying it, but I am afraid these programmes give the false impression that the food of our ancestors was terribly lumpen and unskillfully prepared. Watching the 'expert' presenters for instance, making raised pies that look like wobbly junior school pots does not really celebrate the incredible skills that our ancestors possessed in pastry work. I am afraid that they really need to up their game. 

When a virtuoso chef such as Heston Blumenthal is given the opportunity to examine our culinary past, he favours an approach which tends to use highly technical contemporary methods, telling us more about modern restaurant presentation than past traditions. Very little recognition is given to real experts. For instance, the makers of a recent BBC documentary about the food writer Dorothy Hartley actually filmed Peter Brears in his home kitchen talking about her dessert recipes. But this excellent sequence never made it into the final edit. This is ironic, as the outstanding contribution that Mr Brears has made to our understanding of English food will prove in the long term to be far, far more important than that of Miss Hartley. I think we have a lot of growing up to do when it comes to this subject on British television. 

Imagine my surprise then, when I was recently invited by KBS, the South Korean equivalent of the BBC to work with them on a programme about medieval food and dining in England. They did n't want a celebrity chef or restaurant critic presenter and they did n't want to dumb down the narrative. What they did want was to celebrate the true history of English food using real expertise, rather than bang on in the usual stereotypical way about how bad it was. During the process of making the documentary, which was directed by the celebrated Korean producer Kim Seung Ook, I quickly discovered the remarkable technical virtuosity, fresh perceptions and high production values of his outstanding crew. 

The recipe for Sawce Madame, a goose stuffed with quinces, pears and herbs from The Forme of CuryThis is a page from a c.1420s version of the text - courtesy John Rylands Library, University of Manchester. The original text dates from the 1390s. 
My aim was to accurately recreate an ambitious medieval meal in a high status household, so we chose to film at Gainsborough Hall in Lincolnshire with its wonderful great hall and kitchen complex. I enlisted the help of the outstanding re-enactment group Lord Burgh's Retinue, who regularly work at the hall. Led by Paul Mason, the group excelled themselves in a long, but exciting day's filming. I coached the kitchen crew in using their roasting range properly, showing them how to splint a salmon with hazel wands and how to skewer meats authentically, so they did n't stay still while the spits rotated. We also spent two days in my own kitchen where I demonstrated the preparation of a number of fifteenth century dishes, including a sawce madame, bake metes of partridge, gingerbread decorated with box leaves and a hastelet of fruyte. At Gainsborough we filmed a high table sequence led by Paul with full Plantagenet dining ritual, from Latin grace and blessing to washing of hands with an ewer and basin. The table and buffet was dressed correctly for the period and there were demonstrations of carving, sewing and correct service.

The finished sawce madame at the servery 

A bake mete of partridge surmounted by the bird itself with gilded beak and spots of gold on its feathers
A soteltie waits to be taken to the top table 
The kitchen at Gainsborough Old Hall
A chastelet, a pie made in the form of a castle with different fillings in each tower awaits a spectacular flambé with brandy before being brought to the table
An early fifteenth century gingerbread coloured with red sanders is ornamented with box leaves pinned on with cloves
The great hall at Gainsborough. There was originally a lantern on the roof, which allowed the smoke from the central hearth to escape. The magnificent perpendicular oriel window floods the high table with bright light.
KBS director Kim Seung Ook(second from right) and his remarkable crew. Development producer Gina McDonald, who co-ordinated the production in the UK with me is in the middle.
The programme will be screened later this year as an episode in the wonderful KBS series A Food Odyssey, a visually stunning and highly intelligent global celebration of food culture. A DVD will also be available. BBC commissioning editors please take note. 

To Roast a Pike

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A pike roasted in front of the fire according to the directions in Elizabeth Birkett Here Booke 1699. It is stuffed with pickled herring, herbs, spices, anchovies, butter and garlic.
I am currently working on a project at a wonderful seventeenth century house not far from where I live in the Lake District in a stunning village called Troutbeck. The property, which is called Townend Farm, is now in the ownership of the National Trust, but for many centuries was the former home of the Brown family. The Browns were 'statesmen', a local term for farmers who were proprietors of their own land. Statesmen farmers were a fiercely independent bunch who valued education. The Browns were no exception. Over many generations they built up an extensive library and never threw anything away. A vast collection of their domestic papers has survived, leaving a remarkable record of the minutiae of domestic life in this beautiful house over nearly four centuries. 

Townend Farm, Troutbeck, Cumbria - perhaps the best surviving example of a Lake District statesman's house.
Among the papers is a small hand written collection of medical, domestic and cookery recipes which was compiled in 1699 by Elizabeth Birkett, also from Troutbeck, who married the house's owner Benjamin Brown in 1702. With my help, the National Trust are using this book, which is now on display at Townend, to interpret the domestic life of the house as it was in Elizabeth's day. I have trained the staff to cook some of her recipes in the 'downhouse' (kitchen), so every Thursday visitors are treated to  'A Taste of Townend'. I have also set up the 'firehouse' (best room) with a table laid with typical dishes of early eighteenth century Lakeland. One of these is a replica of Elizabeth's roast pike recipe. In order to make this very convincing replica, I had first to roast a real pike using her directions.
Elizabeth's 1699 recipe for roasting pike, a fish which has always been plentiful in the English Lakes.
Although they are displayed in front of a nineteenth century fireplace, the cob irons and spit in this photograph date from the lifetime of Elizabeth Birkett. It is just the sort of arrangement that could have been adapted for roasting a large fish such as a pike.
This wainscot chair is carved with the initials of Benjamin and Elizabeth Brown and 1702 - the date of their marriage. It was however, carved much later than this.
To roast a large fish like a pike on a spit requires a technique sometimes called 'splinting' which involves lashing hazel wands around the fish to create a cage. This  prevents the fish falling off when it starts to cook and become fragile. Elizabeth must have used this method, though she does not mention it in her recipe. A very full account of the technique was given by Isaac Walton in The Compleat Angler (London: 1653) in a recipe which is very similar to that of Elizabeth. However, Walton suggests filling the pike's belly with oysters, while Elizabeth gives the alternative of pickled herring. I have tried both recipes and they are equally good. I always use Walton's directions to splint the fish with lathes and filleting.

Isaac Walton (1594-1683) by Jacob Huysmans. 
Here are Walton's directions -

'First, open your Pike at the gills, and if need be, cut also a little slit towards his belly; out of these take his guts, and keep his liver, which you are to shred very small with Time, Sweet-margerome and a little Winter-savoury; to these put some pickled Oysters, and some Anchovies two or three, both these last whole (for the Anchovies will melt, and the Oysters should not); to these you must adde also a pound of sweet butter, which you are to mix with the herbs that are shred, and let them all be well salted (if the Pike be more than a yard long, then you may put into these herbs more than a pound, or if he be lesse, then lesse Butter will suffice): these being thus mixt with a blade or two of Mace, must be put into the Pikes belly, and then his belly sowed up, and so sowed up, as to keep all the Butter in his belly if it be possible, if not, then as much of it as you possible can, but take not off the scales; then you are to thrust the spit through his mouth out at his tayl, and then with four, or five, or six split sticks, or very thin lathes, and a convenient quantity of Tape or Filliting, these lathes are to be tyed round about the Pikes body from his head to his tayl, and the Tape tyed somewhat thick to prevent his breaking or falling off from the spit, let him be roasted very leasurely, and often basted with Claret wine, and Anchovyes, and Butter mixt together, and also with what moisture falls from him into the pan: when you have roasted him sufficiently you are to hold under him (when you unwind or cut the Tape that tyes him) such a dish as you purpose to eat him out of; and let him fall into it with the sawce that is rosted in his belly, and by this means the Pike will be kept unbroken and compleat: then to the sawce, which was within, and also in the pan, you are to adde a fit quantity of the best Butter, and to squeeze the juyce of three or four Oranges: lastly, you may either put into the Pike with the Oysters, two cloves of Garlick, and take it whole out, when the Pike is cut off the spit, or to give the sawce a hogo, let the dish (into which you let the Pike fall) be rubbed with it: the using or not using of this Garlick is left to your discretion.'

From Isaac Walton, The Compleat Angler (London: 1653).
A Windermere pike about to be lashed to a spit with a cradle made of hazel lathes and tape (filleting).
The pike roasts in front of the fire/
A salmon cooked using the same method. This was roasted at Gainsborough Hall a few months ago. Note the similarity of the cob irons to those at Townend Farm.
A pike roasted to Elizabeth's recipe and garnished with jagged Seville oranges.
The pike for the Townend table
A special occasion dinner in the Townend Firehouse
A recipe for a sauce for boiled pike in Elizabeth's hand, but given to her by Lady Winifred Strickland of Sizergh Hall. 
Winifred Trentham Lady Strickland, by William Wissing. Courtesy NT. 
Elizabeth's recipe book contains a number of old charms for various ailments that would have been frowned upon as 'papist' in late seventeenth century Westmorland. There are also a number of recipes from local Catholic recusant families such as the Braithwaites of Burneside and most notably from the Stricklands of Sizergh Hall. I have reproduced Madame Strickland's sawce for boyld pike above. After the Glorious Revolution of 1688 Lord and Lady Strikland went into exile in France with James II. It is possible that Elizabeth's family were Catholics. I will deal with some Elizabeth's other recipes in future postings.

Visit Townend Farm website

Ryce Puddings in Scoured Guts

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Rice puddings boiled in skins made from Gervase Markham's 1615 recipe (see below)
When I was a child, I frequently heard the popular idiom, 'he could n't knock the skin off a rice pudding' - usually being applied to someone who had behaved in a cowardly way. The skin referred to, was of course that delicious, caramelised, not-quite-burnt crust that forms on a British oven baked rice pudding. Many of us, including me, are of the opinion that this nutmeg-scented membrane is the choicest bit of this once ubiquitous and homely pud. But in the far distant past the skin of a rice pudding had a more literal meaning. During Shakespeare's lifetime, rice puddings were usually made in lengths of intestine, what we would now call sausage skins - they were literally cooked in skins. So the earliest recipes for rice pudding indicate that it was originally one of the vast genus of true boiled puddings made in animal guts that were popular and widespread during the early modern period and beyond.  Some of its first cousins, like mealy puddings, white puddings and black puddings still survive to this day. The recipe in black letter below is for a rice pudding of this kind published a year before Shakespeare died, in which a mixture of boiled rice and other ingredients is stuffed into 'scoured guts' before they are parboiled.

From John Murrell, A Newe Booke of Cookery. (London: 1615).
Murrell's recipe stands out as it calls for barberries, as well as the more usual currants included in puddings of this kind. Nowadays barberries, the fruits of the British native Berberis vulgaris L. are hardly used at all in British cookery, but were immensely popular at this time for their pleasant acidic flavour and stunning red colour. They were frequently used as a striking garnish and were the basis of a number of sweetmeats and preserves. Another important role they enjoyed was to add acidity as well as colour to forcemeats, pie fillings and in this case - puddings.  
The bright red fruits of Berberis vulgaris L.

Early pudding makers used little funnels to fill the lengths of intestine, a procedure that is beautifully and amusingly illustrated in the seventeenth century engraving below. Although one can get good at it with practice, this is a slow and laborious process. An improvement came with the introduction of pudding forcers, a kind of syringe which the length of gut could be stretched over. But even these were hard to use, though considerably faster than the funnels.
How a pudding funnel was used at this period - slow work!
A long length of gut was massaged over the neck of the pudding funnel.
The pudding mixture was then pushed through the funnel into the gut with a finger
A pudding forcer made an easier job of this messy and slow business.
A rare contemporary engraved portrait of Gervase Markham, equestrian, playwright and author of  books on countless subjects. Like Murrell, Markham published a recipe for Rice puddings in skins in 1615 in his celebrated recipe collection, The English Housewife (London: 1615). Here it is below.
Gervase Markham's recipe for rice puddings, published the same year as Murrell's. By 'farms' is meant 'forms, a common term for guts.
I made both Murrell's and Markham's rice puddings a few days ago for a dinner celebrating the 450th anniversity of Shakespeare's birthday. Variant recipes for rice puddings continued to be published in the later seventeenth century, that below coming from Robert May's The Accomplisht Cook (London: 1660), with a specific direction to tie the ends of the guts together, making a ring shaped pudding. This incarnation is flavoured generously with a whole pint of rose-water!
From Robert May's The Accomplisht Cook (London: 1660)
Another of May's rice pudding recipes instructs us to boil a very similar preparation in a bag or napkin. However, as an afterthought, he explains that when you make rice puddings in guts, you should toast them before the fire 'in a silver dish or tosting pan'. This makes much more sense of Murrell's 1615 recipe, who instructs us to parboil the puddings, indicating that there was a second cooking process to follow. Toasting or broiling them afterwards cooks the puddings so they end up looking like grilled sausages. 
From Robert May's The Accomplisht Cook (London: 1660)
Robert May's marrow puddings of rice and grated bread simmer for about quarter and hour. Like all skin puddings, the forms must not be tightly filled as the contents will swell and burst the skins. They must also be pricked to release any air before they are very gently poached in the simmering, not boiling, water.
Before the puddings are toasted in front of the fire, I find that hanging them up to dry out for a day really improves them.
A toasted rice pudding
Rice puddings like this survived into the eighteenth century, as witness this recipe from the Yorkshire cookery author Elizabeth Moxon. 
Rice puddings boiled in skins from Elizabeth Moxon (Leeds: 1749). Elizabeth tells us to 'cree' the rice in milk. This interesting word is from the French crever, to burst or split. To cree rice or frumenty was to boil it until it burst and came to a soft mash. However, it could also mean to crush, mill or kibble. The wheat or barley used for making frumenty was 'creed' or crushed in a 'creeing trough'. 

A Victorian Altar to Curry and Other Events

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A high Victorian table at Hutton-in-the-Forest (Photo: Cressida Vane)
I have been so busy over the past few months, that I have had no time at all to post on this blog. I have really missed it. So very briefly, here are some of the things I have been doing lately. As well as catching up with various writing commitments, much of my summer has been taken up with filming what seems like innumerable food history features for popular BBC programmes, such as the Great British Bake Off, James Martin's Home Comforts and others. However, the real highlight of the year was working with my Korean friend Wook-Jung Lee on another episode of his remarkable series A Food Odyssey. This time we looked at curry in Victorian England and the images here are of a 1890s table I recreated for the programme. Various Anglo-Indian curries and some English savoury dishes are served around a dessert set out on a surtout de table. You might spot a Twelfth Cake in the middle of the table, which I made for another production, but just for fun recycled it here as a striking centrepiece. It took me two days to make and decorate, so I thought I would get a bit of extra mileage out of it. 


A Victorian Moorghabee or Fowl Pullow made from a recipe in Dr. R. Ridell. Indian Domestic Economy and Receipt Book. (Madras: 1850).
Among the many Indian dishes were a few choice English ones.
The cake also turned up at a lecture/demonstration I gave on the last day of the Commonwealth Games in Glasgow for Scotland Can Make It! To celebrate the Games, ceramic artist Katy West was commissioned to design a Common Wealth jelly mould, made using a clay body provided by Highland Stoneware of Lochinvar and inspired by the Art Deco interior of the celebrated Glasgow restaurant and cocktail bar Rogano. I was invited to put Katy's creation into context at a jelly tasting, which involved an illustrated lecture on the history of moulded foods, a marathon jelly un-moulding session followed by a tasting session at which the eighteen historic jellies I created, rapidly disappeared into the highly enthusiastic audience. 
Photo: Eoin Carey.
A marbree jelly made in Katy West's mould. Photo: Eoin Carey.
Photo: Eoin Carey.
If you missed this event, you may be interested in a few others I am involved in over the next few weeks. On 28th August, I am presenting a lecture in Prague at a conference called La Festa Sontuosa. The event is being held on the 300th anniversity of an entertainment given at his palazzo in Rome on 28th August 1714 by Johanna Wenzel, Count of Gallas, to celebrate the birthday of the Empress Elisabetta Cristina. The conference is being held in the count's Prague residence, the extraordinary baroque Clam Gallas Palace. The most important feature of this event will be the modern world premiere of Sacrificio a Venere, a lost and recently rediscovered serenade composed by Giovanni Battista Bononcini in 1714 especially for the occasion. My lecture Trionfi di Tavola examines the extravagant emblematic table centrepieces created for occasions of this kind.

At the count's entertainment five tables covered in ices, jellies and confectionery regaled the guests after Bononcini's performance. The centrepiece was an artificial tree hung with one hundred and fifty moulded ice cream fruits. A few years ago at the Oxford Food Symposium, my friend Robin Weir demonstrated the logistics of creating an ambitious caprice of this nature on a hot summer's day. Rostislav Muller, one of the organisers of the Prague conference has created a 3-D model of the Gallas table. A reconstruction of the table will feature in the performance later this month.

A detail of he gran rifresco at Count Gallas's party in Rome on 28th August 2014 at which Bononcini's Sacrificio di Venere was first performed. Photo; courtesy of Getty Research Institute.
3D reconstruction (detail) of  the trionfo da tavola designed on the occasion of the celabration of the birthday of Empress Elisabetta Cristina. Copyright Rostislav Maria Muller.
Many different ices, jellies and other items of confectionery featured at Count Gallas's entertainment. This is my own interpretation of a dish described on the table (note the Italian is in its eighteenth century form -'una piramide di gelo d'agresta con odore di gelsomino e con agresta intiera siroppata dentro' - verjuice jelly scented with jasmine, with verjuice grapes in syrup inside  - delicious!    Photo: Eoin Carey.
If you cannot make it to Prague, perhaps you can catch up with me on September 6th at the Museum of Fine Arts in Houston, Texas where I will be giving a lecture at a one day symposium 'The English Country House - Then and Now'. My talk is entitled From Banquet to Ball Supper – Dining and Entertaining in the British Country House 1600-1914.

Nearer to home, I am giving a lecture on early Georgian dining at the Queen's Gallery, Buckingham Palace, London on 17th September entitled Regal Ragouts: courtly dining and cookery in early Georgian Britain

Perhaps I will see some of you at these events. I hope you can make it.



Frederick Nutt's Millefruit Biscuits

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Frederick Nutt's Millefruit Biscuits on a small English bobbin stemmed salver from the 1760s. The raised edge around the top of the salver is perfect for stopping small sweetmeats from slipping, making it very easy to construct miniature pyramids.  
From the seventeenth century onwards English cookery and confectionery texts abound with recipes for a family of biscuits which contain no flour. The ingredients are held together with a simple mixture of powdered sugar and egg white. Base ingredients include everything from dried jasmine flowers, slivered almonds to slices of candied peel. One variant, known as bane bread or bean bread, consists of little piles of flaked almonds held together with an orange or rosewater icing and baked with a generous scattering of caraway comfits. These biscuits were usually baked on wafer paper. They blister a little while cooking and sometimes spread out a little beyond their brittle bounds, but they crisp-up once cold and hold their crispness for weeks. They remind me very much of the Italian bruti et buoni to which I am sure they are closely related. The London confectioner Frederick Nutt, one time apprentice to the great Domenico Negri gives a number of recipes for this type of biscuit, which may have originated from the Italian peninsula. For instance, one, in his Complete Confectioner of 1789 called 'almond faggots' is very close to modern Umbrian bruti et buoni. These delicate crunchy biscuits have a feather-light texture and are redolent of orange flowers. They were probably eaten with sweet dessert wines.

However, Nutt's most interesting recipe in this genre is for a biscuit consisting of little morsels of citrus peel, which he calls millefruit biscuits. As well as the finely chopped preserved peel of oranges and lemons, they also contain angelica, slivered sweet almonds and bitter almonds, all held together with egg white and orange flower water icing. I have put Nutt's original recipe below. Try it. These unusual, delicate biscuits are easy and quick to make.

Nutt's book, first published in the year of the French Revolution was in its first few editions issued anonymously, the author being named at first as 'A Person'. Although Nutt's marvellous book is forgotten  now, in its day it proved to be a best seller and went into a number of editions. Its easy to follow recipes have a professional ring about them. It certainly affords a remarkable glimpse into the sophistication of late Georgian dessert food. Nutt also gives us recipes for both Millefruit Ice Cream and Millefruit Water Ice. Just like his biscuits, these two frozen dessert dishes are spotted with little dots of cochineal at the end of the freezing process to create a kind of marbled effect. I have made both and they are excellent. I will devote a post to them at some time. But in the meantime, here is the process to make his delightful Millefruit Biscuits.

Angelica is often used as a decoration, but here is an essential element in this biscuit. I use apricot kernels instead of bitter almonds.



The nuts, peels and angelica are mixed together with the icing

A teaspoon full is dropped onto paper - I use rice paper - and are spotted with cochineal with a small paint brush
They bake to a fine light brown and crisp up once they are cool
The finished biscuits. They are wonderfully crisp and have a perfumed, archaic citrus peel flavour
If you live in Britain watch Ivan make Frederick Nutt's 1789 Spice Biscuits on a BBC video. Not available outside the UK. Sorry.

Sucket and See

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A selection of 'wet suckets' - citrus fruits preserved in syrup. Clockwise from top left - green orange, lemon, bitter orange and citron succade on a wooden trencher with a Tudor fruit knife (ca.1560) and a sucket fork (ca.1680-1700). The sucket fork is made of the copper alloy latten and would originally have been tinned to make it safe to use. In its uncleaned condition it would not be usable and is just posing here to look nice. 
A short while ago a friend gave me a gift of the late seventeenth century sucket fork illustrated above, now a much treasured addition to my small collection of early eating knives and flatware. I already own a silver sucket fork, a fairly high status object, but my new one is made of latten, a lowly utilitarian alloy of copper. It may once have been owned by a diner who was refined enough to indulge in expensive luxury foods, but not rich enough to afford tableware made of precious metal. Or perhaps it came from a tavern or ordinary. The fork end was designed for spearing sticky suckets, (preserved citrus peels), while the small spoon was used for supping up the unctuous and flavoursome syrup in which they were stored. Amazingly, double ended spoon/forks similar to this were in use in England well before the Norman Conquest. An Anglo-Saxon horde of silver excavated at Sevington in Wiltshire, now in the British Museum, includes a pair of spoons with fork blades at the handle ends. These have been dated to the 9th century from some coins of the period contained in the same horde. Sucket forks were probably the first forks to be used in England, though what purpose these early Anglo-Saxon examples served remains a mystery, as sugar was unknown in Britain at this time.*

My other sucket fork, this time made of silver. Provincial English, probably by Joseph Hicks of Exeter ca.1770.
Half a millennium later, Henry VIII possessed a similar object. The jewel house inventory of his goods includes, 'Item one spone wt sucket forke at thende and gilt poz one oz iii quarters'. A sucket fork is also mentioned in Edward VI’s estate household silver inventory of 1549. These royal examples, gilded and no doubt highly embellished, were a world away from my humble latten example, which at some time has been tinned over to prevent the copper alloy from tainting the food. Traces of the tinning remain here and there, but most has worn off. My friend bought it in a job lot at a sale, with sadly no indication of its provenance, though we both suspect it may be a metal detector find. The veneer of verdigris on its surface certainly indicates that it could have been buried underground for a long time. Individual silver sucket forks are pretty scarce, full sets are much rarer, but ones made of a cheap metal like latten seem to be the rarest of all. In fact it is the only one we have ever seen.
Pair of silver sucket forks by Elizabeth Tookey, London 1675-1700. Photo © Manchester City Galleries
Late seventeenth provincial English sucket spoon and fork. Photo ©  M. Ford Creech Antiques
Despite much earlier archival records most of the sucket forks that have survived date from the middle of the seventeenth century onwards. They were still being made in the late eighteenth century. Similar implements were also produced on the continent, particularly in the Netherlands. There are also a few colonial Dutch and English examples made in North America in the late seventeenth and early eighteenth centuries, like the one below I saw at Yale last year.

Silver sucket fork ca.1680–90 made by Jesse Kip (1660 - 1722) in New York City. The long handle is engraved with the name of the owner - Maria van Rensselaer (1673-1713). The Rensselaer family were a prominent New Amsterdam colonial family with a large estate near Albany. Photo © Yale University Art Gallery.
Sucket forks, sometimes also referred to as sucket spoons, should not be confused with sweetmeat forks, which do not have a spoon at the opposite end. These are also frequently mentioned in medieval and renaissance inventories, with a number of English examples surviving from as early as the fourteenth century. A nice sixteenth or early seventeenth example excavated from the site of the Rose Theatre can be seen in the Museum of London. It may have been mislaid by a theatre goer at the time of Shakespeare.

Sixteenth or early seventeenth century sweetmeat fork.Photo © Museum of London
Sweetmeat forks were among the first British forks to be included in sets of flatware. The two late seventeenth century trefid examples in my collection illustrated below have become separated from their matching knives and spoons, but would have been part of a dessert set that graced a banquet table during the reign of James II. 

Pair of English trefid sweetmeat forks, silver gilt. Unascribed ca.1685. 
Sucket forks obviously derived their name from the suckets which they were used to spear. 'Sucket', 'soket', or  'suckitte' is a corruption of  French succade, generally meaning a fruit, root or citrus rind preserved in sugar syrup. More specifically, the word was often used to describe a preserve made from the peel of the cedro or citron  (Citrus medica L.). In a glossary of definitions of imported goods published by the customs officer James Smyth in The Practice of the Customs. (London: 1821), we are told, 'The peel of Citron preserved in sugar, and all other moist sweetmeats not particularly enumerated in the table of duties, are denominated Succades.' I heard a discussion the other day about citron on the BBC Radio 4 programme The Kitchen Cabinet, in which it was stated that citron was the first citrus fruit to come to Britain. I am doubtful that this is actually true, but would love to hear the evidence that it is based on.

Most etymologists assume the word succade is derived from the Latin succidus - 'juice', or from French sucre - sugar. There is however, a suspicion (though no real proof). that it evolved from the Hebrew סוכות - sukkot or sukoth. Sukkot, or the Feast of Tabernacles, is an ancient Jewish religious rite at which citrons are displayed with willow branches, myrtle and palm fronds in a temporary booth known as a סוכה (sukkah). Specially selected citrons, known as etrog are still used in the ceremony. Citrons are a genetically capricious fruit with numerous morphological variations. To be kosher the citrons used at Sukkot, must have certain fixed characteristics, which distinguishes them from normal everyday citrons. One of these required features can clearly be seen in an engraving in a book on citrus fruits by the Nuremburg merchant Johann Volckamer published in 1714. In his caption Volckamer refers to this particular variety by its Italian name - cedro col pigolo -  the pigolo being the small persistent style at the flower end of the fruit, which in Hebrew is called the pit am. Citrons that have a good pit am are sold for very large sums of money as they are considered to be the purest form of the fruit. In his text, Volckamer gives his native German name for this variety -  Juden Citronatapfel - the Jewish citron.

The etrog, Juden-citronapfel, or cedro col pigolo. From Johann Christoph Volkamer, Nürenbergische Hesperides. (Nuremburg 1728 edition).
Volckamer's book is one of the most beautiful botanical works from the baroque period. Unfortunately, its wonderful engraved plates are very attractive to print collectors, so many copies have been broken up by dealers who sell the plates on for large sums of money. I am lucky enough to possess a complete copy in its uncoloured state. The author lists and illustrates twelve different varieties of citron, or cedri as they were called in the Italian peninsula. These fruits have dry inedible pulp and no juice, but are usually thick skinned, which makes them ideal for preserving as succade. Some grow to a very large size and monstrous, often deformed varieties were much admired by Italian noblemen who grew these fashionable expressions of horticultural mannerism in extensive citrus gardens.

Twelve varieties of citron are described in Johann Christoph Volkamer, Nürenbergische Hesperides. (Nuremburg 1728 edition).
Cedro ordinario - the common citron. From Johann Christoph Volkamer, Nürenbergische Hesperides. (Nuremburg 1728 edition). 
The common citron in its unripe, green state. This single specimen weighted 2.7 kilos.
Some renaissance scholars and poets liked to think that oranges, lemons and citrons all grew in the famed Garden of the Hesperides. Many were of the opinion that the orange was the most likely candidate for the mythical golden apple of the Hesperides, which endowed those who ate it with immortality. However, oranges were unknown in antiquity. Volckamer actually structured his book with chapter headings based on the names of the three nymphs of the Hesperides who tended the Garden - Aegle, Aerethusa and Hesperethusa. He places Aegle in charge of citrons, Aerethusa in charge of lemons while Hesperethusa looks after the oranges. At the beginning of each chapter is an engraving showing each nymph in her part of the garden. That reproduced below shows Aegle, who is holding a large common citron in her left hand.

From Johann Christoph Volkamer, Nürenbergische Hesperides. (Nuremburg: 1728 edition). 
Harmonillus transformed into a citron tree, a plate from G.B. Ferrari, Hesperides sive de malorum aureorum cultura et usu. Rome 1646 Engraving Cornelis Bloemart after Andrea Sacchi. The original drawing for this image is in the Louvre.
As well as featuring in Judaic religious rites this fruit, now of very little economic significance, also played a role in classical mythology, or at least in versions of the myths as imagined by renaissance scholars. The most striking of these  'myths' about the citron was invented by Giovanni Battista Ferrari, a Jesuit priest from Sienna, who published a monograph on citrus fruits in Rome in 1646. Ferrari based his self-styled tale on similar legends from antiquity, like that of Apollo and Daphne, or of Adonis and Myrrha as told by Ovid, in which nymphs are transformed into trees. In his book Hesperides sive de malorum aureorum cultura et usu. (Rome 1646), Ferrari illustrated the metamorphosis of a nymph called Harmonillus into a citron tree. I have reproduced a detail from his engraving above. Harmonillus's feet are rooting to the ground while her fingertips are turning into branches bearing citron fruit. The citrons growing out of her hands are quite unlike the common citron illustrated above. They are multi-lobed and possess finger-like lobes. Varieties of citron which had this aberrant hand-like form were common in seventeenth century Europe. Ferrari refers to this kind as malum citreum multiforme - the multiform citron, while his German disciple Volkamer called the variety cedro a ditella - the finger citron. Here are their illustrations of these 'monstrous' varieties.

 G.B. Ferrari, Hesperides sive de malorum aureorum cultura et usu. Rome 1646  caption
From Johann Christoph Volkamer, Nürenbergische Hesperides. (Nuremburg 1728 edition).
This very old variety still survives and nowadays is usually called the Buddha's Hand Citron. It is widely grown in the Far East and is frequently used as an offering in Buddhist Temples. But it is also cultivated in the US and Italy, where it has been known for at least four hundred years. In China, Vietnam and Japan, it is not used much in the kitchen. Its flavour and scent are not really different to the common citron, but it is becoming fashionable among contemporary chefs, who have probably been attracted by its outlandish appearance. However, the common citron has just as good a flavour.
A selection of citrus fruit, including ripe yellow common citrons and a finger citron.
I have found Buddha's Hand citrons in Wholefoods in the US, though I purchased these two in a market near Hanoi in Vietnam. 
Like other varieties of citron, finger citrons have no juicy flesh or pips.
Buddha's Hand citrons frequently feature in Chinese art. This jade carving dates from the seventeenth century.
Buddha's hand citrons on an altar in a temple in Vietnam.
I preserve citrons and other relatives, like the bitter orange and pomelo rinds here by first poaching the rinds in boiling water until they are soft. I then poach them briefly in a thin sugar syrup for just five minutes (1 kilo of granulated sugar dissolved in 1 litre of boiling water - taken off the heat immediately and stirred until all sugar crystals are dissolved). I leave the peels to steep in this syrup for twenty four hours, then remove the fruit from the syrup, which I boil for five minutes - the syrup that is - not the fruit. The thickened syrup is poured over the fruit and the whole process repeated for twelve days altogether. I leave the fruit in the thick syrup. It is much more succulant and flavoursome than any commercial candied fruit.
I more or less use this technique described by Lady Anne Fanshawe for preserving citrons. It works very well with other citrus fruit. Photo © Wellcome Library.
Whole preserved citrons were an important decorative feature of the baroque dessert course. This silver citron display stand is one of a number illustrated in Joseph Gilliers, Le Cannemeliste français. (Nancy: 1751). If objects like this were actually made, none appear to have survived.

*Hawkins, E. (1838): 'An Account of some Saxon Pennies and other articles, found at Sevington, North Wilts'., Archaeologia, xxvii, 305-5 and pl. 24; Fairholt, F. W. (1857): Miscellanea Graphica, London, pl. 18, 1; Jackson, C. J. (1893): 'The Spoon and its history; its form, material and development, more particularly in England', Archaeologia, liii, 117; Wilson, David M, Anglo-Saxon Ornamental Metalwork 700 - 1100, in the British Museum, London, BMP, 1964.
Johann Christoph Volckamer,  Nürnbergische Hesperides. Nuremburg: 1708-14. (A digitised version of the 1728 edition).

Merry Christmas - This Year's Twelfth Cake

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I have not posted much on this blog for a long time. I have had a busy and rather difficult year. I just wanted to wish all my followers a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. So here are a couple of cheerful images of some seasonal dishes I have made recently. The twelfth cake above is currently part of a lovely dining room display at Fairfax House in York called The Keeping of Christmas. It also features in a short video showing me decorating it in a new BBC series called Home Comforts, which airs in the New Year. 

Photo: Dave Willis
I have roasted four geese so far since November. This one was for an article I wrote for the Christmas edition of BBC Countryfile Magazine. This is how we roasted potatoes in the eighteenth century, in the radiant heat beneath the rotating goose. The best ever.

Pastry Jiggers and Pastry Prints - a marvellous new book by Michael Finlay

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Front dust jacket of Michael Finlay's new book. Photo © Michael Finlay.
A few years ago, I worked on a television series with a well-known celebrity chef. In one of the programmes I constructed an elaborate pie, the lid of which I crimped with an eighteenth century pastry jigger. The chef, who was English (not Italian) referred to this object as a 'ravioli wheel'. She also called the sixteenth century wood-fired oven in which we baked the pie 'a pizza oven'. I was somewhat surprised that this highly successful professional had no idea that centuries before ravioli and pizza came to Britain, English cooks were shaping pastry with similar tools and baking their wares in wood-fired ovens. In this country her 'ravioli wheels' were once called by various names, the most common being rowles (also used to describe equestrian spurs), jagging ironspastry jaggers and pastry jiggers.

A jigger or sperone de pasticiero, being used to trim ravioli made to a fifteenth century recipe. However, these wheels and their attached implements were used for a multiplicity of other purposes by both professional cooks, bakers and housewives.
Old culinary utensils like pastry wheels are nowadays frequently referred to as 'kitchenalia', a word I dislike almost as much as the even more meaningless 'retro'. Objects that were used in the past by our ancestors in the preparation of food frequently give us clues about all-important details that are not mentioned in recipes. These utilitarian, but sometimes beautifully made objects are also testimonies to human ingenuity and the evolution of design. I have a friend who has been collecting antique nutmeg graters for more than forty years, yet she continues to discover examples that she has never come across before. An enormous amount of cooking has gone on in the course of human history, so the material culture of the kitchen is vast and probably unfathomable. The true expert will humbly admit to the limitations of their knowledge and an author embarking on a book about a particular family of kitchen objects will often have to lower their aspirations and not attempt the 'comprehensive study'. After publication, they are bound to make those annoying new discoveries that they failed to include in their final draft. There are plenty of general books on culinary utensils, but few have attempted specialist monographs which deal with a particular type of kitchen object. A notable exception is this new, profusely illustrated book by Michael Finlay on pastry jiggers - or what my contemporary chef friend called 'ravioli wheels'. In fact, Mr Finlay reveals that the earliest examples he has found are from renaissance Italy - so perhaps she was right in calling them by that name and I just proved myself to be a stuffy old pedant by referring to them as rowles, jaggers and jiggers. 
Perhaps the original 'ravioli wheels'. Two sixteenth century bronze Italian pastry jiggers or sperone de pasticiero illustrated in Michael Finlay's book. The sickle-like blades were used for trimming excess pastry.  Photo © Michael Finlay.
Michael Finlay is well known for his in-depth books on other families of antique objects. His Western Writing Implements in the Age of the Quill Pen (Plains Books: 1990) is the authoritative work on the subject. His much quoted English Decorated Bronze Mortars and their Makers (Plains Books: 2010) is also the most comprehensive work ever written in the field. Many of the objects described in these two works were in Mr Finlay's personal collections. His latest book on pastry jiggers and prints is also based on a remarkably rich collection that he put together in just a few years. He traces the development of these humble kitchen drawer objects from the sixteenth century to the present day, dazzling us with the almost infinite variety of design solutions that the metalworkers and woodcarvers who made them came up with. Jiggers made from metal and wood are dealt with in great detail, including those with wheels made from recycled coins, bone, glass and ceramic. There is also a very useful chapter on scrimshaw jiggers, many of which were made by whalers as love tokens for their wives and girlfriends.

Perhaps my favourite object illustrated in Michael Finlay's book. The handle of this seventeenth century Dutch pastry jigger represents a pastry cook wearing the livery of his guild. The sheet of pastry draped across the rolling pin is a particularly evocative detail. Photo © Michael Finlay.
Detail of above. Photo © Michael Finlay.

Another anthropomorphic bronze pastry jigger. Late sixteenth/early seventeenth century Italy. Photo © Michael Finlay.  

A very rare English silver jagger hallmarked London,1683, maker's mark AB. Photo © Michael Finlay.  
A very nice feature of this book are the many photographs of reconstructed period pastry and other dishes that Mr Finlay has made to illustrate how these objects were used. A particularly amusing example in his recipe section is his rendition of Richard Bradley's 1736 recipe for making 'artificial Coxcombs' by cutting tripe into the shape of cocks' combs with a pastry jagger. He paraphrases Parson Woodforde, who said 'I shall not dine on roasted tongues and udder again very soon.' Finlay says, 'I shall not dine on artificial cocks' combs again very soon.' Whether you want to make 'artificial Coxcombs' or not, this is an excellent book for all those interested in the history of food, pastry, kitchen antiques and design.
Just a small selection of Michael Finlay's collection. Photo © Michael Finlay.
You can buy Pastry Jiggers and Pastry Prints by Michael Finlay directly from the author. Here is the link you need.

More Edible Artistry

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The images on this page are of food produced by attendees on my two most recent courses, with a little help from me! I do try to convey to my students that standards of food and presentation in the past were frequently very high and that one of the best ways to understand this is to work with original equipment in order to replicate dishes that convey the staggering beauty of much of our ancestors' food. Appearance was everything! 

But taste was pretty important too - look at this delicious nineteenth century pie, garnished with truffles and crayfish in the image above - and marbled with truffles, pigeon, capon breast and turkey when cut through. We had it for our lunch on my moulded foods course last Sunday - it tasted as good as it looked. I made eight pies like this last week - all different - for a BBC drama production set in the early nineteenth century. They were all spiked with silver hatelet skewers and ornamented like the one above. You might get a glimpse of them when the programme goes out at Christmas, but more on that later on.



A jelly in the form of a Prince of Wales Feathers made with a rosewater flavoured blancmange above and a raspberry jelly below.


My current obsession - Mrs Elizabeth Raffald's 'Solomon's Temple in Flummery' made in a 1790s Staffordshire mould. The first one we turned out on the course failed because I was not concentrating when I turned it out. But we made another the next day - the one depicted above - and that came out perfectly, looking like some beautiful alien being from another planet with its garniture of fresh flowers.


We used these tiny profiteroles filled with apricot preserve to make a delicious profiterole pudding, a moulded custard very lightly set with gelatine and flavoured with kirsch and muscatel raisins poached in syrup. The recipe we used was from Jules Gouffés The Royal Cookery Book (London: 1871). Rather like a cold luxury bread and butter pudding, we made it in a tall and quite spectacular stepped mould. There are over fifty profiteroles embedded in the soft rich custard. Because they give strength to what would be a weak towering structure if they were not present, the profiteroles allow the jelled cream to be a very light one, giving it a nice soft mouth feel.   

Photo by Ran Akaike
The finished profiterole pudding was delicious. It was served at dinner with two other moulded dishes made on the course; an iced cabinet pudding and a raspberry jelly surmounted by a blancmange portrait of Queen Victoria. Here they all are after a marathon unmoulding session in my kitchen. The iced cabinet pudding is in the centre. It is embellished with maidenhair fern fronds and surrounded by garnish ices made of muscadine water ice, a delicious lemon sorbet flavoured with elderflowers.

Photo by Vicky Shearman
On my moulded food course last weekend, one of the students brought along a lovely wooden sugar mould for pressing out  a small grapevine design in gum paste she had recently bought on ebay. But she was unsure how to use it. Just for fun I taught her to use it to construct a Wedgewood style Jasperware plate entirely out of sugar. With the use of a few other moulds belonging to me, we made the components to make it into an impressive edible taza.

Photo by Ran Akaike

Some of my students collect antique moulds and want to learn how to use them. Though few would be able to make this Alexandra Cross jelly. Although surviving outer moulds in this design are not uncommon, the internal liner required to make one with the Danish Flag running through it is extremely rare. So it was a great experience for them to make this crazy Victorian set piece dish, which they had all heard of, but never seen. For those of you who might like to have a go at making food of this quality, I will be publishing my 2014 course schedule on my website and on this blog in September.


Block Gingerbread

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Recreating a Nineteenth Century Dundee Gingerbread

Halfpenny (above) and penny (below) wooden gingerbread blocks formerly belonging to Dundee baker John Scrymgeour (1827-1891). Scrymgeour, who founded his bakery in Nethergate in 1861 after seeking his fortune in Australia, was a prominent Dundee citizen with many civic responsibilities, including that of trustee to Dundee harbour. Cape Scrymgeour at the North-East point of Andersson Island in the Antarctic was named in his honour. Curiously, Mr Scrymgeour was born in the town of Kirremuir, chiefly famous for a local form of gingerbread.
Most British recipe books from the late fourteenth century onwards usually contain a recipe or two for gingerbread. Throughout its long and complex history this ancient baked good has gone through many transformations. Medieval and early modern versions were very different to the soft spongy cakes, tray bakes and anthropomorphic children's biscuits that are usually sold under the name in contemporary Britain. From time to time on this blog I will look at aspects of gingerbread's remarkable evolution, focussing particularly on some of the high points in its development before it became degraded into the currant-eyed homunculus of the modern bakery aisle. If surviving moulds are anything to go by, most gingerbread men in the past were far more sartorially elegant than the naked Mr Men of today. And there were plenty of well-dressed gingerbread women too. Just look at King William and Queen Mary further down this page. But what I want to touch upon in this brief posting is a type of commercial gingerbread which was once commonly sold in just about every street corner baker's shop, but which seems to have died out in the years leading up to World War I. Known as block gingerbread, this ubiquitous mainstay of the baker's trade was a dark treacle-flavoured variant on the theme, which was usually printed with a patriotic design, most often a royal crown or the royal coat of arms.

Surviving moulds for block gingerbread sometimes have the name of the baker carved on them, as in the two examples above, which are in my own collection. These moulds have a fascinating history. They are inscribed with the name J. Scrymgeour. This was John Scrymgeour (1827-1891), a prominent Dundee baker active in the second half of the nineteenth century. Scrymgeour's old friend Thomas Robertson captained the ship Active, which with three others went on an exploratory whaling expedition from Dundee to the Antarctic in 1892-3. Robertson named Cape Scrymgeour on Andersson Island in the recently deceased baker's honour. Perhaps its red granite cliffs reminded him of his old friend's gingerbread! On the same voyage Robertson also discovered and named Dundee Island and the Antarctic Firth of Forth.

Cape Scrymgeour, courtesy of Google Earth.This lonely, desolate headland at the east tip of Andersson Island in Antarctica was named in honour of  the Dundee baker who formerly owned my two gingerbread blocks.
Scrymgeour's two moulds were designed for making two different sizes which were sold at different prices. Like many of these moulds they are carved in a primitive style, the supporters on either side of the highly stylised royal arms looking rather like cartoon animals. This was probably intentional on the part of Mr Scrymgeour, as the principal devourers of cheap block gingerbread were children.

A halfpenny block gingerbread made with the smaller mould above
By the time Mr Scrymgeour was selling his wares to the hungry juveniles of Dundee, the tradition of moulding gingerbread into patriotic designs was already a well established practice. Sometimes they were formed into a likeness of the reigning monarch and his queen. As well as the fine examples below of William III and Mary, there is a similar mould from the 1830s in the Stranger's Hall collection in Norwich which depicts William IV on one side and Queen Adelaide on the other.  

The mould (see below) from which these large gingerbreads were pressed has King William III (reigned 1689-1702) on one side and his wife Queen Mary II (reigned 1689-94) on the other. It was carved in the late seventeenth century. Photo Michel Finlay

Photo Michael Finlay
A Georgian block gingerbread mould with the coat of arms of Great Britain. These moulds are very difficult to date, but the fourth quarter on the shield contains elements which show the Hanoverian royal descent, so it dates from between 1714 and 1800. The arms of Great Britain was superseded by the arms of the United Kingdom in 1801. It is difficult to be more precise.
The gingerbreads made in these moulds were chiefly produced and sold by professional bakers and confectioners, who kept very quiet about their recipes and methods. There were countless gingerbread recipes in both manuscript and printed sources, but these were of a domestic nature and aimed at housewives. It was not until the nineteenth century that professionals started sharing their secrets in print. One of the first bakers to write extensively on the subject was George Read, who issued The Complete Biscuit and Gingerbread Baker's Assistant as the second part of his book The Confectioner's and Pastry Cook's Guide (London: nd. c.1834).  The intended readers were members of the trade, particularly bakers' apprentices. As a result the gingerbread recipes it contains are quite different from those found in domestic cookery books. Quantities are much larger and processes more complicated. Read tells us about the practice of preparing treacle for gingerbread by getting it to slowly react with various aerating chemicals, such as alum and potash. In one recipe he tells us to add 2 lbs of alum and 4 lbs of American potash to 112 lbs of treacle, though he indicates that this large scale recipe was for use by the gingerbread wholesalers. He tells us that flour was added to this aereated treacle  to make a sponge, which he calls 'light dough'. This was left to mature and then added to the other gingerbread ingredients when required.

My copy of Read's 1855 3rd edition

Frederick Vine, another professional baker active at the end of the nineteenth century also produced a series of small books aimed at the trade. In one, Saleable Shop Goods (London: 1898), he devotes a chapter to the production of gingerbread. Like Read, he discusses many types and gives some very useful information specifically on block gingerbread. He explains how to prepare the treacle with the  rising agents and how to make it up into a sponge with flour. He tells us, 

'The longer this dough stands the better will be the resultant gingerbread. In the old days it was always a rule to put away the gingerbread sponges early in the spring, and then it would be in prime condition for use about September; but at the present time it would, most probably be deemed ripe in from one to three months. At any rate, give it as long as you possibly can, remembering always the longer the better'.

Gingerbread leavened with chemicals such as pearlash (potassium carbonate - this was Read's American potash) were being made in late eighteenth century America, but do not seem to have been produced in Britain until the 1820s. Amelia Simmons, American Cookery (Hartford: 1798), adds pearlash to what was a fairly standard treacle gingerbread mix to get a lighter result. Pearlash and other alkaline leavening agents such as ammonium bicarbonate and sodium bicarbonate were probably used in Britain in the early nineteenth century, but do not appear in the cookery books until the 1820s and 30s when a few recipes are included in manuscript collections. However, the process of maturing the treacle for a long period to make a sponge, seems to have only been undertaken by professionals. In England, some domestic recipes call for the addition of gooseberry vinegar to react with the alkaline leavening agent and create carbon dioxide bubbles in the dough. The professionals realised that treacle itself is a mildly acidic material which also reacts with soda, Its highly viscous nature also allows the tiny bubbles of this gas to be trapped, especially when it is combined with some flour.

A recipe for Rich Gingerbread from the manuscript receipt book of Mrs Morton c.1835 (my collection). The recipe calls for 'sal ammoniac' (ammonium carbonate) as a leavening agent. There is some evidence to suggest that rich gingerbreads made with treacle had been around since the Restoration of Charles II. Though yeast does feature in some recipes, early forms of gingerbread were normally made without any form of leaven. The use of these raising agents changed the nature of gingerbread from a flat biscuit-like confection into the lighter cake-like forms with which we are familiar today.
Professional gingerbread bakers purchased their treacle in large barrels. Nineteenth century home bakers bought theirs from the local grocery store. Before treacle was retailed in cans it was sold as a loose liquid. The purchaser arrived at the shop with a purpose-made ceramic treacle jar like that illustrated above. They had a screwtop lid, probably for keeping flies and wasps at bay.  This transfer-printed example is in my own collection - it is unmarked.
Gingerbread block. From Frederick Vine, Saleable Shop Goods (London: 1898)
From Frederick Vine, Saleable Shop Goods (London: 1898)
Vine also gives some useful details on how to mould gingerbread and provides the illustrations reproduced here. He tells us that,
Blocks (Fig. 104) for gingerbread can be purchased from any of the confectioners' machinists
advertising in these pages. Usually two impressions are cut into one block, the halfpenny on one side and the penny on the other. In some places it is usual to have your name down the centre, but of course, in that case, it will be necessary to have the blocks specially cut for the purpose'.

Mr Scrymgeour up in Dundee obviously went to this trouble, but had two different sized blocks carved rather than one 'with the halfpenny on the one side and penny on the other'. Wooden blocks were carved in larger sizes for making more expensive gingerbreads. Vine gives a number of recipes for these more pricey block gingerbreads, including some richer options, which contain candied orange and citron peel. We made Mr Scrymgeour's halfpenny block gingerbread on my moulded foods course last week (illustrated at the top of this post) by using this recipe from Saleable Shop Goods,
Gingerbread block. From Frederick Vine, Saleable Shop Goods (London: 1898)

Rich Block Gingerbread.
8 lbs. flour.
1 1/2 lbs. butter.
1 1/2 lbs. raw sugar.
2 lbs. mixed peel.
2 ozs. ground ginger,
1 oz. ground mixed spice.

Weigh the flour on to the board, and rub the fat into it; make a bay; lay the peel round, cut fine; put the sugar and spice into it, and wet up with worked treacle (No. 209) (of course before the flour is added) into a tight dough; let it lie a short time. Then take your 6d. or 1s. block; dust them out with flour; scale off the dough into 1lb. pieces; mould them up round; flatten out to the size of the shilling block, and press it well upon it, keeping the dough perfectly square with the edges of the block; then take off, and place on to thick high-edge tins. Tins that we used for this purpose were about 1/8 in. in thickness, and would hold twelve 1s. cakes, four across and three down; dock well with a fork; fix an upset firmly along the bottom, or foot of the tin ; wash over, and bake in a cool oven. When cooked, glaze over with Bun Wash (No. 190), while hot, then cut out and sell at 1s. or 6d. per square, as the case may be. Sixpenny cakes are made in exactly the same way, but, of course, are only half the size. Whole blanched almonds, cherries, sultanas, preserved fruits, and ginger can be added in the place of the peel as required ; but if you add these you will have to weigh the lumps smaller to recompense you for it, especially if you use cherries, almonds, or the more expensive preserved fruits.

The inclusion of finely chopped candied or preserved citrus peels in gingerbread recipes was an old tradition dating back to the seventeenth century. A very early recipe for a treacle gingerbread was included in William Salmon The Family Dictionary (London: 1710). Salmon claims this gingerbread was served to Charles II.


Orange peel and ginger are a great combination and both harmonise well with the strong caramel flavour of treacle. Orange gingerbread was particularly favoured in the eighteenth century and is frequently advertised on confectioners' and gingerbread bakers' trade cards.

Block gingerbread was once made all over Britain, but even when Vine was writing in the 1890s it was getting scarcer. He assumed it was because of the decrease in the frequency of fairs. By the time of the Great War it had disappeared just about everywhere, though an unusual variety of it still survives in a much modified form in the seaside town of Whitby in Yorkshire. What made Whitby block gingerbread unusual is that instead of being formed into printed flat sheets as described by Vine, it was made up into thick loaves. When these came out of the oven they were very hard. They were formerly put into damp rooms for some time to soften. The kind now made in Whitby commercially is not printed, though it is still a loaf with a rather dense texture. The wonderful Whitby Museum has a number of local Block Gingerbread moulds in its collection, which in addition to the royal coats of arms feature the town arms of three ammonites on a shield. Bothams of Whitby, an old local firm, make a modern form of the delicacy, though it is far removed from the block gingerbread of the nineteenth century.

Forthcoming Events

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Late eighteenth century dessert table at the Gardiner Museum, Toronto
I have just had another extremely busy year and have had no time at all to contribute any new posts to this blog. However, as I have a little more time on my hands over the next few weeks I will resume posting again, as I do have a great deal to say. 

I have worked on two major museum projects this year with lots of TV and other media jobs thrown in. My most enjoyable and rewarding project was the installation of the c.1790s dessert table pictured above, which can now be viewed at the Gardiner Museum in Toronto. I will tell you more very soon in another post devoted to this lovely installation. The other important task was to recreate an earlier dessert centrepiece from a mid-eighteenth century design for the wonderful exhibition The Edible Monument, which is showing at the moment at the Getty Research Institute in Los Angeles. Here is a photograph of the finished assemblage of sugar sculpture, parterres etc on my kitchen table before it was shipped to California. I will also be posting a detailed account of this in the not too distant future.

Ivan's installation for the Getty Research Institute exhibition The Edible Monument
In the meantime, here is a warning of a few events I am involved in over the next few months. I am afraid they are a bit international, but I hope to see some of you there.

December 9th 2015. College by Candlelight. I will be exploring the 500 year old history of celebratory dining at the Royal College of Physicians in London with silver expert Christopher Hartop and historian Annie Gray.

29th January 2016. I will be giving a lecture at a conference at the Gemeentemuseum, The Hague, Holland. A one day symposium relating to the wonderful exhibition Dutch Dining currently showing at the museum. Contact the museum for details. 

31st January 2016. I am giving two short demonstration/workshops on sugar sculpture techniques at the Getty Research Institute in Los Angeles. Unfortunately, they are already sold out, but there are still places at a lecture I am delivering on the same day - Eating the Edifice. This is one of  a series of lectures in the Getty's Art of Food series. If you cannot get to mine, try to make it to others in this excellent programme. Ken Albala on Playing the Scalco and Deborah Krohn on Bartolommeo Scappi look like being real highlights. 

So book your flights to London, the Hague and LA and I will see you there! 




A Christmas Medley

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Merry Christmas Everybody - Unless you live in 1652!



The changing face of Christmas food fascinates me. These days English supermarket shelves are full of exotic delights like panetonne and stolen, both almost unknown fifteen years ago. I recently made ten short features for a popular daytime television food series which explored this issue in an historical context. Not in any depth of course, because British daytime television is aimed at a demographic that is mistakenly assumed not to be able to cope with anything too mentally taxing. But I had some fun exploring a lot of lost British seasonal traditions. For instance most have heard of the wild boar's head served as a Yuletide dish 'in days of yore' (daytime television speak). This particular dish has become just as much a stereotypical symbol of 'Christmas Past' as that other latter-day Christmas cliché, the so-called turducken or multi-bird roast. But you may not know that in the Victorian period, boar's heads were imitated in sponge cake, iced with chocolate and stuffed with ice cream - much nicer to eat than the real savoury dish. I had a go at making one of these eccentrically shaped choc ices for the series, which is being screened here in the UK at the moment. The long and complicated recipe can be found in Charles Elmé Francatelli's superb The Royal English and Foreign Confectionery Book. (London: 1862), together with a delightful chromolithograph of the finished result (above).

I usually publish a photograph of one of my Twelfth Cakes at Christmas, but this year, here is a version of Francatelli's Imatation Wild Boar Cake.
The recipe involves baking a number of savoy cakes in paper cases, joining them together with apricot marmalade and then carving the result into the shape of a wild boar's head. It is then covered in cooked chocolate icing. The ears are made from pate d'office masked with some of the same transparent chocolate icing, the tusks and teeth from gum paste, while the eyes are moulded over marbles from pastillage, which are painted, then dipped in blown sugar to give them a scary, amazingly realistic gloss. After being mounted on an ornamental socle, the head is garnished with silver hatelet skewers impaled with chocolate truffles and marzipan coxcombs. The hollowed-out head is stuffed with white and red ice cream, meant to resemble fat and lean, before being garnished around with white and yellow jelly croutons. Interestingly, this recipe appears to include the earliest mention of chocolate truffles. Francatelli's instructions for garnishing the ornamental skewers does not agree with his illustration. I decorated mine with the garnishes he describes - the imitation truffles and coxcombs, while the chromolithograph shows stars and spheres made out of some unknown material.


Real truffles and coxcombs on silver skewers were used to garnish savoury versions of the dish, as in the truly spectacular tête de sanglier above from Emile Bernard and Urbain Dubois's La Cuisine Classique (Paris: 1856). These technically accomplished chefs moulded and carved the fancy stand and leaping deer from fat! I love their oak leaves and acorns and added a similar pastillage embellishment to my chocolate incarnation.


Dubois and Bernard made their highly ornamental tête for Kaiser Wilhelm I. Whether it was really as truly amazing as the engraver has depicted, we will never know. One very faded photograph of another decorated boar's head which graced Queen Victoria's sideboard at Osborne House in 1888 shows that the English branch of the family did not insist on such artistic ambition. This wildly squinting beast has one eye not only larger than the other, but it stares in a different direction! A surprisingly amateur effort for a regal dining room.

The Christmas sideboard at Osborne in 1888. This arrangement agrees exactly with surviving royal menus from this period. The dishes are from left to right - boars head, collar of brawn, baron of beef, woodcock pie and raised Christmas pie. Courtesy of the Royal Collection

Coming back to my chocolate piggy, the stand or socle was embellished with oak leaves and other ornaments in gum paste, loosely following Francatelli's scheme. I used what nineteenth century carved wooden moulds I had to hand.



In another episode I explored the strong associations that gingerbread has with Christmas and made a number of moulded figures, including this white gingerbread figure of St Nicholas. The German or Dutch mould was carved in the nineteenth century and belongs to my friend Charlotte Rees. Watch out for Charlotte, she is a food history prodigy. The three little boys sitting in a salting tub were allegedly rescued and brought back to life by St Nicholas. According to the legend, a wicked butcher had killed them and was salting them in preparation for selling them as hams in his shop! The myth was considered too violent for an afternoon teatime BBC audience and did not get explained in the programme. These moulds were used to make gingerbread gifts for children for the feast of St Nicholas on 6th December, usually, at least in the Netherlands, being given on the evening of the 5th December.

Those of you who do manage to watch the episode in the series concerned with the subject of wassailing may be mystified by the sudden appearance of a large wooden bowl ornamented with greenery. Unfortunately, the historical source of this object was left out in the final edit, making the whole story a bit open ended and puzzling. So for the benefit of any viewers who might be curious to know what was going on here, here is the source of that mystery object.

A wassail bowl ornamented with Christmas greenery from Frederick Bishop, The Wife's Own Book of Cookery. (London: 1856). The same illustration appeared in a slightly different format in Bishop's earlier version of this work, The Illustrated London Cookery Book (London: 1852).
My version of the Gloucester wassail bowl decorated with rosemary, bays and mistletoe.
I also made a gentry version of wassail - a lambs wool in fact - based on sherry rather than ale in this nice 1740s English Delftware punch bowl
However, my tipple of choice this Christmas in my own home will be some bishop served in a replica of a faience bishop's mitre bowl made by my friend John Hudson. I have already posted a lengthy article about bishop in which I illustrate these rare and curious vessels - Some Christmas Nightcaps.

I have looked for an original one of these rare vessels for a long time. As far as I know there are only about five in existence. So I commissioned my potter friend John Hudson to make one for me.
And finally another wonderful acquisition. This is the time of year that journalists and celebrity chefs start banging on about how Oliver Cromwell banned minced pies. There is not really any evidence to suggest that this really happened. There are certainly no acts from the commonwealth parliament that specifically outlaw these Christmas pastries, because I have hunted through all of them and have not found any. But the Commonwealth did outlaw the celebration of Christmas and I suspect that the stories about forbidden mince pies originate from these parliamentary declarations. It must be understood that England was being administrated at this time by a seventeenth century version of the Taliban, who discouraged all forms of enjoyment. Anyway, a few days ago, I acquired the extraordinary document below, a parliamentary resolution from Christmas Eve 1652 which forbids the observation of Christmas Day - here it is.

Now this very rare broadside, probably printed so it could be attached to a church door, has been deliberately damaged. Somebody has excised the coat of arms of the commonwealth from the document, probably in an act of defiant vandalism. To me this makes it even more extraordinary. However, to show you what it would have looked like when complete, I have used Photoshop to show you its original appearance. Merry Christmas!


The Grand Feast

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At the School of Artisan Food


François Marin's intensely flavoured  'restaurant', a restorative quintessence which gave its name to the early Parisian eating houses of the same name. Photo: Miriam White.
Earlier this year I presented an event at the School of Artisan Food at Welbeck Abbey, Britain's leading culinary institution, which you should check out as soon as you have finished reading this. We offered our guests a range of dishes of the kind that were likely to have been experienced by English travellers who made their way to the cultural centres of Italy on the Grand Tour. A number of those who enjoyed this event have been in touch asking for more details about the food we served, so I thought it would be helpful to write this post with some recipe translations appended at the end. 

Many British travellers wrote negative reports of the food they encountered on their journey from England to the great European centres. Some were so nervous that they carried copious supplies of plain British food for their channel crossing and the first leg of their onward journey. European rural inns particularly came in for criticism, as did the quality of much of the meat they encountered on the way. However, a lot of the food was just not to conservative British taste. English travellers were not used to garlic and olive oil and many yearned for good old roast beef and plum pudding. In some locations they actually managed to find British food. In 1771 Lady Anne Miller was delighted when she was able to eat English mince pies in Florence. Describing another meal in Rome in her diary she said,

‘Our table is served rather in the English style, at least there abounds three or four homely English dishes (thanks to some kind English predecessors who have taught them), such as bacon and cabbage, boiled mutton, bread puddings, which after they have boiled, are cut in pieces, fried and served with a wine sauce strongly spiced, etc. so don’t think we are likely to starve here.’[1]

This reminds me of those modern tourists who are relieved to find fish and chip shops in Benidorm! However, most had to survive on local food. No doubt many did experience excellent dishes, particularly in the great cities. The selection of European delicacies we prepared for our Grand Tour feast was aimed at the more adventurous time traveller - certainly not those who hope to find supplies of boiled mutton and bread pudding at their destination! This was our menu.

Bill of Fare

Restaurant - Paris 1769
Punch à la romagne - pan-European 1820
Plato de truchas, y yervas - Zaragoza 1745
Porchetto ripieno di macharonni - Naples 1776
Insalata ala reale - Naples 1682
Spongata and parmesan ice cream - London 1789 and 1820

1. Restaurant


This nutritious consommé or bouillon designed to ‘restore’ the constitution, or weakened spirit, called, ‘quintessence or restaurant’ was served in specialised eating-houses in Paris during the eighteenth century. The soup gave its name to these establishments, thus ‘restaurants’. The earliest restaurants established before the French Revolution probably offered very few dishes other than restorative broths of this kind. They were sometimes referred to as 'houses of health'. Later ones offered much more extensive bills of fare. Restaurant must have been encountered by many British Grand Tour visitors passing through, or visiting Paris. Like bouillon it also formed the basis for many other soups and sauces. The recipe we used was that of François Marin, Les Dons de Comus. (Paris: 1739). I have appended a full translation of his directions in the recipe section at the end of this post.

The title page and frontispiece of my copy of the first edition of Marin's important little book.
Broths of this kind were much in demand, especially for the delicate and infirm. They were often prepared by proprietors who were not licensed to sell a range of dishes, but could get away by offering just one. All kinds of broths were considered to be 'physical'. There is an extensive chapter on quasi-medicinal soups in Vincent la Chapelle's The Modern Cook (London: 1733). He gives one recipe for a 'Strengthening Broth, to warm the Blood of elderly and weak People', which starts 'Get about two hundred Sparrows ready pick'd and drawn'. I wanted to spare our guests (and the Welbeck sparrow population), so opted to serve Marin's 'Quintessence ou restaurant.'

After leaving England, most travellers visited Paris and would have encountered these new establishments. Curiously, one of the first which offered a full menu, rather than just a bowl of 'restaurant'. was La Taverne Anglaise founded by Antoine Beauvilliers, who opened his restaurant in 1786 in the Palais Royale. The name was probably an attempt to attract English travellers. After the Revolution, he moved to the Rue de Richilieu and named his new establishment La Grande Taverne de Londres in honour of the celebrated London Tavern in Bishopsgate. He later moved to Rue de la Loi and (probably under some pressure from the new regime) re-christened his business, La Grande Taverne de la République. His various establishments were restaurants in the modern sense, with truly gargantuan menus. The English traveller Francis Blagdon in Paris as it Was and As it Is (London: 1805) - my all time favourite guide to Paris - gives a detailed description of Beauvilliers’ establishment, including a full bill of fare. Blagdon tells us, 'Good heaven! the bill of fare is a printed sheet of double folio, of the size of an English newspaper. It will require half an hour at least to con over this important catalogue'. La Grande Taverne was certainly not a simple soup kitchen offering comforting bowls of restaurant to those of a delicate constitution. Blagdon quotes the entire menu and it lists thirteen different soups. I will reproduce the full menu in a later post.

Marin's 1769 recipe for restaurant - there is a translation of his full text towards the end of this post.
Beauvilliers published a recipe in his 1814 cookery book L'art du Cuisinier for croûtes au pot. These delicious croûtons were fortified with bouillon before they were crisped up and served with soups. So our 'restaurant' was garnished with these crunchy, umami flavoured morsels.

2. Punche a la romaine - Roman punch


Punch romaine in some eighteenth century syllabub glasses on a silver waiter. The silver gilt spoon on the left is from a set made for the Prince Regent by Rundell, Bridge and Rundell. I made this punch romaine for the BBC documentary Pride and Prejudice, Having a Ball.
Popular in Rome, Florence and Venice with travellers before Napoleon invaded the Italian peninsula and disrupted the flow of tourists, punch romaine travelled to Paris and became the most fashionable refreshment of the Empire period. It does not appear to have come to England until after Empress Josephine’s death in 1814 when a chef called Molas started work for Prince Lieven at the Russian embassy in London. The Italian confectioner Giugliamo Jarrin, who knew Molas, seems to have been the first to publish the secret recipe in an appendix in a later edition of his Italian Confectioner published in London in 1820.


3. Plato de truchas, y yervas - trout with leafy vegetables



Altmiras's Plato de truchas, y yervas (trout with leafy vegetables). Photo: Miriam White.

Juan Altamiras, the author of this recipe, was the nome de plume of a Franciscan monk whose real name was Friar Raimundo Gómez. He is without doubt my favourite Spanish cookery writer. Gomez was born at the end of the seventeenth century and died in 1769. He ran the kitchens of a large religious school in the city of Zaragoza in Aragon in Northern Spain. His recipes are often sprinkled with wit and dry humor, as in these idiosyncratic instructions for cooking trout with bacon and meat dripping. He anticipates that some of his more pious readers would see this cooking method as being against the strict dietary regulations of the Catholic Church, so he makes a little joke about it. Of course the dish is designed for a day when meat was allowed and the bacon is an excellent addition. Many British protestant travellers were annoyed by the Catholic tradition of strictly adhering to fish days. They could not even get eggs to eat at breakfast!  Altamiras’s book Nuevo arte de cocina was published in Madrid in 1745. The monks for whom he cooked must have eaten much better than the many Englishmen who dined out in Madrid. They constantly complained about everything they were served except the superb fruit. The recipes in Altamiras's wonderful little collection are fairly simple  and represent the everyday cookery of his region of Aragon.

My copy of the 1758 edition of Altamiras's Nuovo Arte de Cocina. A previous owner has written over the printed date in the early nineteenth century with the probable year when he acquired the book.  
I have appended a translation of this in the recipe section at the end of the post.
Freshly caught trout turn up in countless accounts of alfresco meals eaten by British travellers at various European riverside locations. While on his Grand Tour, James Hume praised the massive trout he enjoyed at Pont l’Eveque in 1714. Fresh fish repasts like this were rarely complained about.


4. Porchetto ripieno di macharonni - suckling pig stuffed with macaroni


Suckling pig stuffed with macaroni cooked in stock with cheese, pepper, chopped sausages, prosciutto and served with a ham coulis from Vincenzo Corrado, Il Cuoco Galante (Naples: 1786). Photo: Miriam White.
Corrado's recipe for Porchetta Ripieno di Maccheroni. There is an English translation of this in the recipe section at the end of this post.
The final destination for most British travellers on the Grand Tour was the city of Naples, famous for its mangiamaccharoni, cuccagna festivals and street ice cream vendors. The surrounding countryside provided the city with superb vegetables and fruit. In fact Neopolitans were noted for their enormous enthusiasm for greenery. Now we think of salsa di pomodoro as the iconic dish of Naples, but the tomato was not commonly eaten with pasta until the late 19th century. Travellers to Naples were more impressed by some of the local meat and game dishes, a few of which featured pasta used in some unusual ways.

The title page of my rather well-used copy of the second edition of Corrado's Il Cuoco galante.
Suckling pig has been popular in Italy since Antiquity. To be a true suckling pig, the animal must still be feeding on its mother’s milk. The 1st century AD Roman cookery writer Apicius gave seventeen different recipes for preparing this most delicate of meats. In his book Il cuoco galante (Naples: 1776). Dominican monk and Neapolitan cookery author, Vincenzo Corrado, also devotes a whole chapter to the animal, which he initiates by quoting a recipe from Apicius, in which the suckling pig is boiled in stock and served with a sauce flavored with wine, honey, rue, long pepper, and coriander. The good monk obviously tried this ancient Roman recipe, because he declares it to be “an excellent dish”. Corrado’s other recipes include a French inspired suckling pig fricassée, but are mainly from the local Neapolitan repertoire. In one distinctive dish, the pig is cooked over a charcoal stove and served with a sauce of quinces, cinnamon and pistachios. In another, the suckling pig is stuffed with pieces of eel, fennel seeds, garlic and bay leaves. However, nothing could be more quintessentially Neapolitan than the recipe above, in which the belly of the pig is filled with pasta, sausage and cheese. Colí di prosciuto was made by cooking small pieces of ham in brodo and reducing it after the ham had been removed. It demonstrates that the all pervading French practice of heightening the flavour of dishes with coulis, had intruded into native Neapolitan cookery.

The man himself.  Corrado is one of my all-time food heroes and I avidly collect his books. When I get time, I will devote an entire post to him.

 

5. Insalata alla Reale - Royal Salad


This incredible baroque fish salad is from Antonio Latini's Lo Scalco Moderna (Naples: 1682 and 1684). From the feedback we received after the event it seems to have been the most popular dish. Photo: Miriam White.
This is a Southern ancestor of the well-known modern Tuscan bread salad. I have already touched on it in another post - Salads to reach round the World. The biscottini, or ‘little biscuits’ in the recipe are ship’s biscuit, a hard dry rusk made by cutting bread into slices and putting it in the oven a second time to dry. Friselle and taralli are hard ring-shaped breads, which are both still made in Southern Italy. Like biscottini they were usually softened in water. The radishes of this period were white and long-rooted rather than the round, bright red ones popular today. Tarantello was a common ingredient in Italian recipes of the early modern period. It was made by salting part of the belly of young tuna fish. The city of Taranto was the centre of production, but this ancient delicacy is no longer made in modern Italy. I make my own. Botarga, however, is still readily available; the most prized being made by salting tuna roes. Citrons or cedri were commonly grown in Southern Italy and both the preserved peel and fresh flowers were popular ingredients in both sweet and savoury dishes.  Sugared comfits were a common garnish for dishes of this kind – those of anise or fennel being the most popular. 

Latini's original recipe. I have included a translation at the end of the post in the recipe section.
The author of this salad, Antonio Latini, was the scalco (house steward) to the Spanish regent of Naples. His two volume book is a remarkable collection, not only of recipes, but also of menus and carving instructions. It is one of the most beautiful of all baroque books on food and dining.
Italian and Spanish Royal Salads were the inspiration behind the English Grand Salads of this period, like this winter salad of preserves and pickles with its standard of rosemary flecked with whipped egg white to represent snow.

6. Spongata and parmesan ice cream

Two continental delicacies that could have been enjoyed in London confectionery shops on the grand tourist's return - spongata cake and parmesan ice cream. Photo: Miriam White.
Tourists travelling back to London could continue to enjoy French and Italian food when they arrived home. A number of London-based Italian warehousemen sold imported luxury goods, such as olive oil, olives, vermicelli, truffles, morels, capers and fine wines. There were confectionery shops run by Italian natives in St James, New Bond Street and Westminster, which catered specifically for returning ‘macaronis’. One establishment in Berkeley Square, the Pot and Pineapple, founded by Domenico Negri in the late 1750s, sold high class Italian confectionery, ices and even sugar sculpture for the dessert tables of Mayfair aristocrats. Negri eventually returned to Turin and sold his share in the business, but it continued to trade well into the next century. One of Negri's apprentices, Frederick Nutt included a recipe for parmesan cheese ice cream in a collection of recipes he published anonymously in 1789. It is possible that it was an ice he learnt from his master Negri. The earliest European recipe for parmesan cheese ice cream was published in Joseph Gilliers, La Cannamaliste Français. Nancy: 1751. There is a modern misconception that this is a savoury ice cream - it is not. I started making parmesan ice cream in the 1970s and taught it on my ice cream courses in the early nineties well before the chefy craze for such unusual flavours. I love it. I use Frederick Nutt's 1789 recipe

The Italian confectioner and ornament maker Gugliamo Jarrin, who had worked for Napoleon, arrived in London  in 1816. In 1820, he published The Italian Confectioner, the most important work ever to appear in print on the extraordinary art of confectionery as practiced in the long eighteenth century. Nothing as detailed was ever published in Italian. Spongata or spongati, was a local speciality from Jarrin’s home town of Colorno, near Parma. Local tradition claims it could be traced back to Roman times. Here is Jarrin's recipe, which of course he wrote in English. There is another post about it on this blog at Spongata.

Fine Spongati Italian Cake

One pound six ounces of white bread, dried in the oven and reduced to a coarse powder; one pound four ounces of walnuts, blanched, and chopped very fine with a double handled knife; six. ounces of currants, well washed and cleaned; five ounces of wild pine kernels ; five pounds five ounces of virgin honey, clarified ; three grains of cinnamon in powder, one grain of cloves ; one grain of strong pepper ; and one grain of nutmeg in powder. The above articles must be mixed together, and en­closed in a crust paste, made of the following materials, viz., two pounds eight ounces of the best wheaten flour ; six ounces of fresh butter ; five ounces of loaf sugar, pounded; one ounce of olive oil, of Aix, in Provence, and half an ounce of salt, with a sufficient quantity of white wine to mix the whole. This paste, being of a moderate consistence, is to be formed into round cases or crusts, into which the first mixture is to be introduced, and a cover of the same paste must be put on, which must be pricked all over with the point of the knife. Let them stand for a whole day, put them in an oven, moderately heated, on plates dusted over with flour : these cakes should be an inch thick ; they may be iced or not, as you please.

From William Jarrin, The Italian Confectioner. (London: 1820).

Parmesan Ice Cream

Take six eggs, half a pint of syrup and a pint of cream put them into stewpan and boil them until it begins to thicken ; then rasp three ounces of parmesan cheese, mix and pass them through a sieve, and freeze it.

From Frederick Nutt, The Complete Confectioner. (London: 1789).


Recipe Translations

Apart from the last two recipes, which were both published in English, here are the translations of the French, Spanish and Italian recipes. 


Quintessence or Restaurant

Take a well-tinned and very clean pan. Put into it several slices of onion, with a little beef marrow, slices from a round of nice white veal. On top of the veal slices, place several cleaned ham rinds from which the fat has been removed, and also some slices of parsnips and carrots. Take a good healthy freshly killed hen, and clean it well both inside and out. Cut it into pieces and crush the pieces. While still warm, put them into your casserole and then put in a few more slices of veal and small pieces of ham rind. Note that for two pints of this quintessence, you will require only about four or five pounds of veal and four ounces of ham as well as the hen. All being well arranged in your pan, add a glass of your stock, seal your casserole well and put it on a strong heat. If you cook it over a low fire, the meat yields its juices, but does not brown, so the liquid sticks to the meat and hardens during cooking and does not fall to the bottom of the casserole to form the restaurant that is required. When the meat has browned, put your casserole over a moderate fire for the space of three quarters of an hour. Take care that nothing sticks to the pan and from time to time moisten it with some bouillon, just to the point that the restaurant is not bitter or too strong, but sweet, unctuous and proper for a variety of sauces., which are normally made with ingredients that have their own taste and savour. Many cooks may put in this quintessence strongly flavoured things, such as garlic, cloves, basil, mushrooms, but I prefer the simpler fashion as I believe it is best for both taste and for health.

From François Marin, Les Dons de Comus. (Paris: 1739).

Note. A French pint of this period is equivalent to a modern British quart. A French livre, or pound, was slightly heavier than a modern British lb – 1.07 lb.

Plato de truchas, y yervas

Take some large trout, scale them, split them and cut into little pieces. Fry them in lean and fat bacon. Take some white lettuce hearts, which are the best, and cook them in salted water. When the trout are fried, fry some slices of white bread, then add the lettuce to the pan with the remaining fat and fry them so that they do not dry out. Remove them and place them on a layer of bread slices, then another of hearts of cabbage, then pieces of trout, then add pepper and oranges, and in the middle, pieces of the fried bread, and a few pieces of lean bacon among the cabbage, then more trout. Serve hot. To make this dish even tastier, use dripping instead of oil. But I can already hear your qualm of conscience, which goes something like this: Brother Cook, here you are dealing with fish dishes, in which bacon is forbidden, so how can we legitimately use dripping and bacon? This little scruple, which, not being observed, would be a source of great pleasure to you, I wish to overcome as follows:

It is true that in this chapter it is my intention to cover fish dishes, and so I am dealing with trout, which by their nature may be eaten on days of abstinence from meat, but the method of preparing them described above is normally used on non-fasting days, and so this is something with which you cannot burden my conscience, for although I am a cook, I cannot allow you this pleasure, although it costs so little, because the pleasure and expense given by this poor cook are very much in conformity with Gospel teaching, as you will observe.

From Juan Altamiras, Nuovo Arte de Cocina. (Barcelona; 1758).

Porchetto ripieno di macharonni

Stuff the suckling pig with macaroni, first cooked in stock and well seasoned with cheese, pepper, chopped sausage, ham, and minced beef marrow and baste it with really good stock while it is roasting on the spit, or bake it in the oven, and serve it covered with an excellent coulis of ham.

From Vincenzo Corrado, Il Cuoco Galante. (Naples: 1776).

Insalata alla Reale

Take endive, or scarola (another variety of endive or chicory), mince it finely and put it to one side, until you have prepared a large basin, at the bottom of which are eight, or ten biscottini, friselle, or taralli, soaked in water, and vinegar, with a little white salt; put the said chopped endive on top, intermix with other salad stuff, albeit minced finely, make the body of the said salad on top at your discretion, intermix with radishes cut into pieces lengthways, filling in the gaps in the said basin with the ingredients listed below, all arranged in order. Pinenuts four ounces, stoned olives six ounces, capers four ounces, one pomegranate, white and black grapes ten ounces, twelve anchovies, tarantello (salted belly of tuna) four ounces, botargo three ounces, comfits, six ounces, preserved citron (and) preserved pumpkin twelve ounces, four hard boiled eggs, whole pistachios four ounces, four ounces of raisins, other black olives six ounces. Caviar, four ounces, minced flesh of white fish, six ounces, little radishes, salt, oil, and vinegar to taste, garnish the plate with slices of citrons, and citron flowers round about in order, take heed not to add salt or seasonings, until it goes to the table, and is about to be eaten.

From Antonio Latini, Lo Scalco Moderna. (Naples: 1694).

Look out for more events of this kind and some of my historic cookery courses at the The School of Artisan Food Website. There will be more!

[1] Jeremy Black, The Grand Tour in the Eighteenth Century. (London: 1992) p. 151.

It is not too late to wish you all a Merry Christmas

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A Twelfth Cake as not seen on TV!
Recently I have watched a lot on British television (and heard even more on the radio) about Twelfth Night, the so-called last day of Christmas. But according to the liturgical calendar, the ecclesiastical season of Christmas doesn't actually end until Candlemas, the 2nd of February, a celebratory period of not twelve, but forty days. So with this in mind, and the fact that it is the 8th of January today, I guess it is still not too late for me to wish you all a Merry Christmas and apologise for my lack of communication this past year. That's my excuse anyway!

One old food custom here in the English Lake District which marked out this forty-day season was to eat 'sweet pie' for Christmas morning breakfast. This Cumberland variant on the mince pie contained mutton as well as dried fruit, spices and sugar and was the first flesh meal after the vigil of Christmas Eve, originally a day of abstinence from meat. Even during my lifetime, there were local farming families who saved a small piece of the Christmas breakfast pie in the larder to be consumed forty days later on Candlemas Day. A reclusive old Georgian shepherd called Richard Nicholson, who lived on a windswept mountain called Black Combe in the parish of Whitbeck, used to kill a sheep every year to make his sweet pies. In his History of Cumberland, the antiquarian William Hutchinson (1794) gives a long account of this eccentric man and his superstitious beliefs, which includes this passage,


Wilkinson and his neighbours were so superstitious that they believed that the oxen and other animals in the byres and stalls all genuflected on Christmas Eve when the clock struck twelve!

Detail of a Twelfth Cake mould signed by James Gunter.
Anyway, back to the British television programme I hinted at earlier, which featured Twelfth Day celebrations. It was a fun Christmas edition of a production called The Victorian Bakers. It, like the original three-part version screened last year, was full of interesting facts about professional bakers in the nineteenth century. But for me it held one terrible disappointment - the quality of the food that the bakers produced. If you watched the programme, please do not believe that what you saw was really anything like the food of the nineteenth century. I sometimes had to hold my hands over my eyes and frequently wanted to roll my sleeves up to show them how to do it properly. However. this was not the fault of the bakers themselves, who were all modern professionals with incredible contemporary skills. I guess the TV company wanted them to 'bring the period back to life' through discovering the difficulties and making lots of mistakes on the way. The whole thing reminded me a bit of a food history series from a number of years ago called Supersizers. I was the "historical advisor" to that series, but the producers rarely took my advice. And although the series was highly entertaining, the food cooked by modern culinary professionals was absolutely awful, with an emphasis on offal, cods head and other dishes chosen for their shock value. As is the wont of these 'living history' productions, the Victorian Bakers also featured lashings of tripe, tongue etc. to shock our modern squeamish sensibilities (yawn!). But what was missing were the incredible skills (now mainly lost) that Victorian bakers and confectioners possessed. I prefer to celebrate those.  

However, I have a confession to make. The makers of the programme did ask me to teach the bakers to decorate some twelfth cakes, but the scene we eventually filmed was not used in the final cut. I was asked to make and decorate a twelfth cake to show them the skill level, but also to teach two of the bakers to decorate one themselves. We had a great day and I think they learnt quite a lot. But what made the session very special was that I let them have a go at using some of my precious confectioner's moulds to make their cake really true to period. In fact we used moulds carved by the greatest twelfth cake decorator of all, the London based Italian confectioner William Jarrin, which was I suppose a bit like letting a modern art student use Rembrandt's actual paintbrushes. As you can see, the king and queen mould above came from the celebrated confectionery shop belonging to the Gunter family, for whom Jarrin worked as an ornament maker for a few years after the battle of Waterloo, In later life, Jarrin was paid by Lord Mansfield to travel from London to Scone Palace in Scotland to decorate a special shortbread for a visit of Queen Victoria. That always seems a bit bizarre to me - an Italian confectioner going to Scotland to decorate a shortbread! For me, it is an incredible privilege to own and to be able to use moulds carved by this nineteenth century master. I wish the BBC had also appreciated this.


Anyway, to return to the Victorian Bakers. I was commissioned by the production company to make the cake at the top of this page with its neo-gothic gum-paste decorations, while the two bakers had a go at ornamenting the one below, using some of Jarrin's moulds. Harpreet Baura-Singh, who makes high-class contemporary cakes for a living, particularly took to the challenging task of pressing gum paste from these extraordinary moulds. Both cakes were iced with a base of pink cochineal icing as per the instructions of a number of the early authorities. The other baker, John Foster confessed that he would rather have spent his time with me making some traditional pies. Some of the other bakers did have a go at making a pie on the programme - a gargantuan Yorkshire Christmas Pie, very loosely based on a recipe in Francatelli. But the less I say about how it turned out, the better - though I suspect Mr Francatelli may be rotating rapidly in his grave. And I am not going to say too much either about the gingerbreads and moulded Christmas pudding, which would have worked much better if the bakers had been taught to use the kit properly. Anyway, this is what the twelfth cakes looked like, because sadly they did not make it to the final edit.

Twelfth cake ornamented by Harpreet Baura-Singh and John Foster, with a little help from William Jarrin and Ivan Day

A much more satisfying pre-Christmas project was a feature I worked on on the subject of English Christmas traditions for the popular Japanese magazine RSVP. This was written by Kirstie Sobue with some stunning photos of the dishes by her husband Hideyuki. The article was eighteen pages long and profusely illustrated. Here is a selection of the dishes below, which as you can see did include another twelfth cake specially made for the feature.Another memorable and fun moment at the tailend of my year was feeding Edward Stourton a bowl of plum potage for the Radio 4 programme Sunday, which was broadcast on Christmas morning. When Edward saw the dark brown mess before him, he did not look impressed, but after tasting it declared that it was delicious. I have put one of Hideyuki's photos of the potage at the end of this post. I hope you all enjoy the twenty-five remaining days of Christmas. I will actually be in Detroit on Candlemas Day to give a couple of workshops and a public lecture at the wonderful exhibition The Edible Monument, so if any of you are there and are feeling hungry, I will share a piece of my forty-day-old sweet pie with you, that is if immigration allow me to bring it into the US. Merry Christmas! 
My kitchen at Christmas. Photo - Hideyuki Sobue
Another twelfth cake, this time for the Japanese magazine RSVP. Note the crowns on cushions. Photo - Hideyuki Sobue
This lucky slice contained the bean, so he who gets the bean gets the crown.

One of the oldest of all British Christmas traditions - plum pottage. Photo - Hideyuki Sobue


Silent Culinary Witnesses

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Behind the sugar moulded torso of Neptune and his trident is an almond cake, decorated with ornamental bands of snow sugar and surmounted by a dragant figure of Neptune. The illustration is in Conrad Hagger, Neues Saltzburgisches Koch-Buch (Augsburg; 1719). The sugarwork, (just two components of the complete sculpture) was pressed from a fruitwood mould from the same period (see last illustration below). 
Trying to recreate food from the past is fraught with all sorts of problems. I remember my friend and colleague Peter Brears once telling me that he had frequently been served truly diabolical reincarnations of medieval food by historical re-enactors with loads of enthusiasm, but little knowledge or skill. He explained that one of the reasons he wrote his extraordinary book Cooking and Dining in Medieval England was to give a bit of help and direction to enthusiasts who enjoyed cooking within this culinary genre. As a museum curator who spent a long career dealing with objects, Peter like me, has always been an advocate of utilising period kitchen equipment in the recreation of old dishes. Some refer collectively to these redundant utensils as 'kitchenalia', a term I absolutely hate. I prefer to regard these objects as the silent culinary witnesses of our past food culture. Understanding how to use them can truly bring an ancient dish screaming and shouting into the modern world - a rebirthing experience that can be revelatory. Witness Mr and Mrs Early Stuart Gingerbread below.
Two white gingerbread figures made from a mould carved during Shakespeare's lifetime - with a wooden trencher and two late Tudor eating knives for good measure.
So I would like to say a little more about my methodology when it comes to recreating historical dishes. For instance, how on earth would one go about preparing the baroque almond cake surmounted by a sugar figure of Neptune at the top of this post? Or for that matter, the other early eighteenth century Hapsburg dishes (all from Conrad Hagger) illustrated below? The bakery is easy enough - just follow the recipes. But what about the rather tricky ornaments? One could attempt to model them from gum paste. But it would be far better to employ the equipment the bakers of the period used - skilfully carved wooden boards, which allowed you to knock out an impressive three dimensional figure of Neptune, Cupid or some other sugar deity. I have the basic skills to freely model figures like these, but if I did, they would be entirely twenty-first century creations, unavoidably watermarked with the zeitgeist of this moment in time. No matter how much of an effort I make to give them a period 'feel', they will only exist in the realm of pastiche. But use a mould carved by a master of this period and the chances of creating something authentic are much higher.

Those of us who attempt to recreate the food of the past, must deeply understand the culinary aesthetics of a particular period. I too have seen many attempts, particularly on television, where the creators look very pleased with themselves, but their creations are either heavily lumpen or resemble modern junior school art projects. We all need to up our game. Food ornamentation and presentation was closely related to the prevailing trends in the decorative arts. Of course, very few modern kitchens are equipped with these ancient examples of culinary material culture and not all dishes require their use. And of course, some of these objects are just too precious to use. But I have made it my vocation over a long lifetime to acquire a working collection, which now consists of thousands of objects from the fifteenth to the early twentieth century - enabling me to gain a much richer insight into this subject than I would get by just sitting in the British Library reading old recipes. Of course, once you own objects like this, you then have to learn to use them. And without much surviving instruction in the literature and with no living practitioners to show you how, it is often extremely difficult to master extinct skills.

The wooden board on the right, dating from the first half of the eighteenth century, allows the construction of a figure of Neptune from different body parts. His legs and trident are on the other side of the mould. The boil on Neptune's buttock was created by a burrowing furniture beetle, probably back in the reign of the Empress Maria Theresa.The mould on the left, dating from the seventeenth century or earlier, was designed to enable the creation of a dolphin. I will be using both of these moulds in a demonstration workshop on baroque sugar sculpture at the Detroit Institute of the Arts in early February. 
This eccentric pastry centrepiece of three ornamented 'dorten' also features candleholders. The Cupid embellishing its summit would have been made using a mould identical to this one. 
A Hapsburg Krapffen-Dorten - 'doughnut cake', the precursor of baumkuchen, which was once much more like the gateau à la broche still baked in front of the fire in the France on conical spits like this one illustrated in Hagger. 
I hope this is the only time you ever see a valuable copy of Hagger's book on a kitchen floor, but I wanted to show you the impressive scale and cut of my 'Spiss zu dem grossen Krapffen!
Of course putting a collection together of this scope and quality - we are talking expensive antiques here - is a major investment. And then there is the problem of those that are just too fragile and precious to use - or dangerous - as in the case of early bronze and bell metal cooking pots and a few other utensils. Modern reproductions are the only answer here, but commissioning one-offs of these can be even more expensive than buying originals. Combined with my taste in expensive antiquarian recipe books this priority in my consumer behaviour is the reason why I have never owned a decent car!

An embarrassment of riches. Two of my mid-sixteenth century bronze Italian pastry jggers, as illustrated in Bartolomeo Scappi. Opera (Venezia: 1621). Perhaps my favourite kitchen utensils of all.  
Every kitchen should have a set of these, also illustrated in Scappi.
All the Scappi knives in the woodcut above in my kitchen. There are surviving kitchen knives from the medieval and early modern periods, but none are useable. The only answer is to commission quality reproductions. Of course knives like this do not make any difference to the appearance or authenticity of a dish. But what a wonderful insight into renaissance kitchen knife craft you get when you eventually master using them.
Gingerbread again. Eating knives are important to me too. They say so much about the culture of dining. This is an original English scale-tanged gudgeon-handled eating knife from c.1400. An everyday knife for an ordinary person, but very attractive. The rich with their gold, amber and ivory did not have a monopoly on beauty. Gudgeon is the root of the boxwood tree and was cheap. It sets off this medieval gingerbread perfectly. The brick red colour is from the sanders powder in the recipe. Sanders is also made from the wood of a tree. The decorations are box leaves attached to the gingerbread with cloves.
Back to the King of the Ocean and googly-eyed friends. Components of a nautically themed baroque sugar sculpture on my work-tablewhich I will construct in a workshop at the DIA in Detroit in early February. I have to carry these fragile components in my cabin baggage. Have piece montée, will travel! I will post a photograph of the finished article.

The Edible Monument - Detroit Institute of Arts

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In 2015 I was commissioned by the Getty Research Institute to produce a replica of a sugar table centrepiece designed by the eighteenth century French cook and confectioner Menon. The designs first appeared in Menon's illustrated manual on confectionery La Science de Maitre d'Hotel Confiseur (Paris: 1749). My large scale pastillage version was displayed in the seminal exhibition The Edible Monument curated by my friend and colleague Marcia Reed, chief curator at the Research Institute. Marcia's stunning illustrated book The Edible Monument should be on the bookshelves of every food historian. I first displayed a version of this at Fairfax House in York in 1998 at the exhibition The Pleasures of the Table, so it has been around the houses - York, LA and now Detroit. The original piece is still used for the Christmas dining room display at Fairfax House.

If you were unable to get to York, or did not see the exhibition in Los Angeles, The Edible Monument is currently on show at the fabulous Detroit Institute of Arts (see details at the end of this post). But for those of you who cannot get to the DIA, here is a short video about my contribution to the show.


The original Fairfax House setting of the Menon centrepiece
I am in Detroit in early February and will be presenting a number of events at the Grosse Pointe War Memorial and at the DIA itself. 

Timetable of Edible Monument Events


Friday, February 3, 2017. Cuisine d’Art - GROSSE POINTE FARMS, MICHIGAN - The War Memorial invites guests to travel back in time and dine like 18th century nobility during its unique experiential event, Cuisine d’Art. Attendees will enjoy a memorable evening in The War Memorial’s lakefront ballroom, experiencing edible high-art, period drinks, and special talks by food historian Ivan Day and DIA curator Alan Phipps Darr. Plus extraordinary period-inspired food by Frank Turner, Executive Chef at the War Memorial. For full details visit the War Memorial website or ring 313.881.7511. 

Saturday, February 4, 2017, 10:30 a.m.–noon. Two part seminar and demonstration

Free with museum admission. For further information, call 313.833.1720.

Part 1: Using a set of original 18th-century wooden moulds and equipment, I will demonstrate how to make the sugar figure of Neptune below.


Part 2: Using original moulds and equipment I will demonstrate how to make the Renaissance style sugar tazza below in the style of Giulio Romano, the Renaissance painter, architect and protégé of Raphael.


Saturday, February 4, 2017, 2 p.m.

Lecture: Eating the Edifice


This is my main event. I will outline the evolution of sugar sculpture and other forms of table art from the Renaissance to the 18th century. Beginning with gilded sugar coins distributed at fifteenth century Italian wedding feasts and continuing on to papal displays of sugar trionfi, I will introduce the materials, equipment and methods used by past masters of such edible ephemera.

DIA Marvin and Betty Danto Lecture Hall—5200 Woodward Avenue—Detroit, MI 48202. 
Sponsored by the Visiting Committee for European Sculpture & Decorative Arts. 
Enter through the John R entrance. Free with museum admission. For further 
information, call 313.833.1720

The original design that inspired the sugar paste centrepiece


Sunday, February 5, 2017, 12-4 p.m.
Artist Demonstration: Ivan Day and the Edible Monument

Using traditional tools and techniques to create a white gingerbread sculpture. Everyone is invited to take a close look into this unique art form and a limited number of participants will be able to create their own small sculpture to take home as supplies last. This program is in conjunction with the special exhibition The Edible Monument: The Art of Food for Festivals on display through April 16, 2017. This is a family event, free with museum admission. For further information, call 313.833.1720. 
Gingerbread figures made from a seventeenth century mould. The fine lady in the middle is made from red gingerbread, the two other figures from white gingerbread. Both these early gingerbread were popular at the time of Shakespeare.
A mould to make three gingerbreads where the usual dominant role of humans over animals is reversed.
Children might like to have a go at making this cute gingerbread squirrel

The Edible Monument Exhibition: The Art of Food for Festivals - through Sun 16th April 2017
The Edible Monument includes about 140 prints, rare books and serving manuals from the Getty Research Institute collection and private collections. The artworks illustrate in lush detail the delectable monuments and sculptures made of food that were an integral part of street festivals as well as court and civic banquets in Europe in the 16th to 19th centuries. The exhibition has been organized by the Getty Research Institute, Los Angeles.

Public celebrations and street parades featured large-scale edible creations made of breads, cheeses and meats. At court festivals, banquet settings and dessert buffets featured elaborate table monuments made of sugar, flowers and fruit. These edible sculptures didn’t last long, but images of towering garden sculptures and lavish table pieces designed for Italian and French courts have survived in illustrated books and prints, many of which are featured in the exhibition.

The exhibition includes a monumental sugar sculpture based on an 18th-century print. “Palace of Circe” by sculptor and culinary historian Ivan Day is set on an 8-foot table and features sugar paste sculpted into a classical temple with sugar statues and sugar-sand gardens. The figures were meant to impart the consequences of gluttony with a story about the ancient Greek hero Ulysses. When he landed on the island of Aeaea, his men were so greedy that the sorceress Circe turned them into pigs. 

By the mid-17th century cookbooks and guides to the new skills and professions of carving and pastry-making were published. Copied and plagiarized, they became models that spread throughout European court culture. Examples of such books are included in the exhibition, such as one by Bartolomeo Scappi, the “private cook” to Pope Pius V; Joseph Gilliers, the dessert chef to King Augustus of Poland; and Juan de la Mata, court chef to the Spanish kings Philip V and Ferdinand VI.

Bitter/Sweet: Coffee, Tea and Chocolate - through Sunday March 5 2017

This is another wonderful exhibition at the DIA.

From social revolutions that changed the way we drink our morning blends, to design revolutions that changed the objects that we drink from, step back in time to when gathering over a cup of your favorite hot beverage caused a stir that upended the world.

Bitter/Sweet: Coffee, Tea & Chocolate is the first exhibition at the Detroit Institute of Arts to engage all five senses. In addition to seeing art, you can touch, hear, smell and even taste coffee- and tea-related beverages.

Edible Monuments Lecture by Alan Darr February 7, 2017 at 7 p.m.

Another unmissable event is a lecture entitled Edible Monuments by Dr. Alan Phipps Darr, Senior Curator of the European Art Department at the Detroit Institute of Arts. The lecture is free, open to the public, and is sponsored by the Friends of the Grosse Pointe Public Library. It will be held on February 7, 2017 at 7 p.m. at the Grosse Pointe Public Library Ewald Branch, 15175 E Jefferson, Grosse Pointe Park, MI 48230.

Detroit Institute of Arts Website
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