Okay. Enough of that! Now, due to its length, I’ve divided
this article into two sections. So, without further ado,
here’s Part One of “Lincoln food myths.”
____________________________________

This year, it seemed to me that the month of February
belonged to one person: Lincoln.

I suppose it’s because of that recent, widely well-known,
blockbuster film of the same name and its accompanying
Oscar buzz, claims of historical inaccuracies, and so on.
Then there was his “real” birthday on the 11th, and the
“fake” but-conveniently-rescheduled-to-create-a-three-
day-holiday-weekend one he shares with Washington
that’s known as Presidents’ Day.*

And so, with all this attention paid to Lincoln, it was only
natural that people wrote about him. ALOT. And about his
wife. And their lives together. And the food that one or the
other ate. And then the…wait. What?!? Yep, there was an
abundance of stories about the dishes that were prepared,
cooked, served, and eaten in the Lincoln household. However,
nearly all of them are just that…stories. Tall tales that suffer
from an appalling lack of documented evidence or are based
on multiple broad assumptions or that rely heavily on mere
speculation. And so, even though these Lincoln food tales
have been swirling around for decades, and have recently
gained new-found momentum, they aren’t necessarily true.
In historic-speak, they’re commonly referred to as fakelore.

One of the most ubiquitous Lincoln-related food myths is
that of Mary Todd Lincoln’s “Courtin’ Cake,” which at times
was also referred to as her “White Cake” and at others,
as an “Almond Cake” and then by some combination of
all those. The jist of the story is that Mary made this cake
for Mr. Lincoln during the time they were courting. Some
versions even imply that it was this confectionery delight
that sealed the deal. Others also claim she made it after
they were married and beyond.

So, is it fact or fiction? Let’s look at information given on
various websites that deal with Lincoln history, such as
those of the Mary Todd Lincoln House and the Lexington
History Museum, both in Lexington, Kentucky, that of The
National First Ladies‘ Library, of Canton, Ohio, and others.
Books were consulted, as well, including a fascinating little
tome found online about the newly-married Lincolns’ first
Springfield residence.

Before I go further, however, let me say that I’m always
leery of these food tales, and so I question their validity.
Hearing it from someone or seeing it on TV or reading it
in a book usually doesn’t suffice. As a culinary historian,
I want, indeed demand, to see primary documentation,
be it diary entries, letters, newspaper accounts and ads,
or some other written proof that the incidents contained
in a particular story actually took place. If there is none,
then the story is just that…a story.

Now, just for the sake of argument, let’s say written
documentation proves nothing. Besides, no one really
knows what anyone ate 50 years ago, let alone 250.
Heck, few can remember what they ate last week. So
give it up, already! Okay, I will. So now what? How do
we prove, or disprove, that something is true? Well, for
starters, let’s look at other documented evidence that
may or may not support these Lincoln food tales.

First, Mary Todd was born into a Southern “prominent
and influential,” slave-holding, “wealthy and aristocratic
family” of Lexington, Kentucky, a city which was then
known as “the Athens of the West”
and was on a par with Eastern cities
like Boston and Philadelphia. Now,
this statement, which contains
known facts, should alone put a
halt to the “Courtin’ Cake” story.
Why? Because it proves that Mary,
as a child of a well-established and
prosperous Southern family, lived
a life of tremendous privilege, and thus she would not
have done any type of household work. Nor would it’ve
been expected that she do so. Yes, she likely learned
how to manage a busy home and to supervise the
daily activities that took place therein, but she would
not’ve actually DONE the work required. It would’ve
been beneath her station in life to do so. Besides,
to be blunt, her family had slaves to do such work!

Let’s add a few more facts from Mary’s life, just in case
the above isn’t enough evidence for the conviction of this
“Cake” myth. In 1839, Mary moved to Springfield, Illinois,
where she resided with her oldest sister, Elizabeth, and
her husband, Ninian Edwards, the son of a former Illinois
Governor. Certainly, seeing as the two girls had the same
upbringing, not to mention her own status in the community
at the time, Mrs. Edwards would’ve had hired help to do
any household tasks, whether it was cleaning, cooking,
washing and ironing clothes, or any other chore. It’s not
likely she would’ve done the work herself, nor would she
have expected Mary (as her sister AND as a house guest)
to do it. Therefore, it’s highly unlikely that Mary, who’d
never had to cook before, would’ve suddenly taken it
up while living with her sister’s family.

Then, at some point in 1840, Mary met the struggling
young lawyer, Abraham Lincoln when both attended
a party given at the Edwards’ home. The couple soon
began courting, much to the dismay of Mary’s family.
Seems they thought he was beneath her, and that it
was a poor match. After all, Mary was well-educated,
and he was not. Mary came from
a wealthy family, he did not. While
growing up, Mary was given every
advantage in the world, he was
not. And he was nearly 10 years
older, to boot! No matter, for their
relationship was apparently a rocky
one, and the two split on the first
of January, 1841. All was not lost,
however, for they renewed their courtship 18 months
later. But when they did, it was done secretly! No one
knew about it. In fact, Mary didn’t tell Elizabeth until
November 4, 1842. Mary and Abe were then married
that same day.**

The point here is that, under the above circumstances,
Mary would not have been baking any cakes, even if
she had been cooking up a storm since before she left
Lexington. And golly, how the heck could she’ve baked
anything if she and Abe were courting secretly?!?

It does make for an intriguing scenario, though. I can
just see it now:

What are you doing, Mary?

(trying not to act suspiciously)
Baking a cake.

Why? If you want something to eat,
ask Cook to prepare you something.

Um, yes, well, uh, I’m not THAT hungry.
I’m, er, just doing this for fun?!

And then the following day, after Mary had secretly
spent time with Mr. Lincoln:

What happened to that cake you made,
Mary? It seems to have disappeared.

(again, trying not to act suspiciously)
Um, er, uh, I don’t know.
Maybe someone…stole it?!?

Yeah, sure! You bet!

Want more? Well, how about this: After Mary and Abe were
married, they lived for nearly two years at Springfield’s Globe
Tavern, where they had just one room. Their first son, Robert,

was born in that room. Many other newlyweds boarded
at the Globe, not only at that same time, but in the past
as well, including other members of Mary’s family. All meals
were taken in a common dining room, and so Mary wouldn’t
have been doing ANY cooking or baking. The couple then
purchased a small house in Springfield during 1844 and
moved there. And, according to several sources, Mary did
indeed have hired help by that time.

Now, I found another version of this “Courtin’ Cake” story
that claims it all started with a French pastry chef who ran
a bakery in Lexington. Supposedly, he’d made a cake for
the Marquis de Lafayette’s visit to the City in May of 1825.
And according to this tale, the women of the Todd family
tried a few pieces of that cake, fell in love with it, asked
for the recipe, and thus, forever after, it became a part
of the Todd Family’s “culinary repertoire.”

The problems with this are too numerous to mention. One,
however, is, if such a cake was indeed made, when, where,
and why were Todd family members eating it? Again, they
had their own slave chefs and pastry cooks to do any and
all baking. Same for the recipe becoming part of their family
collection. Why? Was it THAT good? And were the ones made
at home THAT bad?! Then there’s the fact that Mary was born
on December 13, 1818; she would’ve only been six years old
when General Lafayette came through Lexington in the spring
of 1825. It seems highly unlikely that both she and the Great
Frenchman partook of the same cake, at the same time, and
at the same place.

While researching this supposed Lexington/Lafayette connection,
I found a delightful little book that’d been published in Philadelphia
in 1829: Lafayette in America, 1824 and 1825; Or, Journal of a Voyage
to the United States. An account of the noted and
beloved-by-Americans Frenchman’s return journey
to the country he’d bravely assisted during its War
for Independence, it was recorded by his secretary,
Auguste Levasseur, and then later translated by
John D. Godman, M.D.*** In the few pages dealing
with the General’s limited time in Lexington, there
is NO mention of any foods or cakes or bakeries
or of meeting or spending time with any members
of the Todd family. In fact, General Lafayette spent a mere 48 hours
in the City. His schedule during that time included touring a boy’s
school, an academy for girls, and the University of Transylvania,
all of which were located within Lexington. He then traveled
several miles outside the City to the homes of General Charles
Scott’s widow and of the then US Secretary of State, Henry Clay.

There’s also another, similar, account that claims Mary acquired
the cake recipe herself, allegedly from her favorite Lexington
bakery. No date was given in this particular version. But again,
if her family had slave-chefs and bakers, why would she (or
anyone else, for that matter) even need a bakery, let alone
have a favorite one? Also, I’ve frequently heard someone say,
“Oh, I love to bake cakes using the recipe that belonged to my
[insert relative here] Great-Grandmother/Grandmother/Mother.”
But I’ve NEVER, ever, heard, “You’re gonna love this cake recipe
from the bakery down the street”?!? So…I mean…really?!

Another element of this “Cake Debate,” and in fact, of any
claims about what foods the Lincolns supposedly ate, is the
question of what cookbook (or books) Mary Todd Lincoln did
(or didn’t) own and did (or didn’t) use. Luckily for us modern
food historians, there IS documented proof that she bought
at least one. But which one? And when did she acquire it?
And why? And, well…stay tuned….

to be continued…
________________________________________________
________________________________________________

NOTES
The FOURTH image, the marker located where the original Globe Tavern
stood in Springfield, Illinois, the text reads:

On this site stood
The Globe Tavern
the home of
Abraham Lincoln
and his wife
from the time of
their marriage on
November 4, 1842
until
May 2, 1844.
Here their first child
was born.

*“Officially,” Presidents’ Day was created (June 28, 1968) to commemorate
Washington’s birthday ONLY. Congress later attempted to “officially” include
Lincoln, but failed. Of course, nowadays people think it’s a day to celebrate
ALL US Presidents, whether or not they have done anything of note.

***In the course of my research, I discovered another book about
Lafayette’s travels in this country: Lafayette in America in 1824
and 1825, by Alan Hoffman (2007).
What’s interesting is the story the author shares about his fascination
with the General, and how it lead him to sit down with a French/English
dictionary and his recently-purchased $450-original-copy of Levasseur’s
account in order to translate it. Aww, how nice.
But what I’d like to know is…WHY?!? It’d already been translated! Way
back in 1829, just a mere four years after the Big Voyage! Why the heck
would anyone re-do it? What’s the point? Did Hoffman not know about
Godman’s translation? If so, well, how can that be? Just how bad ARE
his research skills?
So, I sought out Hoffman’s book at the Brooklyn library, because I want
to compare the two translations (without having to spend $30 or more).
However, apparently it hasn’t been at the top of the Library’s acquisition
list, and so I must await its arrival from another lending institution. I’m
eager to get it because, according to the listing on amazon.com, Hoffman’s
book “is the only unabridged English translation” of Levasseur’s account.
Hmmm…guess we’ll see. I’ll let you know what happens.

of the dishes that comprised our “Simple Mid-day Meal.”
The menu was designed to be appropriate for this winter
season, and its contents were concocted in accordance
with original receipts from several historic cookbooks.

Of course, as usual, my opportunities for picture-taking
were limited. You’ll find a few below, however, along
with the corresponding receipts and their sources.

_________________________

The central dish of our meal was a meat pie, courtesy
of Mrs. Lettice Bryan’s The Kentucky Housewife (1839):

A Chicken Pie.
Take two small chickens, (no other sort
being fit for a dish pie) cut them up in
small pieces, and season them with salt
and pepper. Line a deep dish with puff
paste, roll out another sheet tolerably
thin, and cut it into small squares; put
the chickens and dumplings in the dish,
in alternate layers; put in a pint of water
and four ounces of butter, that has been
rolled in flour, and broken up, put a paste
over the top, ornament it handsomely
round the edge with scolloped or
bake it in a moderate oven.

Beautiful!

Into the bake kettle:

After about an hour…Wowza!

Simply put, this pie was mighty tasty and absolutely, downright
AWESOME! I’ve made it before, long ago, but WOW! I’d forgotten
just how good it is. And even though we suddenly realized after
all was said and done that we’d forgotten to put in the water, it
didn’t seem to matter. Definitely, this Chicken Pie gets the Crane
House Seal of Deliciousness. HUZZAH!

Next, from The Virginia Housewife (1824), by Mary Randolph:

Sweet Potatos [sic] Broiled.
Cut them across without peeling, in slices
half an inch thick, broil them on a griddle,
and serve then with butter in a boat.

Our sliced sweet taters were broiled both on a griddle hung
above open flames (below, left) and on a gridiron placed atop
hot coals (see the latter farther down this page*):

A beet dish (seen to the right above, during the “stew” stage),
which was made per directions that’re also found in The Kentucky
Housewife. I just love the final sentence in this receipt, wherein
the author tells how to store and preserve this root vegetable
for the winter:

Beets, Stewed.
Having boiled them till nearly tender,
scrape off the skin, cut the beets in
thick slices, put them in a stew-pan
with a little salt, pepper, vinegar, and
a good slice of butter, rolled in flour;
stew them a few minutes, and serve
them up with the gravy. Beets keep
well through the winter, buried in
heaps in the garden.

There’s nothing better, and more historically-realistic, than
multiple dishes cooking together above the flames or over
hot coals out on the hearth. Now, THAT’S a meal! HUZZAH!
(*more sweet potato slices are broiling on the gridiron)

We also made a “pine-apple” tart, using the following receipt
from The Country Housewife and Lady’s Director…Part II (1732),
by Richard Bradley (our “pine-apple” pieces are stewing in the
kettle in the lower left, above):

To Make a Tart of the Ananas, or Pine-Apple.
From Barbadoes.

Take Pine-Apple, and twist off its Crown:
then pare it free from the Knots, and
cut it in Slices about half an Inch thick;
then stew it with a little Canary Wine,
or Madera Wine, and some Sugar, till it
is thoroughly hot, and it will distribute
its Flavour to the Wine much better than
any thing we can add to it. When it is as
one would have it, take it from the Fire;
and when it is cool, put it in to a sweet
Paste, with its Liquor, and bake it gently,
a little while, and when it comes from the
Oven, pour Cream over it, (if you have it)
and serve either hot or cold.

Our lovely, mighty tasty, Tart of the Ananas:

The Tart is served:

The pastes, or crusts, for both the Chicken Pie and the Tart were
perfect. They were light, flaky, and flavorful, and our cooks did
a fantastic job. I must say, it’s always amazing (to me, at least)
what can be accomplished without modern “stuff.”

And lastly, we made a chocolate beverage using two different
receipts. The first is from the 17th century and can be found
in Sophie and Michael Coe’s The True History of Chocolate (an
excellent book, by the way!). The second is from Lydia Child’s
The American Frugal Housewife (1833, 12th edition).

St. Disdier’s Chocolate
Recipe 1 (“very good”)
2 lb prepared cacao
1 ½ lb cassonade (sugar)
6 drachm powdered vanilla
4 drachm powdered cinnamon

Chocolate.
Many people boil chocolate in a coffee-pot;
but I think it is better to boil it in a skillet,
or something open. A piece of chocolate
about as big as a dollar is the usual
quantity for a quart of water; but some
put in more, and some less. When it boils,
pour in as much milk as you like and let
them boil together three or four minutes.
It is much richer with the milk boiled in
it. Put the sugar in either before or after,
as you please. Nutmeg improves it. The
chocolate should be scraped fine before
it is put into the water.

Me and our intrepid hearth cooks (minus the three who had to leave early):

Beets to pickle
Boil Spring Water, and when it boils
put in your Beets and let them boil
untill [sic] they are tender; then
peel them with a Cloth, and lay
them in a Stone Jar. To three
quarts of Vinegar put two quarts
of Spring Water, and so mix untill
you have as much as you think you
shall want. Put your watered Vinegar
in a Pan and add Salt to your taste;
stir it well together untill all the Salt
is melted when you must pour it upon
your Beets. Cover your Jar with a Bladder.
(emphasis mine)

Of course, if you’d just completed your hog butchering, you’d
use a fresh bladder. But if not, the bladders could be dried
and used later.

One dried hog’s bladder:

After soaking in water overnight, the bladder is stretched
across the mouth of a jar and securely tied:

And in a few days, it dries again, creating an air-tight seal:

TA-DA! The equivalent of today’s Tuperware! Or, as one
visitor to the Crane House kitchen described it, “colonial
Saran wrap.” It also makes a great drum! HUZZAH!

Of course, it’d be MUCH better to use a stoneware crock
(as it states here in Mrs. Gardiner’s receipt) for storing
any pickled items (or liquids). Stoneware is less porous
and far more durable than this redware jar, which is likely
to leak. No leaching of lead from the pot’s glaze, as well
(and yes, they were aware of those dangers; not the
specifics so much as knowing “we’ll become ill”).

____________________

NOTE: Oops! Forgot to mention initially that the above jar is empty.
The bladder was secured soley for the purpose of demonstrating food
preservation techniques.
_______________________________________

* Mrs. Gardiner’s Family Receipts, the published personal manuscript
cookbook of Anne Gibbons (Mrs. Sylvester) Gardiner of Boston, MA,
was begun in 1763.

Awhile back, I conducted an in-depth receipt (recipe) search
for Twelfth Cake aka Twelfth-Night Cake. I looked in all my
facsimiles of 18th century cookbooks, as well as in the few
I have from the 17th, 16th, and earlier centuries. Books I’d
downloaded and a few others that are available online were
also consulted.

And so, what was the result of this investigation? What did
I find? Well, the answer, as you may recall from when I wrote
about my search some two years ago: Absolutely nothing.
Yep, I found zilch, nada, zip. There’s not a single receipt
for Twelfth Night Cake of in any of those cookbooks.

Now, if you received one of James Townsend & Son’s 2013
calendars (as I did), you may be thinking, “Hey, now wait
just a minute! According to Townsend, there’s a receipt for

‘Twelfth-Night Cake’ in The London Art of Cookery (1800*),
by John Farley. Good golly, it’s right there, on the opening
page, as the receipt for January!” Yeah, well, sorry, but it’s
incorrect. There are NO receipts for twelfth-night cakes
in any 18th century cookbook, let alone in Farley’s.

So, if that’s the case (and indeed it is), what’s with that
first recipe on Townsend’s calendar? Where did it come
from? Heavens! Did he make it up?! Thankfully, no. The
answer, though, is easily found. It’s in fine print over
in the lower right-hand corner of the very same page.
Read it, and you’ll discover Townsend believes that
a Twelfth-Night cake is the same as a Bride’s Cake.
Apparently, at least according to Townsend, they’re
interchangeable! And thus, THAT is exactly what is
given here. Yep, January’s recipe is NOT, specifically,
for a Twelfth-Night cake; it’s for a Bride’s Cake.

Now, this claim that the two cakes, Twelfth-Night and
Bride’s, are one and the same is one that I’ve never,
ever heard before. And so, I have to wonder, where’d
Townsend get this idea?! What is its source? Why does
he believe it’s correct? Whatever the answers may be
to those questions, the bottom line is, it isn’t true.
These cakes are NOT the same!

How do I know? Because there are receipts specifically
for twelfth cakes in at least two early 19th century
cookbooks which ALSO contain instructions for making,
specifically, a Bride’s Cake. And yes, the two cakes ARE
different, even if only slightly. The first of the above books
is John Mollard’s The Art of Cookery (1801), and The Cook’s
Oracle (1817), by William Kitchiner, M.D., is the second.

There’s a pesky, um, problem, if you will, with Farley’s
Bride Cake receipt. It’s not his. It’s Elizabeth Raffald’s.
Yep, he stole, er, borrowed, it from her. In fact, Farley
is well known for plagiarizing other
author’s works. Heck, a few years
ago, a member of the historic food-
ways staff at Colonial Williamsburg
told me that they refer to his book
as “The London Art of Plagiarism.”
Pretty accurate, I’d say! So I rarely,
if ever, use it. In any event, seems
to me, if you’re going to engage in
a substitution scheme of some sort, that you’d choose
the original and not a copy! Not only that, but there
ARE actual historic receipts for twelfth cakes. Why not
use one of those? The one Townsend offers is from an
1800 publication anyway, so it’s not like he’s sticking
necessarily to one single time period. Why not move
ahead just one year (1801), or even a few more (1817),
and present a TRUE twelfth cake receipt?

Another problem I have with January’s receipt, besides
it being one cake masquerading as another and it not
being attributed to its original source, is the fact that
it’s an adaptation. And you all know how I absolutely,
positively, detest adaptations! And what you see here
is NOT the actual receipt taken from an historic cookbook.
In addition, it’s not even faithful to the original, as both
the ingredients and the instructions have been altered.
It’s been adapted and re-written! And although I’ve not
inspected each and every one (it’d be too maddening!),
I suspect all the recipes in Townsend’s 2013 calendar
are merely adaptations of historic ones. Most likely,
there’s not one authentic, not-been-messed-with
recipe in the lot (sadly). That’s why I think it needs
to be re-titled. Instead of “Recipes & Sundry Items,”
it should be “Adapted Historic Recipes & Sundry Items.”
Truth in advertising, don’t you know!

Hmmm. On second thought, I guess he DID make it up!
Which is just the sort of thing that I don’t understand.
There are plenty of actual, original historic receipts out
there. They’re not difficult to find. So use them! Then
tell us how to make THAT receipt, as it’s written! It CAN
be done. Heck, I do it all the time in my hearth cooking.
But to muck about with an historic receipt, and then pass
it off as being historic, even down to “it’s from so-n-so’s”
18th or 19th century book. Add in the nature of your
business (seller of supposed historic reproductions),
and, well, it just seems deceitful to me.

Nevertheless…let’s continue…

In order to compare Townsend’s recipe to the original,
here is Elizabeth Raffald’s Bride Cake, as given in her
book, The Experienced English Housekeeper (1769):

To make a Bride Cake
Take four pounds of fine flour well dried,
four pounds of fresh butter, two pounds
of loaf sugar, pound and sift fine a quarter
of an ounce of mace, the same of nutmegs.
To every pound of flour put eight eggs.
Wash four pounds of currants, pick them
well and dry them before the fire. Blanch
a pound of sweet almonds (and cut them
lengthway very thin), a pound of citron,
one pound of candied orange, the same
of candied lemon, half a pint of brandy.
First work the butter with your hand to
a cream, then beat in your sugar a quarter
of an hour. Beat the whites of your eggs
to a very strong froth, mix them with your
sugar and butter, beat your yolks half an
hour at least and mix them with your cake.
Then put in your flour, mace and nutmeg,
keep beating it well till your oven is ready,
put in your brandy, and beat your currants
and almonds lightly in. Tie three sheets
of paper round the bottom of your hoop
to keep it from running out, rub it well
your sweetmeats in three lays with cake
betwixt every lay. After it is risen and
coloured, cover it with paper before
your oven is stopped up. It will take
three hours baking.

Did you notice the following line?

and lay your sweetmeats in three
lays with cake betwixt every lay.

So, that means it’s not just another every-day cake,
with all those various ingredients
thrown in higgledy-piggledy. No, it’s
more deliberate. There’s to be three
separate layers of citron and candied
orange and lemon peels that alternate
in between three of cake batter. Almost
sounds as if it’s perhaps a type of 18th
century layer cake.

____________________

Lastly, let’s take a look at the two known, bona-fide receipts
for Twelfth Cakes that’re from the early 1800s. First up, is
John Mollard’s, from his The Art of Cookery (1801). Then
we’ll move on to William Kitchiner’s, as presented in his
work, The Cook’s Oracle (1817). I trust you’ll ferret out
the similarities and the differences between these two
cakes (for instance, the use of yeast in Mollard’s) below:

TWELFTH CAKES.

Take seven pounds of flour, make a cavity
in the center, set a sponge with a gill and
a half of yeast and a little warm milk; then
put round it one pound of fresh butter broke
into small lumps, one pound and a quarter
of sifted sugar, four pounds and a half
of currants washed and picked, half an
ounce of sifted cinnamon, a quarter of
an ounce of pounded cloves, mace, and
nutmeg mixed, sliced candied orange or
lemon peel and citron. When the sponge
is risen, mix all the ingredients together
with a little warm milk; let the hoops be
well papered and buttered, then fill them
with the mixture and bake them, and
when nearly cold ice them over with sugar
prepared for that purpose as per receipt;
or they may be plain.

Again, as you may recall from from my blog post two years
ago, noted food historian Ivan Day wrote in Cooking in Europe,
1650-1850, that Mollard’s receipt “seems to be the earliest
printed recipe for an English twelfth cake.”

Next, Kitchiner’s receipt from his The Cook’s Oracle (1817):

Twelfth Cake. (No. 55.)
2 lb of sifted flour, 2 lb of sifted loaf
sugar, 2 lb of butter, 18 eggs, 4 lb
of currants, 1/2 pound almonds,
blanched and chopped, 1/2 pound
of citron or lemon, 1 lb of candied
orange and lemon peel cut into thin
slices, a large nutmeg grated, 1/2 oz
ground allspice; ground cinnamon,
mace, ginger, and corianders, 1/4 oz
of each and a gill of brandy.
Put the butter into a stewpan in a warm
place and work it into a smooth cream
with the hand. Mix it with the sugar
and spice in a pan (or on your paste
board), for some time; then break
in the eggs by degrees, and beat it
at least 20 minutes; stir in the brandy,
and then the flour, and work it a little.
Add the fruit, sweetmeats and almonds
and mix all lightly together. Have ready
a hoop cased with paper on a baking
plate. Put in the mixture, smooth it on
the top with your hand. Put the plate
on another one with sawdust between,
to prevent the bottom from colouring
too much, and bake it in a slow oven
four hours or more. When nearly cold,
ice it with twelfth cake icing.
Obs. A good twelfth cake, not baked
too much, and kept in a cool dry place,
will retain its moisture and eat well if
twelve months old.

Oh, and look what follows the above receipt:

Bride or Wedding Cake. (No. 56)
The only difference usually made
in these Cakes is, the addition of
one pound of Raisins, stoned and
mixed with the other fruit.

Perhaps this is where Townsend got his idea that a Bride
Cake is the same as a Twelfth Cake? According to Kitchiner,
they ARE similar, in all but one ingredient. And yet, still they
are NOT exactly the same. They are two distinct receipts!

But I digress…. Now, the receipt in Kitchiner for making
icing for these cakes is found under the heading:

Icing for Twelfth or Bride Cake. (No. 84.)

Let’s take a closer look. It specifies icing for Twelfth OR
Bride Cake. In other words, it refers to two SEPARATE
cakes, Twelfth AND Bride. It does NOT say, or even imply,
that the two are one and the same. That would be “Icing
for Twelfth, or Bride, Cake.” Or, “Icing for Twelfth, also known
as Bride, Cake.” You get the idea, yes?! It’s merely an Icing
for Twelfth Cake OR for Bride Cake! It’s for the one AND/OR
the other. In short, it’s icing for both.

This fact is also reiterated in the content of the icing
receipt itself. To wit, the highlighted words below:

Icing for Twelfth or Bride Cake. (No. 84.)
Take 1 lb of double refined sugar,
pounded and sifted through a sieve;
put into a pan quite free from grease,
break in the whites of six eggs, and
as much powder blue as will lie on
a sixpence; beat it well with a spattle
for ten minutes, then squeeze in the
juice of a lemon, and beat till it becomes
thick and transparent. Set the cake you
intend to ice, in an oven or warm place
for five minutes, then spread over the
top and sides with the mixture as smooth
as possible. If for a wedding cake only,
plain ice it; if for a twelfth cake,
ornament it with gum paste, or
fancy articles of any description.
(emphasis mine)

One final observation: below is the title page of Kitchiner’s
Oracle. About a third of the way down, the author mentions
that his work provides a “system of cookery for Catholic
Families.” So, were twelfth/twelfth-night cakes mainly
eaten by followers of that religion? Maybe that’s why
receipts are so hard to find?! Adds more fodder to that
burning question: Christmas. Did they or didn’t they?!
Ahh, well, that’s a whole other topic for another day.

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*John Farley’s book, The London Art of Cookery, was initially published
in 1783. There were numerous subsequent editions, and the one I have
is the 11th of 1807. I don’t know whether or not there was an 1800
edition, as noted on Townsend’s calendar (there very well may be).

Walking in a winter wonderland:

in Eliza Leslie’s book, Seventy-Five Receipts for Pastry, Cakes,
and Sweetmeats (1828). It was a good way to use up all
those currants that were leftover from the mincemeat pie
I’d previously made. And I had great fun preparing them!

BLACK CURRANT JELLY.
Pick the currants from the stalks,
wash and drain them. Mash them
soft with a spoon, put them in a bag,
and squeeze out the juice. To each
pint of juice, allow three quarters
of a pound of loaf-sugar. Put the
juice and sugar into a preserving
kettle, and boil them about ten
minutes, skimming them well. Take
it immediately out of the kettle.
Put it warm into your glasses. Tie
it up with brandy papers. The juice
of black currants is so very thick,
that it requires less sugar and
less boiling than any other jelly.

In fact, I SO enjoyed making those jellies that I made another
batch for my historic foods presentation the weekend following
the Essex Tour. Only this time, I made Apple Jelly, to accompany
the currant jellies.

Again, I used a receipt from Leslie’s Seventy-Five Receipts:

APPLE JELLY.
Take the best pippin, or bell-flower
apples. No others will make good
jelly. Pare, core, and quarter them.
Lay them on a brass or bell-metal
kettle, and put to them as much
water only, as will cover them, and
as much lemon-peel as you choose.
Boil them till they are soft, but not
till they break. Drain off the water
through a cullender, and mash the
apples with the back of a spoon.
Put them into a jelly bag, set a deep
dish or pan under it, and squeeze
out the juice. To every pint of juice,
allow a pound of loaf-sugar, broken
up, and the juice of two lemons. Put
the apple-juice, the sugar, and the
lemon-juice, into the preserving kettle.
Boil it a quarter of an hour, skimming
it well. Take it immediately from the
kettle, and pour it warm into your
glasses, but not so hot as to break
them. When cold, cover each glass
with white paper dipped in brandy,
and tie it down tight with another
paper. Keep them in a cool place.

The Currant Jelly was delicious, and it had what can best
be described as a tart, exotic taste. The Apple, on the other
hand, had a sharp, crisp taste. It was also quite, no VERY,
rich, and a small amount went a loonnnng way!*

I also made a few pieces of marzipan, which is simply made
of pounded almonds, which are first blanched and loosened
from their skins, and sugar and rosewater:

Sadly, the above photo is the only one I have of any finished
sweetmeats. And then below is one of the cochineal that
I used to color the little strawberry:

I also had some spinach juice for coloring the little peas, but
for some reason or other, it didn’t work. I tried brushing it on,
and then I even just plopped the whole piece into the juice,
but, alas, it refused to take. I’m not sure what the problem
was, if it was the juice or the marzipan (or me?!). Oh, well!

And lastly, I made a pine-apple tart. Now, I’d planned initially
to include it in the previous weekend’s spread, but for various
reasons it didn’t happen. Besides, there was certainly plenty
of food without it! In any event, the tart was put together
in accordance with a receipt from The Country Housewife
and Lady’s Director…Part II (1732), by Richard Bradley:

To Make a Tart of the Ananas, or
Pine-Apple. From Barbadoes.

Take Pine-Apple, and twist off its Crown:
then pare it free from the Knots, and cut
it in Slices about half an Inch thick; then
stew it with a little Canary Wine, or
Madera Wine, and some Sugar, till it
is thoroughly hot, and it will distribute
its Flavour to the Wine much better than
any thing we can add to it. When it is as
one would have it, take it from the Fire;
and when it is cool, put it in to a sweet
Paste, with its Liquor, and bake it gently,
a little while, and when it comes from
the Oven, pour Cream over it, (if you
have it) and serve either hot or cold.

And so into the bake kettle it went. Of course, as is usually
the case, the photo below is the last and only one I was able
to take of it. Between talking to all the visitors and offering
them a bit of jelly or some marzipan or a piece of tart, there
was just no time!

_______________________________________

*NOTE (added 1/16/2013): for those who aren’t familiar with 18th
and early 19th century dishes, jellies were meant to be eaten…as is!
Yep. And with a spoon. They were not for use on bread or toast.

And from the fireworks shot out over Prospect Park,
Brooklyn, NY, at midnight January 1, 2013. Far out!
(I’d also post a short video of the end of the firework
show, but WP won’t let me. Oh, well….)

Good-sized crowds of visitors came by on both days
to take a tour of the Crane House. As usual, a stop
in the kitchen was the “Grand Finale” of each one.
There, I had quite a lovely array of delicious goodies
spread out for all to enjoy, including Shrewsbury and
Gingerbread cakes, Pounded Cheese with crackers,
hot spiced cider, and more. On Saturday, I also roasted
a small chicken in the tin reflector oven and put together
my minced meat pie. I then baked the latter on Sunday.

I had a fantastic time on both days demonstrating my
hearth cooking skills and chatting with the numerous
visitors. I even had several in-depth discussions with
folks, both individually and in groups. Overall, it was
an absolutely awesome two days! HUZZAH!

_____________________________________

Shrewsbury Cakes, which I’ve made for previous Tours. This time
they were again courtesy of Amelia Simmons’ receipt in her book
American Cookery (1796):

Gingerbread Cakes, from Hannah Glasse’s The Art of Cookery Made
Plain and Easy (1747), were made with that British staple “treakle”:

Pounded Cheese, from William Kitchiner, M.D.’s The Cook’s Oracle
(1817) via The Cooks Own Book (1832):

Currant jellies, courtesy of Eliza Leslie’s Seventy-Five Receipts
for Pastry, Cakes, and Sweetmeats (1828):

Tasty hot spiced cider was offered to visitors:

And finally, the making of the mincemeat pie! As always,
I followed a receipt (recipe) from Martha Washington’s
Booke of Cookery, which, as you may know, is widely
thought to be Medieval in origin. And of course, I think
we’re all aware of how our (and the Cranes’) British
ancestors simply adored their meat pies! HUZZAH!

NOTE: The receipt I used for the Shrewsbury Cakes is available via
the link above their photo. If anyone would like other receipts, just
send me a note at historiccookery@gmail.com.

The event was a fund-raiser for the Montclair
Historical Society (MHS), which oversees four
properties, including the Israel Crane House,
where it was held. Several local restaurants
participated by offering tastings of their best
seasonal soups. Other activities took place
throughout the day, as well, including story
telling, House tours, and meeting MHS’ new
resident chickens.

Of course, as part of this Big Event, I was inside the Crane House,
cooking up some tasty soup of my own over the open fire. I made
“A Turnip Soop,” per Hannah Glasse’s instructions in her cookbook
The Art of Cookery Made Plain & Easy (1747):

A Turnip Soop.
Take a Gallon of Water, and a Bunch
of Turnips, pare them, save three or
four out, put the rest into the Water,
with half an Ounce of whole Pepper,
an Onion stuck with Cloves, a Blade
of Mace, and half a Nutmeg bruised,
a little Bundle of Sweet Herbs, a large
Crust of Bread; let these boil an Hour
pretty fast, then strain it through a Sieve,
squeezing the Turnips through, wash
and cut a Bunch of Salary very small,
set it on in the Liquor on the Fire, cover
it close, and let it stew. In the mean
time cut the Turnips you saved into
Dice, and two or three small Carrots
clear scraped, and cut in little pieces;
put half these Turnips and Carrots into
the Pot with the Salary, and the other
half fry brown with fresh Butter. You
must flour them first, and two or three
Onions peeled, and cut in thin Slices,
and fry’d brown; then put them all into
the Soop, with an Ounce of Vermicella.
Let your Soop boil softly till the Salary
is quite tender, and your Soop good.
Season it with Salt to your Palate.

I made a batch at home for display purposes, and then I worked
on another throughout the course of the day. It takes several
hours to prepare and cook, as it’s not exactly a “simple” soup.
In fact, few historic soups are. Most are comprised of not only
multiple ingredients, but they also require numerous steps…cook
this, strain that, push this through a sieve, fry these, chop those,
and so on. It’s far more complicated than your basic modern-day
routine of “open, pour into a pan, heat, and eat!”

I chose this soup because it calls for assorted root vegetables
that would have been available in the fall. At the same time, it
didn’t require a meat base, as so many others of the 18th and

early 19th centuries do. It provided me with a challenge, too, one
that I was eager to tackle: I needed “an ounce of Vermicella.” Yep,
I had to make some pasta. What fun!

Fortunately, there’s a receipt for Vermicelli in the same edition (1747)
of Glasse’s The Art of Cookery:

To make Vermicella.
Mix Yolks of Eggs and Flower together
into a pretty stiff Paste, so as you can
work it up cleverly, then roll it as thin
as it is possible to roll the Paste. Let
it dry in the Sun; and when it is quite
dry, with a very sharp Knife cut it as
thin as possible, and keep it in a dry
Place, it will run up like little Worms,
as Vermicella does; though the best
way is to run it through a coarse Sieve,
whilst the Paste is soft. If you want some
to be made in haste, dry it by the Fire,
and cut it small. It will dry by the Fire
in a quarter of an Hour. This far exceeds
what comes from abroad being fresher.

I just love that last line, don’t you? Making your own is “fresher” and
“far exceeds” any from some foreign land. It sounds oh, so 2012-ish,
doesn’t it?! But I digress. Back to the soup…

Now, I’ve made my own pasta many times, yes? HA! Yeah, NO! Well,
actually, I have made noodles a few times, but that was years ago.
Of course, I’ve often seen pasta of all kinds being made on various
and sundry TV cooking shows (“Lidia’s [Bastianich] Italy in America”
on PBS springs to mind). In any event, I took Glasse’s receipt and
dove in. I made a small amount first, with a handful or two of flour

and just one egg yolk. The end product was just fine, but, boy, was
it a struggle. The dough was rather dry at first, making it difficult to
work with. I eventually got the consistency I wanted, though, and
I rolled it and cut out the pasta. Then I decided to make another
batch, only this time, I used two egg yolks, instead of just one. Well,
it wasn’t any easier! In the end, all was well and good as before, but
golly, what was the problem? Was I doing something wrong? Or was
that how it’s supposed to be?

Thing is, I remembered that those TV-show cooks used the whole
egg, whereas Glasse’s receipt calls for the yolks ONLY. It was rather
puzzling. So finally, I went online to see just what others had done.
And guess what? No one, not a single person, used ONLY the yolks.
Nope, they all used the ENTIRE egg, the yolk AND the white. It was
an interesting discovery, that’s for sure. Ahh, well, perhaps Glasse’s
receipt is truly unique! Or maybe it’s how “it was done” in the 18th
century? Or perhaps, it’s just another possible method, then and
now. Or something!

Enough of that. Here are the few photos I was able to take during
the recent “Soup-” um, “Soop” er, I mean, “Spoon-a-Thon.”

Oh, and the plated soup shown first is what I made in advance.
And yes, I had a bowl. I’m not a big fan of turnips, but this was
mighty good! HUZZAH!

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