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Posts Tagged ‘Hannah Glasse’

Well, actually it was called “Spoon-a-Thon,” but since soups of all
kinds were the stars of the day, it was really a “Soup-a-thon.” Or
at least, that’s what I called it!

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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During the recent “Spring Celebration” at the Queens County
Farm Museum
, I was busy at the hearth of the site’s Adriance
Farmhouse. While a variety of modern-type activities, ranging
from sheep shearing and hayrides to music and a plant sale,
were taking place throughout the complex, I offered a few

of a more historical nature in the Farmhouse kitchen. There,
the main focus was the Mighty Cow and the role she played
in the life of a typical 18th century farm family during the
Spring months and beyond. Thus, we churned butter and
drank the resulting buttermilk, made cheese, and cooked
up dozens and DOZENS of yummy Curd Fritters. Visitors
also enjoyed butter that I’d churned previously (with its
buttermilk, of course) and cheese that I’d made. Oh, and
mustn’t forget, we also made toast.

Now, the attendance that day at the Farm may’ve been
“normal,” but for me, it was downright amazing! I was
just blown away by the number of people who stopped
by to see what I was doing at the hearth. And they just
kept coming! It reminded me of my days at Conner Prairie
long ago. It also created quite a multi-ring circus. Whether
slicing bread, offering butter churning hints, flipping curd
fritters, or warming milk for the cheese, I was kept busy
non-stop. At times, it seemed nigh overwhelming, but
thankfully, I hung in there! And I had some marvelous
conversations with folks, both singly and in groups.
Overall, I’d say it was a very productive AND highly
enjoyable day! HUZZAH!

As for photos, well…unfortunately, finding a few spare
moments for taking any was difficult. Hence, what you
see below is it. Maybe I’ll get more next time? Or not!
Oh, and for those interested, the Curd Fritter receipt
(recipe) follows at the end. Enjoy!

____________________

The receipt I used both here and at The Crane House (see
previous post) is from Eliza Smith’s cookbook The Compleat
Housewife
(1727):

To make Curd Fritters.
Take a handful of curds, a handful
of flour, ten eggs well beaten and
strained, some sugar, some cloves,
mace, nutmeg, and a little saffron;
stir all well together, and fry them
in very hot beef-dripping; drop
them in the pan by spoonfuls;
stir them about till they are
of a fine yellow brown; drain
them from the suet, and scrape
sugar on them, when you serve
them up.

Now, there’s one line in the above receipt that I think may
be a mistake, as in a typo. Or perhaps, it’s the result of just
plain ol’ poor editing. Maybe it should even be eliminated
entirely. Whatever it is, I believe the words:

…stir them about till they
are of a fine yellow brown;

should follow, or be combined, with:

…a little saffron; stir all
well together.

It just doesn’t make sense as it is. Besides, I found a great
co-supporter, if you will, of this theory: Hannah Glasse. You
see, she stole, er, borrowed Smith’s receipt for her The Art
of Cookery, made
[sic] Plain and Easy (1747), In addition
to making the whole a bit more concise, she removed
the offending sentence! To wit:

Curd Fritters.
Having a Handful of Curds, and
a Handful of Flour, and ten Eggs,
well beaten and strained, some
Sugar, Cloves, Mace, and Nutmeg
beat, a little Saffron; stir all well
together, and fry them quick, and
of a fine light-brown.

See? That seemingly extraneous, nonsensical set of words
is gone, and no harm done. Way to go, Hannah! HUZZAH!

_________________________

NOTE: I’ve made Curd Fritters many times. For more in-depth
information on this delectable delight, see this page and then
this one for details about a specific ingredient.

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We had a great group of folks
at the recent (April 15) hearth
cooking class at the Israel Crane
House
. Everyone worked diligently
on all the various dishes, and I think
it’s safe to say that a fun time was
had by all. Of course, the absolute
BEST part was sitting down to enjoy
a lovely meal of delectable goodies
straight from the open fire. HUZZAH!

So, without further ado, here are a few scenes, and some
receipts (recipes), from that day. Let the fun begin!

First up, from Amelia Simmons’ American Cookery (1796):

To stuff and roast four Chickens.
Six ounces salt pork, half loaf bread,
six ounces butter, 3 eggs, a handful
of parsley shredded fine, summer-
savory, sweet marjoram; mix the
whole well together, fill and sew
up; roast one hour, baste with
butter, and dust on flour.

Next, from the Ashfield Family’s (of New York and New Jersey)
manuscript cookbook (1720s-1780s)*:

81. To make a Tansey to Bake
Take 18 Eggs and beat them well.
Put to them a quart of Cream and
the Crumb of a Stale penny Loaf
grated fine, one Nutmegg grated,
a little Salt, a Spoonfull of Orange
flower water, as much juice of Spinage
and Tansey as will make it green.
Sweeten it to your tast and put it
in your dish. Strew over it a quarter
of a pound of melted Butter. Put it
into a moderate Oven. Half an hour
will bake it. When you take it out,
Strew it with loaf Sugar and garnish
your dish with Oranges cut in Quarters.

Then it was on to:

Peeres in Confyt. XX. VI. XII.
Take peeres and pare hem clene.
take gode rede wyne &. mulberes
oper saundres and seep pe peeres
perin & whan pei buth ysode,
take hem up, make a syryp of
wyne greke. oper vernage with
blaunche powdour oper white
sugur and powdour gyngur & do
the peres perin. seep it a lytel
& messe it forth.

from The Forme of Cury, the published version of the manuscript
compiled by the Master Cooks at the Court of England’s King
Richard II (1399-1420):

Ahhh, there’s just nothing like a crackling fire:

Finding an original, historic receipt for cornbread has always
been mighty difficult. So I usually fall back on my recollections
of what we did when I worked at Conner Prairie long ago.
Thus, our somewhat “mo-dern” cornbread (made according
to my own recipe
)**:

In addition, we cooked one of my favorites, “Salmon in Cases,”
courtesy of Hannah Glasse’s The Art of Cookery, made [sic] Plain
and Easy
. We also churned butter.

Finally, our sumptuous mid-day meal is served. Let’s eat!:

‘Til next time!

_________________________

* Published as Pleasures of Colonial Cooking, by The New Jersey
Historical Society, Newark, NJ (1982).
**There’s been a discussion about this very subject on one
of Plimoth Plantation’s blogs. I wanted to provide a link to it,
but, dagnabit, I can’t remember which one it was!

Read Full Post »

My “Big Week” of hearth cooking (March 20 to April 1, when I had
one event after another) finally came to a close at the same spot
where it all began: the Israel Crane House. That Sunday was billed
as “Family Day,” since all of the properties owned by The Montclair
Historical Society (MHS) were now officially open for the new season.
And so I decided, in honor of this auspicious occasion, to cook an
old, and a new, favorite dish: a “Potatoe [sic] Pudding”; and more
“Salmon in Cases.” I also used up a bit of bread (for toast), along
with the fresh batch of butter that’d been churned earlier in the
week (all courtesy of Homeschool Day, doncha know!). Oh, and
a few remaining bites of my Seed Cake. Of course, as usual,
I brought in all this food, but left empty-handed. HUZZAH!

Okay, here we go…

Everything’s set out and ready:

the potato pudding’s prepped and ready to bake:

The receipt for my “Potatoe [sic] Pudding” came from the Leffert’s
manuscript cookbook. This little volume is part of the collection
of Lefferts Family Papers located at the Brooklyn Historical Society

(BHS) of Brooklyn, NY. Most likely, it was written at some point
in the 1830s. I’ve visited BHS several times to study this small
historical document, and it’s quite fascinating (more on it later).
In addition, when I did hearth cooking at the Lefferts historic
house (in Brooklyn’s Prospect Park) several years ago, I made
numerous dishes found therein. So it was great fun to make this
baked pudding again!

Here’s the receipt, taken from the “Puddings and Custards” section
of the manuscript:

33. Potatoe Puding.
Boil the potatoes very dry skin them and
rub them through a sieve to 1 lb. of potato
add 1 pt cream 7 eggs 6 oz. of butter
lemon juice sugar and nutmeg to your
taste, bake it with or without paste.*

TA-DA! It’s nearly done.

Visitors to the House that afternoon ate up my “Potatoe Pud”
so quickly, that I wasn’t able to get a photo of the finished
dish. dagnabit.

Now, regular readers will recall my recent experiments in cooking
“Salmon in Cases” in reflector ovens. Well, it was so much fun,
I wanted to do it again. In fact, by this time I’d also decided that
we’d make them during our hearth cooking class on April 15, so
I figured a little more practice couldn’t hurt! In any event, I made
them, again following Hannah Glasse’s receipt from her cookbook
The Art of Cookery, made [sic] Plain and Easy (1747).

Cut your Salmon into little Pieces…

…butter the Inside of the Paper well…

…season it with Pepper, Salt and Nutmeg…

…fold the Paper so as nothing can come out, then lay them on
a Tin Plate to be baked…a Tin Oven before the Fire does best.

What fun! HUZZAH!

_______________

*NOTE: Most all the receipts in the Lefferts book are written in pen.
However, here the word “paste” is written in pencil. That one word
was probably added later. Also, on the page where this receipt appears,
it is written as
“28. Potato Pudding.”

Read Full Post »

As mentioned previously, the definition of “tin oven” in the glossary
of Prospect Books’ facsimile of The Art of Cookery, made [sic] Plain
and Easy
, by Hannah Glasse (1747), refers to the book’s page 91.
All the receipts on that page, which is one in a group of about 10,
are for fish. These pages, together with 32 others that contain
receipts for everything from soups to puddings to vegetables,
comprise the chapter entitled “For a Fast-Dinner, a Number of
good Dishes, which you may make use of for a Table at any
other Time.” In other words, all are dishes for those assorted
and numerous fast (meatless) days (such as Lent). Naturally,
as author Glasse points out, they could certainly be prepared
for any meal at any time.

Now, at first, I wondered, how is fish cooked in a tin reflector
oven? Do you spit it? However, fish tend to be rather thin, so
won’t it fall apart too easily? Or maybe
you simply tie it to the spit? Sounds
do-able, but seems a bit risky. I then
decided to return to the source, to
look closely at the specific receipt
(“Salmon in Cases”) referred to in
the glossary’s definition of “tin oven.”
A-Ha! I soon discovered that it doesn’t
involve cooking a whole fish! It merely
calls for pieces of fish to be wrapped in paper (“in cases”),
then placed on a tin plate and cooked in “a Tin Oven before
the Fire.”

OK. But, wait a minute. How do you cook a plate of anything,
let alone fish, in a reflector oven? Balance it on the spit? Seems
unlikely (and unwieldy!). Set in on the oven’s floor? That’d work,
I suppose, but won’t it be too low, in relation to the fire? OR,
perhaps a tin oven with a shelf would work? The type that’s
also set before the fire and is used for baking? The thing is,
the definition (mentioned above) didn’t include those. Does
that mean they didn’t exist in the mid-18th century? Or were
they just not widely used? It does seem, however, that if one
type of tin oven was available, then other kinds would’ve
been, as well.

Of course, the best way to find answers
to these questions was to conduct a few
experiments. Shortly thereafter, I did
just that, while cooking at the hearth
of The Israel Crane House. I made up
six (6) little “cases” of salmon, and
cooked half in the tin reflector oven
and half in the “baking” tin oven.

Now, unfortunately, I didn’t have any tin
plates, so I “cheated” and used a small store-bought toaster
oven aluminum baking sheet. I then put this “plate” of fish
on the bottom or floor of the reflector and on the upper shelf
of the other. I must say, it was quite exciting, and I eagerly
awaited the results!

Before I share my pictures of the entire process, I want to add
that the Crane House’s tin reflector oven is in good condition,
and is nice ‘n shiny. However, the shelved-tin oven is the exact
opposite; in fact, it’s downright grungy. I used it anyway, and,
bottom line, both worked really well. The only difference was
that the batch cooked in the shelved-oven took a bit longer.
I imagine, if it were as clean ‘n shiny as the other, the cooking
times would’ve been identical (or nearly so).

Here, now, my photos. Hannah Glasse’s receipt “Salmon
in Cases,” from her book The Art of Cookery, follows.

_______________

The salmon; I chose these steaks largely because I figured
they’d be easier to cut into uniformly-sized pieces. The store
had fillets, as well, but they were much larger, overall, and
the thickness of each was rather uneven. Of course, in the
end, it didn’t really matter, because I had to cut it up in small
pieces in order to ferret out a few elusive bones:

The salmon was cut up into pieces:

Several all-white paper bags became the “cases,” and each
sheet was generously buttered:

Salt, pepper, and nutmeg were mixed with the salmon, which
was then divided amongst the three papers:

The papers, with their salmon, were folded into neat little packets:

My “reasonable facsimile” of a tin plate (?!):

Just before everything was ready to be set before the fire,
melted butter was poured, and bread crumbs sprinkled,
over all the packets:

The Crane House’s tin reflector oven:

The “plate,” with its packets, was set on the floor of the reflector oven:

All was set before the fire:

Notice how the fire reflected off the back of the oven; when
I saw that, I knew for certain the fish would cook beautifully,
even though it was “way down” on the oven’s floor:

Lookin’ good!

Mmmmm…salmon, cooked to perfection:

__________

Following the exact same process with the second batch:

The baking style tin oven:

All set ‘n ready to cook:

Another successful round of “Salmon in Cases”:

As you see, fish can be cooked, and cooked well, in different
types of tin ovens. Both of my little experiments was a huge
success! And the final results were mighty delicious. HUZZAH!

_______________

Here is the receipt from The Art of Cookery, made [sic] Plain
and Easy
, by Hannah Glasse (London, 1747):

Salmon in Cases.
Cut your Salmon into little Pieces,
such as will lay rolled in half Sheets
of Paper; season it with Pepper, Salt
and Nutmeg, butter the Inside of the
Paper well, fold the Paper so as nothing
can come out, then lay them on a Tin
Plate to be baked, pour a little melted
Butter over the Papers, and then
Crumbs of Bread all over them. Don’t
let your Oven be too hot, for fear of
burning the Paper; a Tin Oven before
the Fire does best. When you think
they are enough, serve them up; just
as they are, there will be Sauce enough
in the Papers.

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On Facebook recently there was quite a lively discussion,
as well as plenty of oooohhhing and ahhhhhing, amongst
my assorted friends about the tin (or is it copper?) reflector
oven that’s depicted in the painting below:

Initially posted by Tammy DeLauter Fletcher, this is entitled
simply “The Cook.” It was done by the Dutch painter Gabriel
Metsu (1629-1667) and was most likely completed by him
at some point between 1657 and 1662.

Yes, you read that correctly: between the years 1657 and
1662. Indeed, Metsu was a mid-17th century painter.

Now, I’ll be the first to admit it: I thought these ovens were
only in use during the 19th, maybe the very late 18th, century
(at least here in America). I’m not really sure why. I’ve used
them often, but I’ve never really given it much thought. I’ve
never investigated whether they were available/used earlier.
Of course, I’ve done quite a bit of 18th century hearth cooking,
but my main focus has typically been the 19th. Not to mention,
that’s the time period in which I was initially trained (at Conner
Prairie
, back when the year 1836 was the focus). However,
based on this painting, apparently reflector ovens were
around, even as early as the mid-1600s.

At the same time, though, it IS a Dutch painting. So perhaps
reflector ovens were common in Europe, even during the 17th
century, but were they also used on this side of the pond? It
seems likely that they may’ve been imported. Or perhaps they
were made here. However, I think it is generally believed that
being a tinsmith was more of an 1800s profession. You know,
due to British control of manufactured goods, that sort of thing.
Or, perhaps not? It’d definitely be interesting to research this
further, and to look at store inventories, newspaper ads, ship
records, and other assorted documents, to see if, and when,
such ovens were made in, or transported to, the colonies.

In any event, when this painting and the ensuing discussion
took place on Facebook, I remembered a passage I’d read
in Prospect Books’ facsimile reprint of Hannah Glasse’s book,
The Art of Cookery, made [sic] Plain & Easy (1747). In the
glossary is this definition (and illustration) of “Tin Oven”:

The reference to a tin oven, [on page] 91,
is to the ‘Dutch oven’ which was in common
use and which stood in front of the fire. The
food being cooked was exposed to direct

(c) Prospect Books 1995

heat and also to reflected heat from the polished
tin interior. A door in the back could be opened
to permit viewing and basting.

Now, what’s interesting is that all the receipts on page 91
in Glasse’s book are for fish, and only one specifically calls
for cooking the dish in “a Tin Oven.” It’s the receipt “Salmon
in Cases.” The instructions say to wrap salmon pieces in paper
and “lay them on a Tin Plate.” It then states that “a Tin Oven
before the Fire does best” (I imagine as opposed to a brick
bake oven). Which, of course, obviously means that the fish
is NOT put on the spit!

So, in a typical tin reflector oven, where would you put a plate
of fish “in cases”? On the floor/bottom of it? But that puts it too
low in relationship to the fire, yes? So, in order to gain some
height, could the plate perhaps be balanced on top of the spit?
Could that work, would it stay securely? (I’m thinking maybe,
but not likely?) Then I thought, “Well, perhaps Glasse means
one of those tin ovens with a shelf? The ones that’re often
used for small breads (either loose or in a pan)?” And if so,
does that mean those types of tin ovens were also around
in the early to mid 18th century? Makes perfect sense, yes?
Or no? And so, is there possibly a slight problem with this
glossary’s definition of “Tin Oven”: i.e. it’s not JUST the ones
with a spit and basting door, but it’s also other types?

Luckily for me, I was scheduled to cook again at the hearth
in the kitchen of the Israel Crane House on Sunday, March 1,
which meant I’d be able to conduct my own experiments.
I could figure out just how this fish receipt was to be
cooked. What fun!

So, stay tuned!

_______________

UP NEXT: Experiments in cooking fish in reflector ovens

____________________

For more information about Gabriel Metsu, his life, this painting
and other works, check out this site.

Read Full Post »

As we’ve seen in the past few posts,
a wide array of dishes was offered
to those who visited The Israel Crane
House during the 2011 annual Essex
County (NJ) Historic Holiday House Tour.
So far, we’ve reviewed everything from
Apees to Gingerbread Cakes to a Minced
Pie. Now, to complete our culinary tour,
we come to what was most likely the
highlight of this festive feast: the Potato Pumpkin.

An excellent dish for the holiday season, that time when fall
gives way to winter, a Potato Pumpkin offers a unique, and
self-contained, all-in-one meal. Of course, it IS also a fairly
difficult and time-consuming dish, so I prepared and cooked
it entirely at home. Nevertheless, it is also highly appropriate
for the Crane household, as it requires a brick bake oven (due
largely to its height), just like the one in the Crane kitchen.

This delightful dish is basically just a pared and cored pumpkin
that is filled with forcemeat (or what we call today stuffing or
dressing, but with meat), which is then cooked altogether.
Specifically, I followed Mary Randolph’s Potato Pumpkin receipt,
and then for the filing, I employed Hannah Glasse’s instructions
for Forcemeat Balls (the two receipts follow the photos, below).
As expected, it made for quite an awe-inspiring dish during the
recent House Tour and was a major hit with the weekend’s visitors.
HUZZAH!

____________________

My Potato Pumpkin, from start to glorious finish:

_______________

Here are the two receipts I used. First, from Mary Randolph’s
The Virginia Housewife (1836; first published 1824):

POTATO PUMPKIN.

Get one of a good colour, and seven or
eight inches in diameter; cut a piece off
the top, take out all the seeds, wash and
wipe the cavity, pare the rind off, and fill
the hollow with good forcemeat—put the
top on, and set it in a deep pan, to protect
the sides; bake it in a moderate oven, put
it carefully in the dish without breaking, and
it will look like a handsome mould. Another
way of cooking potato pumpkin is to cut it
in slices, pare off the rind, and make a puree
as directed for turnips.

_______________
And from The Art of Cookery, Made Plain and Easy, by Hannah
Glasse (1747); of course, I just made this forcemeat for use
as a filing and not as a garnish or a side dish, so I ignored
the last few sentences:

To make Force-Meat Balls.
Now you are to observe, that Force-Meat
Balls are a great Addition to all Made-Dishes,
made thus: Take Half a Pound of Veal, and
Half a Pound of Sewet, cut fine, and beat
in a Marble Mortar or Wooden Bowl; have
a few Sweet Herbs shred fine, a little Mace
dry’d and beat fine, a small Nutmeg grated,
or Half a large one, a little Lemon-peel cut
very fine, a little Pepper and Salt, and the
Yolks of two Eggs; mix all these well together,
then roll them in little round Balls, and some
in little long Balls; roll them in Flour, and fry
them Brown. If they are for any Thing of White
Sauce, put a little Water on in a Sauce-pan,
and when the Water boils put them in, and
let them boil for a few Minutes, but never
fry them for White Sauce.

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Several dishes that I made for use this past
December at The Israel Crane House during
the annual Essex County (NJ) Historic Holiday
House Tour were “repeats” from the previous
year. They included mulled cider, Pounded
Cheese, and of course, a visitor favorite,
Gingerbread Cakes.

As with last year, I used Hannah Glasse’s
receipt from her book, The Art of Cookery,
made Plain and Easy
(1747). They were fairly easy to do, and
they turned out quite well. However, there was one very slight
difference in this year’s batch: I was forced to use molasses
instead of treacle. dagnabit. As you may recall, in 2010 I was
extremely eager to follow Glasse’s receipt largely because it
called for the use of treacle. Those Cakes were a huge hit, so
I wanted to make them again. Alas, when I went to the grocery
store that usually sells treacle, there was not a can to be found.
Not a one! I even checked back THREE separate times. It was
highly disappointing, to say the least. And so, I had to substitute
molasses for the treacle. dagnabit. It was mighty painful to do so.
Sure, they were fine; everyone who stopped to visit me in the Crane
kitchen loved them; but, still…. And believe me, there IS a difference
in the taste. They seemed just a bit more bland. At least, to me.

Ahh, well…maybe next year. One thing is certain: if I see any cans
of treacle at that store between now and then, I’m buying up several!

____________________

_________________________

NEXT: those “unique” meat dishes

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It’s not too difficult to locate a receipt (recipe) for Yorkshire
pudding in historic (1840s or earlier) British cookbooks. There
are even a few in early American works, as well. At the same
time, I was rather surprised that there weren’t more, and that,
in fact, many of the English books that I consulted (those in my
personal library) don’t have any at all. Is not “Yorkshire pud”
the quintessential British dish? Or, perhaps it IS, and thus no
one really needs a receipt, as every cook across the pond
instinctively knows how to whip up a proper pud!

Nevertheless, those numerous receipts that I did find are,
as usual, quite similar and yet, a bit different. The basic
ingredients tend to be the same, that is flour, milk, eggs,
and a bit o’ salt, as is the method of cooking, namely the
placement of the resulting batter in a pan under roasting
meat. The most noticeable difference is the varying amount
of those above ingredients. The eggs, for instance, ranged
from three to eight, and the flour varied from a mere “four
spoonfuls” to the rather ambiguous “[add] flour to [make]
a good batter.” It all certainly made for interesting reading!

Eventually, I began to wonder how the end result of any
of these receipts might stack up against the store-bought
mix that I recently made. Or even how they might compare
to the modern version I use for popovers. And of course,
the only way to determine all this would be to make a few.
And so I did!

After reviewing all the different receipts, I chose the two
that follow (and I may do more later; we’ll see!). The BIG
problem with this experiment, however, is that I can’t follow
the instructions exactly as they were written as I don’t have
a proper cooking hearth, and so I’m not able to roast meat.
dagnabit! Ahhh well, I’m not going to let that stop me! I just
did the best I could, mixed up the batters as directed, and
baked them in my modern oven.

So first up, I tried this receipt from The Art of Cookery Made
Plain and Easy
(London, 1747), by Hannah Glasse:

A Yorkshire Pudding.
Take a Quart of Milk, four Eggs, and a little
Salt, make it up into a thick Batter with Flour,
like a Pancake Batter. You must have a good
Piece of Meat at the Fire, take a Stew-pan
and put some Dripping in, set it on the Fire,
when it boils, pour in your Pudding, let it bake
on the Fire till you think it is nigh enough, then
turn a Plate upside-down in the Dripping-pan,
that the Dripping may not be blacked; set your
Stew-pan on it under your Meat, and let the
Dripping drop on the Pudding, and the Heat
of the Fire come to it, to make it of a fine brown.
When your Meat is done and set to Table, drain
all the Fat from your Pudding, and set it on the
Fire again to dry a little; then slide it as dry as
you can into a Dish, melt some Butter, and pour
into a Cup, and set in the Middle of the Pudding.
It is an exceeding good Pudding, the Gravy of
the Meat eats well with it.

TA-DA!

____________________

As you see, the bulk of this receipt deals with the cooking
portion (placing it under roasting meat), which I’m not able
to do, as I said. Thus, I concerned myself with the first part,
the mixing of the batter. Now, to make it more manageable,
I cut all the amounts of the ingredients in half. Of course,
the most “iffy” part was figuring out the amount of flour.
I worried about either using too much or not enough! After
a certain point, however, I figured I just had to use what
seemed best and be done with it. So I gradually added
roughly half a cup at a time, for a total of two. Baking
temperature and time made for another guessing game.
I relied on past experiences with popovers for the former,
setting it at 425. As for the latter, I basically left it in, well,
until it was done! (which was about 45 minutes or so)

Overall, again, I think it turned out well. The taste was
marvelous, much like the popovers I’ve made. The real
test on that score is that it was highly enjoyable a day
after (and beyond). As the photo shows, it “poufed” up
nicely, thus filling my cast iron skillet. I’d like to try it again,
only as individual puddings (aka popovers). I think that’d
be another, and perhaps better, way to judge these. We’ll
see. If I have time!

On now to receipt Number Two!

______________________________

NEXT: Part II of the Yorkshire Pudding historic receipt experiment

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I made Ginger-Bread Cakes, as well, for the Big Weekend Event*
at the Israel Crane House this past December. For these, I used
Hannah Glasse’s receipt from her book, The Art of Cookery Made
Plain and Easy
(1747). What intrigued me most about Glasse’s
version, and the main reason I chose it, was that she calls for
the use of “Treakle,” and I really REALLY wanted to use that
specific ingredient (more on it later).

______________________________

Here is Hannah Glasse’s receipt:

To make Ginger-Bread Cakes.
Take three Pounds of Flour, one Pound
of Sugar, one Pound of Butter, rubbed
in very fine, two Ounces of Ginger beat
fine, a large Nutmeg grated, then take
a Pound of Treakle, a quarter of a Pint
of Cream, make them warm together,
and make up the Bread stiff, roll it out,
and make it up into thin Cakes, cut them
out with a Tea-Cup, or a small Glass, or
roll them round like Nuts, bake them
on Tin Plates in a slack Oven.

______________________________

*the Essex County, New Jersey, Holiday Historical Houses Tour

______________________________

UP NEXT: Just what IS Treakle?

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