Time Travel Tasting

KIRSCHSUPPE MIT SCHNEEKLÖßCHEN (GERMAN CHILLED CHERRY SOUP WITH SNOW DUMPLINGS, 1972)

We have been experiencing an unseasonably hot spring here in Germany, and therefore have been craving colder foods. I remembered that, in the Dr. Oetker Schul-Kochbuch (the branded teaching cookbook) from 1972 I had borrowed from a German friend, there was a whole section on cold fruit soups, or 'Kaltschale' in German. With the warmer weather, it was the perfect to time to make the chilled Kirschsuppe mit Schneeklößchen (literally translated as 'cherry soup with little snow dumplings'), since cherries have just come into season. So, I deviate from the Tasting History recipes I usually make once again. Interestingly enough, this recipe calls for Maizena, a brand of cornstarch which Dr. Oetker originally built their food empire on! While cold soups have a long history across Europe, cold fruit soups are usually associated with Scandinavian and northern European cuisine. In Germany specifically, there is evidence they were commonly eaten during the 19th century, and they remained a popular summer meal in Germany well into the 20th century. While they have lost some popularity in recent decades, they seem to have been included in the repertoire of many German Omas and most German cookbooks well into the 1970s, when this cookbook was printed. When it comes to the Schneeklößchen, or 'little snow dumplings', these are less dumplings and more like meringues. Although meringues are typically harder in texture, or at least stiff enough to hold tightly together, the meringues in this recipe, on the contrary, are only lightly poached in the soup, giving them a very unique texture: marshmallow-like on the very outside, but inside still 'raw' foam which dissolves in your mouth like snow. Because I was not familiar with this way of preparing them, I had to watch several videos on YouTube of people making them to ensure I knew what kind of texture and cooking method I was aiming for. It was a cool adventure to make something unique and new to me. And, of course, ever the diehard fan of cherry everything, I opted to make the cherry version of this cold soup, even though there are recipes in this cookbook using almost every type of fruit as the base. Very customizable! You can find the original and modern recipe (translated and interpreted by myself) at the end of this post.

My experience making it:

Since I couldn't find the Dr. Oetker branded Maizena, I just used regular cornstarch (Speisestärke). For the white wine, I used a Pinot Grigio. I had a hell of a time trying to find vanilla sugar, and in the end, I couldn't find one that was white. The one I used was made of a brown cane sugar and had actual specks of vanilla in it, which is good for flavour, but not so good for pulling off the frosty look needed for 'snow dumplings'. So, if the meringues look a little 'schmutzig' (dirty) in colour, that is why.

I started working on this recipe early in the afternoon, since I had to de-pit the cherries myself, one by one. I watched a few videos online on how most efficiently to do this without a de-pitting tool, and I settled on the chopstick method. Doing my best to poke out the pits with a chopstick through where the stem comes out, I struggled to get the pits out cleanly. I theorize that this could have been because some of the cherries weren't completely ripe yet, so I prioritized poking pits out of the darker cherries first. Once my cherries were de-pitted, I measured out and prepared the rest of the ingredients. Unfortunately, my weigh scale was acting up by the time I was measuring out the cornstarch, and as a result, I think I measured out more cornstarch than stated in the recipe. I suspected so, but continued on anyways. After peeling the lemon peel successfully in one piece, I set a large pot on the stove on high heat, then added the peel, the cherries, sugar, and water in. I gave it a stir, then set up my bowls for sieving. Once the pot was at a rolling boil, I turned the heat off completely and let it simmer with the lid off. Then, I removed the lemon peel, took out all the cherries, and scooped out about half of the cherries into my sieve. I was careful to set aside the most whole-looking cherries and sieve the shredded looking ones that had either broken down in the boiling pot or been mangled by my haphazard chopstick de-pitting method. I pushed the cherries into the sieve with a spoon and a dark red juice flowed out the other side. In the original recipe, it did not say explicitly what to put back into the pot after, the squished cherries or the resulting juice, but common sense told me it was the juice for the sake of flavour. I added the juice back into the pot, turned the heat back on to high, and threw away the cherry husks. While the pot was coming to a boil again, I stirred the cornstarch into the water until all bits were dissolved, then added it to the pot once it was boiling. Turning off the heat again to let it simmer, I added the cherries I had set aside back into the pot. The original recipe doesn't say how much white wine or lemon juice to add at this point, it just says 'to taste', so I decided to try it first and then eyeball it based on what I thought it needed. I ended up adding about a 1/3 cup of white wine and juice from the entire lemon I had peeled. Tasting it briefly afterward, I think it was the right amount of lemon juice, but a tad too much wine, as you could pick out the alcohol flavour, which I don't think was intended for this dish.

Next, I set my sights on making the Schneeklößchen, or meringues, as I will call them. For some reason, I added the unwhipped egg white, the sugar, and the vanilla sugar to the mixing bowl and used my hand mixer to whip it all together, thereby completely ignoring the original recipe's instruction to first whip the egg white alone first. I made a crucial mistake there - the mixture never foamed up, and I had to toss it. Luckily, I had more of each ingredient, so on Round 2, I pre-whipped the egg white until it had stiff peaks, then lightly added the sugars bit by bit until incorporated and before the foam began deflating. Good save! By accident, I used a tablespoon instead of a teaspoon to scoop out spoonfuls of meringue to add to the soup, so my meringues ended up being larger than needed. I laid each on top of the soup surface (there were six overall), then covered the pot. The recipe here was not clear on how to know when the meringues were the right texture or 'doneness', but after my research online, I learned they should be warmed just enough to hold together when moved while the inside should still be foamy. After several minutes, I took the lid off the pot and poked them lightly. The foam disintegrated a bit, so I covered the pot and let them cook a couple more minutes. When I did the poke test again, the top remained firm enough that the foam bubbles did not disintegrate, so I called them done. The original recipe also does not mention any chilling or serving instruction, but considering this recipe was under the 'Kaltschale' chapter, which literally means 'cold bowls', I assumed the chilling was implied. I took the pot off heat, let it cool for a hour on the counter, then put it in the fridge to let it chill for several hours while we cooked and ate dinner. Even though this dish was traditionally eaten as a meal in itself, my husband and I prefer a more savoury meal and decided to have the Kirschsuppe for dessert. Fast forward a few hours: I took the soup out of the fridge and noticed a thick, slimy film had developed on top. I knew that this was probably because of using too much cornstarch earlier. Using a slotted spoon, I scooped up what I could of the film, avoiding the meringues as best as I could. I got most of it off, and the soup beneath was a deep pinkish red. I ladled some out into bowls, avoiding the meringues, then used a shallow spoon to scoop three meringues into each bowl, resting them atop the surface of the silky soup. The cherry soup was almost opaque, I could only faintly see a few of the full cherries beneath the surface, like sea creatures threatening to emerge. I was visually quite happy with how the soup turned out; not that I had a picture to compare it to, or anything. Despite their sandy, speckled look, the meringues seemed to be the correct texture, and the soup looked very cherry indeed. Time to chill out and dig in!

My experience tasting it:

We sat down to eat, and I could tell just from moving my spoon down and below the surface of the soup that the texture was a bit off. While it gave the soup a nice glossy shine, the texture was almost too silky, slightly gel-like. This is completely down to me adding too much cornstarch. As someone who struggles with strange food textures at times, I spooned a big cherry with some pink broth to my mouth with trepidation. Luckily, the texture was not so bad at all! My fears were not realized - it was simply silky. The flavour was cherry, but not in that strong, artificial way. Which would make sense, seeing as I used real cherries. The Kirschsuppe was still surprisingly not as sweet as I expected. I was expecting a punch of cherry, but it was more of a light caress of cherry, with just enough acidity from the lemon juice to make you want another spoon, and another spoon. Overall, it was very refreshing, and if it weren't for the thicker texture, I would say it felt like I was eating a cherry wine cocktail with a spoon. Indeed, the wine was more present than expected. I'm still not sure just how much you're supposed to be able to taste it in this dish. For my next spoonful, I tried one of the meringues with some broth. It was such a strange texture, I was again worried it wouldn't be my thing. Honestly, the outside had a jiggly, soggy texture to it that I was not the biggest fan of, but then, when the outside burst, the foam inside disintegrated in my mouth like snow (hence the name snow dumplings, I assume), since it was still a foam. This was a super cool texture that gave me the same exciting feeling when I first experienced cotton candy melting in my mouth for the first time. Not only was the texture interesting and fun, but the taste was soft and lovely, lightly sweet with vanilla. I wished I had made more! Strangely enough, my husband was not a fan of the texture of the meringues at all, so these might just be a divisive part of the dish. For my first time trying not only a cold soup, but a cold fruit soup, I was pretty impressed with it, and I can see why they were popular. Sometimes, the last thing you want on a hot day is to eat hot food, so this is a great solution for that. If I ever see a cold fruit soup or Kaltschale on a restaurant menu, I will now happily try it, and if I see Schneeklößchen listed anywhere, my eyes will brighten and I will order whatever they're in. Still, it took me a good half a day to make this recipe with all the de-pitting, boiling, cooling, and so on, so I can't see myself making it again, unless it was an easier fruit to deal with. Now that we have a few bowls of leftover cherry soup, I will savour it over the next few days, and then I will wait until we meet again on a traditional German restaurant menu somewhere. If you end up making this dish, if you liked it, or if you changed anything from the original recipe, do let me know!

Kirschsuppe mit Schneeklößchen original recipe (1972)

Sourced from a recipe in the Dr. Oetker Schul-Kochbuch (1972).

Kirschsuppe mit Schneeklößchen Ingredients: 500 g cherries, de-pitted the peel of 1 lemon 100-150 g sugar 1 1/2 L water 40 g Maizena 1 cup water To taste: White wine Lemon juice Ingredients for snow dumplings (meringues): 1 egg white, whipped until stiff 10 g sugar (1 tbsp) 1 package vanilla sugar In a pot on the stovetop over high heat, bring the cherries, lemon peel, sugar, and water to a boil. Turn off the heat and let the fruit simmer for a few minutes. Remove the lemon peel and some of the cherries. Pass the remaining cherries through a sieve, return to the pot, and bring everything to a boil again on the stovetop on the highest heat level. Stir the cornstarch mixed with a cup of cold water into the boiling liquid. Turn off the heat and let the soup simmer for a bit without heat. Now add the reserved cherries to the soup and season to taste with white wine and lemon juice. Beat the egg whites with sugar and vanilla sugar until very stiff, scoop out small mounds with a teaspoon, add them to the hot soup, and let them simmer in the covered pot for a few minutes. The soup should not boil anymore. Plums can also be used instead of cherries.

Modern Recipe

Based on a recipe from the Dr. Oetker Schul-Kochbuch (1972). Translated and interpreted by myself.

Ingredients:

Soup:

500 g de-pitted cherries

peel from 1 lemon (in one piece, ideally)

125 g sugar

1.5 L water

40 g cornstarch (you can always use less and add more incrementally if you worry about the soup being too thick)

1 cup of water to mix with the cornstarch

White wine to taste

Lemon juice to taste

Meringues:

1 egg white

1 tbsp sugar

1 tbsp vanilla sugar (or a dash of vanilla extract)

Method:

In a large pot on the stovetop over high heat, bring the cherries, lemon peel, sugar, and water to a boil.

Once boiling, turn off the heat and let the fruit simmer for a few minutes, then remove the lemon peel and about half of the cherries.

Remove the rest of the cherries and pass them through a sieve. Add the resulting cherry juices back into the pot, then bring everything to a boil again on the highest heat level.

Stir the cornstarch into the cup of water and mix until well-combined, then stir this mixture into the boiling pot.

Turn off the heat and let the soup simmer for a bit. Now, add the reserved cherries to the soup

Taste the soup and season to taste with white wine and lemon juice (you can use the lemon that you peeled earlier).

To make the meringues: beat the egg whites until they become very foamy (if using a hand mixer, start on the lowest level, then bring it up to medium level as it foams). If you are having trouble getting the egg white to foam, add a drop or two of lemon juice.

Once the egg white is very foamy and leaves a stiff leak when you draw it up with a spoon, beat in the sugar and vanilla sugar. If you notice the foam collapsing and becoming liquid, stop beating immediately.

Scoop out small mounds of the foam with a teaspoon, and lay them to rest upon the surface of the hot soup. Cover the pot and let them simmer for a few minutes, just enough for them to hold their shape when lightly poked. The soup should not boil further.

Let soup cool completely, then store in the fridge for several hours, until chilled to suit your tastes.

PELMENI (1861)

With a public holiday this week, I had more time than usual, and hence decided to take on a multi-day recipe from the Tasting History repertoire: Russian Pelmeni from 1861. The recipe comes from the cookbook 'A Gift to Young Housewives' by Elena Molokhovets. While it was first published in 1961, it was republished more than 20 times! Molokhovets was well-educated and part of the minor nobility. Later in life, she became interested in spiritualism and published other works, but this cookbook remains her most influential: it became a household staple and was frequently gifted to young brides. The cookbook was first published at an opportune time, as the emancipation of the serfs in Russia occurred in 1861. With the abolishment of serfdom, household costs rose (cooks and servants now had to be paid), and the book made budgeting fashionable. The cookbook contains more than just recipes: it also mentions grocery prices, cooking times for various ingredients, full monthly menus for different household income levels, and of course, a large number of recipes. Due to its aristocratic tone, in the Soviet era it was condemned as "bourgeois and decadent", and it fell out of fashion during this time. Many of its recipes still work well today, which I will hopefully exemplify today in making the quintessential Russian dish of Pelmeni (dumplings which are similar to Polish pierogi or Ukrainian varenyky). I have been a big fan of pierogi and varenyky since I was a young child, so I am curious to try the Russian Pelmeni. See Max’s video on how to make this dish here or see the ingredients and process at the end of this post, sourced from his website.

My experience making it:

I halved the recipe, as I usually tend to, but I ended up regretting this, since it is a lot of work to make Pelmeni, so it is more worth it to make big batches to freeze for later. I followed the listed ingredients exactly as stated, including the smetana, except that I used a butter-flavoured rapeseed oil instead of butter for frying. Worth noting also, is that I did not intend to make the exact 'ear-shaped' Pelmeni as stated in the recipe here. To save time, I decided to use a ravioli clamp (which I honestly thought was meant for making pierogi when I bought it...).

Since it is a fairly long recipe, and I did not fancy giving up an entire day just to make these Pelmeni, I decided to make this recipe over three days, completing a few of the steps per day. While the recipe here requires you fill the Pelmeni with a raw ground beef and onion mixture, I wanted to cook the filling ahead of time, partially so that I could have the filling ready a day earlier, and partially so that I would not have to worry whether the beef was cooked through or not when eventually boiling the Pelmeni. So, the first day, I cooked a package of ground beef with more than 20% fat. I did not drain the fat away at all, because I knew it would provide a lot of flavour to the filling of the Pelmeni if it was kept. I added diced onion, salt, and pepper into the ground beef, and I cooked until the beef was only just 'cooked', so as soon as the pink disappeared. Because it would be cooked again inside the dumplings later, I wanted to make sure the meat was not overcooked. I spooned the entire contents of the pan into a container, including the fat pooling at the bottom, and put it in the fridge.

The next day, I focused just on making the Pelmeni dough. I measured out my ingredients ahead of time, then whisked together the salt and flour in a big mixing bowl. I added the egg, then used my hands to massage the egg into the dry ingredients. It was very slimy, but the egg quickly became more solid thanks to the flour, and it ended up being quite dry. At this point, I added in half of the water. I was surprised to discover that after mixing with my hands well (so that the dough was uniform), the dough was actually very sticky, and almost a bit too moist. I compared my dough to Max's, and it was obvious it needed a bit more flour to reach the right consistency. So, I did not end up adding the rest of the water, and in fact, I added a sprinkle or two more of the flour in order bring the dough to a less sticky, properly doughy state. I had a dough ball just a bit bigger than my fist, which was pretty small compared to the large bowl it was in, so I actually decided to knead it for 5 minutes inside the bowl. This seemed to work well, and once I was done with the kneading, I wrapped the dough ball in cling wrap and put it in the fridge to rest overnight.

The third day was Pelmeni day! With both the filling and the dough prepared and ready in the fridge, I got all my materials together for filling and forming the Pelmeni themselves into the correct shapes: flour for the surfaces, a dough cutter (a knife will also work), a rolling pin, and a cutting board to put the formed Pelmeni on. I fetched the filling out of the fridge and got a spoon out for it, then I fetched the cling-wrapped dough ball out from the fridge. I unwrapped the dough ball, and began following Max's instructions to divide it. Using the dough cutter, I divided the dough ball into 4 quarters. Wrapping 3 of the quarters back up in some of the cling wrap, I rolled one of the quarters into a log shape. Unfortunately, Max does not mention how thick the log should be, so I guessed at it, and made one about the thickness of my thumb. There was no way I could make the halved amount of 5 pieces out of the log and still have enough dough in each to fit into the ravioli clamp I wanted to use, so instead, I divided the log into 3 equal pieces. I took one of these pieces to begin working with, being sure to wrap the others back in the cling wrap to keep in their moisture while I was working. Sprinkling some flour on my surface, the rolling pin, and the ravioli clamp, I then used the rolling pin to roll the dough vaguely into a circle just bigger than the size of the ravioli clamp. The dough circle was kind of shrinking, so it shrank to exactly the size of the clamp by the time I had spooned some filling into it. I then clamped down and trimmed off any excess dough from the edges. The clamp worked pretty well overall, and as I proceeded with this process one by one for each of the dough pieces, I slowly got the hang for how much filling could fit in. I did make a couple that were slightly overfilled, and as a result, had punctured the dough to make a hole, but I told myself I would just cook these last. Not all the Pelmeni would be perfect, but out of a total of 9 Pelmeni, 6 of them had no holes and looked correct (no holes and the right thickness), if a bit wonky on the edges sometimes.

With all the freshly-shaped Pelmeni lined up on the cutting board and ready for cooking, I boiled a large pot of water with salt dissolved in it, meanwhile also heating up some oil in the frying pan next door. I used a slotted spoon to lower in 5 Pelmeni, and I left the slotted spoon resting at the bottom of the pot to prevent the Pelmeni from sticking to the bottom. After a few minutes, they began to float, and I let them boil an extra several minutes until their dough looked cooked. I then used the slotted spoon to transfer each one to the frying pan. In order to prevent them sticking, I rolled them over in the oil, and I kept the heat fairly low. While those 5 Pelmeni were frying, I repeated the boiling process with the remaining 4 Pelmeni. Unfortunately, some of these had holes in the dough, and I could see the grease from the ground beef emerging into the boiling water and floating on top. Luckily, none of the holes were big enough for chunks of meat or onion to fall out. While half the Pelmeni fried and half boiled, I got out the smetana and chopped some fresh dill. I am a massive fan of dill, so I chopped lots! After flipping the Pelmeni in the frying pan to get a light browning on both sides, I served them onto a plate and transfered the boiling Pelmeni to the frying pan. That frying pan did NOT like the fresh beef grease that was emerging from the holes in the dough! The oil was jumping up like crazy. Still, the second batch managed to brown and hold shape in the end, but they did look a little more flattened. As long as they would taste good, I didn't mind, though. I served up the Pelmeni on two plates for my husband and I - in a star shape, with a big dollop of smetana in the middle for dipping, and a good smattering of fresh dill on top! While the Pelmeni could have been a bit prettier in form, I was still proud that I managed to make them look somewhat like the pierogi of my youth. I couldn't wait to dig in!

My experience tasting it:

Pelmeni displayed beautifully on my plate, I cut a piece off, and grease dribbled out. I dipped it in the dill-speckled smetana and tried it. Absolutely delicious! I had a feeling these would taste great, and I was correct. While the shape can easily go wrong, there is no way delicious ingredients like these can taste bad together unless the dough was not cooked through. Luckily, it was cooked perfectly: soft on the inside, with a light crisp on the outside. The ground beef and onion filling, while simple and only lightly seasoned with salt and pepper, was still very tasty and juicy. Normally when I have pierogi or varenyky I am a potato filling kinda gal, but this beef filling was equally good. But, my goodness, the smetana and dill really made the Pelmeni shine! They added some freshness to balance out the grease and weight of the Pelmeni - really the perfect pairing. My husband and I gobbled the Pelmeni down in record time. There were no leftovers, a sad thing indeed. As a result, if I make these again, I would definitely make the full batch, or even a double batch so that I could freeze some for later. I'm pretty sure this is what is traditionally done anyways, and for good reason. Pelmeni take a decent amount of work to make, so you may as well make a lot in one go. Overall I was very impressed with this recipe, and I look forward to making more dumplings from various countries in the future. If you end up making this dish, if you liked it, or if you changed anything from the original recipe, do let me know!

Pelmeni original recipe (1861)

Sourced from a recipe in A Gift to Young Housewives by Elena Molokhovets (1861) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Using a knife, scrape 1 1/2 lbs first-quality beef from the short loin. Add 1 finely chopped and squeezed-out raw onion, sieved black pepper, and salt. Use this filling to make pelmeni…If the beef is lean, use 1 lb beef and 1/2 lb finely chopped kidney suet. Boil the pelmeni in salted water or in bouillon in a separate saucepan…These pelmeni are best made the size of kolduny or shaped like small ears…Siberians prepare pelmeni for several occasions at once, sprinkling them lightly with flour so they do not stick together. Then they are frozen and boiled in salted boiling water as needed.

Modern Recipe

Based on a recipe in A Gift to Young Housewives by Elena Molokhovets (1861) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Ingredients:

Dough

3 3/4 cups (450 g) flour

1 tsp salt

2 eggs

1/2 cup (120 ml) water, more or less as needed

Filling

1 1/2 lbs (680 g) ground beef, at least 20% fat

1 tsp salt

1 tsp pepper

1 cup (140 g) diced onion

Serving

About 2 tbsp butter or ghee, optional, for frying

Smetana* or sour cream

Fresh dill

*Smetana is an Eastern European cousin to sour cream, usually with a higher fat content. Substitute with sour cream or creme fraiche if needed.

Method:

For the dough: In a large bowl, mix together the flour and salt. Add the eggs and begin to mix them in with your hands as if you were making pasta. The egg won’t be enough liquid to make a dough, so add about half of the water and continue to mix. Add more water as needed until you get a somewhat dry dough that has just enough moisture to come together.

Once it’s formed a dough (there may still be some dry flour), turn it out and knead it for about 10 minutes or until it’s nice and smooth. Form the kneaded dough into a ball and wrap it up, then let it rest for at least 20 minutes. If you want to make this the day before, you can wrap it and put it in the fridge. While the dough rests, make the filling.

For the filling: In a large bowl, mix the salt and pepper into the ground beef until it’s evenly distributed. Mix in the diced onions until they’re also evenly distributed.

To assemble: Divide the rested dough into 4 equal parts. Roll 1 piece into an even log. Be sure to cover the remaining pieces so they don’t dry out. Cut the log into 10 equal pieces. Take one of the pieces and form it into an even cylinder, cut side up, then roll it out into a circle of dough about 3 inches (7.5 cm) across.

Place about 1 tablespoon of filling into the center of the circle. Fold the dough over into a half circle and pinch it all around the seam to seal it. You don’t need to add any water to make the dough stick together. Take the two ends and overlap them and pinch them together to make an ear-like shape. Repeat the steps until all 40 pelmeni have been filled and shaped.

Bring a large pot of salted water or clear bouillon to a boil. Boil 6 to 8 pelmeni at a time, giving them a stir so they don’t stick to the bottom. Boil them until they float, about 3 to 5 minutes. After they’ve risen to the surface, boil for an additional 3 minutes, or until the meat is cooked through. Remove them from the pot and set them aside while you cook the rest of the pelmeni.

You can serve them forth like this, or in broth as a soup, but I chose to pan fry them like Nikolai preferred. Melt the butter or ghee in a pan over medium-high heat, then fry the pelmeni until golden brown, about 1 minute per side.

BABYLONIAN KANASU STEW (c. 1740 BC)

It's been rainy today, and this calls for a warm meal. Today, it is another Tasting History dish: Ancient Babylonian Kanasu Stew (c. 1740 BC), a lamb stew from the era of King Hammurabi of Babylon (known for issuing the Code of Hammurabi, one of the earliest and most complete written legal codes, which established "an eye for an eye" justice). This recipe is one of about 35 different recipes inscribed in cuneiform script on clay tablets found in the Yale University Babylonian Collection. Written in Sumerian, these tablets are among the earliest known cookbooks in history, and would have been used in the temple kitchens to make dishes for royal banquets and religious festivals. While ingredients and some cooking techniques are listed, precise measurements and step-by-step instructions are not included, as it was assumed the cooks already knew how to fill in the blanks. The meanings of some of the Sumerian ingredients listed, particularly kanasu, samídu, and šuhutinnu, are not yet completely clear, as scholars have not agreed upon their definitive definitions. For the purposes of this recipe, kanasu is translated as emmer flour, and samídu and šuhutinnu stand for a root-style vegetable, in this case interpreted as leek. These interpretations of Sumerian words, as well as the specific ratios of ingredients and cooking methods, are, of course, up for debate. Still, the combination of ingredients sounds like it would be delicious, and I absolutely loved the last Mesopotamian dish I made from Tasting History, so I was excited to try this one too. See Max’s video on how to make this dish here or see the ingredients and process at the end of this post, sourced from his website.

My experience making it:

As I usually do, I halved the recipe - this time because my husband was not home for dinner, and I was worried to have too much as leftovers. The fat I used was olive oil, just because it was what I had on hand. For the meat, I secured two lamb shanks, already de-boned, from the local butcher. Otherwise, I used the same ingredients listed in the recipe, including the emmer flour, which I had to go to a special Bio-grocery store to purchase.

I began by preparing all of the ingredients ahead of time: measuring out all the ingredients and chopping those that needed it. By accident, I chopped the whole leek, including the dark green parts at the end, and I used them for the stew as well, even though Max mentions only to use the white and light green parts. My mistake! I ground up the whole coriander seeds and cumin seeds with a mortar and pestle, which smelled divine! Coriander is such a wonderful, fragrant, and tasty ingredient. Next, I got out my large pot, warmed some olive oil, then added the lamb chunks in, turning to brown them on all sides before removing them and setting them aside in a bowl to add back in later. The lamb had left behind some extra grease, so I added more of the olive oil to this, then fried the shallots in it. I sprinkled a bit of the salt on them and stirred them around as they bubbled and seared. It smelled great, and I could see the shallots caramelizing just slightly. As they began to leave a brown residue stuck to the bottom of the pot, I added in half the water, and scraped the bottom of the pot to loosen the residue, deglazing the pot. The residue and fried shallots gave the water a cloudy, light brown colour, similar to beef broth. I stirred in the rest of the olive oil required, then also the salt, ground cumin seeds, and ground coriander seeds. Then, I poured in the rest of the water and whisked in the emmer flour well so that there were no clumps. It was beginning to look like a cloudy soup. Bringing the pot to a light boil, I added the lamb back in, then also the garlic. Turning the heat to low with the lid on, I let it simmer for half an hour, going back to check on it and stir every ten minutes or so. While stirring is not mentioned in Max's recipe, it really did need it, otherwise the emmer flour goop would accumulate along the edges of the pot. I did not add any extra water, because I wanted a thicker stew consistency in the end, instead of a soup consistency.

After 30 minutes had passed, I added in half of the leek and most of the mint, then I let the stew simmer without a lid for 10 minutes. This was what caused it to thicken to a proper stew consistency. Once the 10 minutes had passed, I stirred in the remainder of the leek, then ladled the stew into two bowls (one dinner-sized one for me, and a small snack-size one for my husband to have when he got home later). I was surprised that halving the recipe did not produce two serving portions, as it usually does when I halve Max's Tasting History recipes. For this recipe, I wish I had made the full amount. I used the rest of the mint to garnish the stew on top, along with a pinch of whole coriander seeds (these are fairly strong in taste, so it is important not to add too many). The stew looked very much like a classic winter soup or stew, with the green leeks bringing some much needed colour to the mostly brown broth and meat. It smelled of fresh herbs and spices, which made sense, since it contained both!

My experience tasting it:

I made sure my first spoonful contained a bit of lamb, a bit of leak, a bit of mint, some broth, and a couple whole coriander seeds. The flavour was fantastic! So hearty, warm, savoury, and somehow also fresh-tasting. I was surprised to discover that the lamb was perfectly tender; I thought stew meat normally needed a much longer cooking time to achieve this. What a pleasant texture! The leeks were also nice, as they varied in amount of crunch depending on how long they had been in the stew. The shallots blended almost seamlessly into the brown broth, but it was clear they added a lot of flavour. Most of all, I was impressed with the fresh and zingy taste of the coriander, and partially the cumin and mint. All of them together brought a wonderful freshness to the stew, which otherwise would probably feel heavy and too fatty. Another surprise for me was how well the emmer flour worked to thicken the stew. The texture was silky, and coated my spoon well. I've never used emmer flour before, so I was not sure if it would be easy or difficult to work with. I loved this recipe as much, if not more than the previous Mesopotamian recipe I made, Tuh'u. After finishing the Kanasu Stew, I immediately wrote out the recipe on a card for my recipe book. My husband, when he tried it later, also really liked it and asked if I could make it again sometime, and I undoubtedly will! This recipe is a true winner, and I'm excited to share it with family and friends. If you end up making this dish, if you liked it, or if you changed anything from the original recipe, do let me know!

Kanasu Stew original recipe (c. 1740 BC)

Sourced from a recipe from the Yale Babylonian Tablets (c. 1740 BC) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Kanasu Stew Leg of mutton is used. Prepare water, add fat. Samídu; coriander; cumin; and kanasu. Assemble all the ingredients in the cooking vessel, and sprinkle with crushed garlic. Then blend into the pot šuhutinnu and mint.

Modern Recipe

Based on a recipe from the Yale Babylonian Tablets (c. 1740 BC) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Ingredients:

2 tsp coriander seeds, plus a little more for garnish

1 tsp cumin seeds

3 tbsp (45 g) fat*

1 1/2 lbs (680 g) lamb meat**, cut into bite-sized pieces

1 large shallot, minced

1 quart (1 L) water

1/4 cup (30 g) emmer flour

2-3 cloves garlic, crushed

1 small leek

A handful fresh mint

1 tbsp salt

*A popular fat at the time would have been from fat-tailed sheep, so if you can get it, use it. Tallow, butter, lard, sesame oil, and olive oil are all period-accurate options.

**You could use any cut you like, but shank or shoulder will be the most tender. Pre-cut stew meat would also work well.

Method:

In a mortar, grind the coriander seeds and cumin seeds into a powder.

In a large pot, heat 1 tablespoon of the fat over high heat, then once it’s hot, add the meat. Let it cook for a couple of minutes, then move it around and continue to cook until it has browned a little. Remove the meat from the pot and set it aside.

Add another tablespoon of fat to the pot. Reduce the heat to medium and add the shallots and a pinch of the salt. Stir to coat the shallots in the fat, and cook, stirring occasionally, for 3 to 4 minutes, or until they’re nice and fragrant.

Add half of the water and scrape up the browned bits from the bottom of the pot. Bring it to a simmer, then stir in the remaining fat, letting it melt if it’s a solid. Once it’s melted, stir in the ground coriander and cumin along with the rest of the salt. Whisk in the rest of the water and the emmer flour. Once all is uniform, bring the stew up to a boil and stir in garlic and meat.

Reduce the heat to medium-low and let it come back to a simmer, then cover it and let it cook for about 30 minutes. Check on it every once in a while and add more water if you want a thinner soup-like consistency.

While the stew cooks, chop the mint and the white and light green parts of the leek. I like to wash leeks before and after chopping them to be sure to get rid of any bits of dirt or sand stuck between the layers.

After the stew has cooked for 30 minutes, remove the lid and stir in about half of the leek and most of the mint. You want to save a little of the mint for garnish. Let the stew cook without the lid for about 10 minutes, or until it has thickened however much you like.

WELSH RAREBIT (1861)

Looking for a quick and easy lunch, I opted this week to make a tavern favourite Tasting History dish: Welsh Rarebit from 1861. This recipe for a sauce of primarily melted cheese on toast comes from Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management by Isabella Beeton. The idea that toasted cheese was a favourite dish of the Welsh has existed since the Middle Ages, as there is written evidence of jokes from this time referencing their love for toasted cheese, or in Welsh 'caws pobi'. The first written evidence of caws pobi is documented in the 1500s. The origins of the name 'Welsh Rarebit', however, are not so clear. Since it is known that the Welsh did enjoy toasted cheese from the Middle Ages onward, it is assumed that Welsh Rarebit is a descendant dish, however there is no direct proof of this. While the earliest mention of Welsh Rarebit is in 1781, the term 'Welsh Rabbit' for this dish actually predates it, the latter first mentioned in 1725. Since Welsh Rabbit does not in fact include rabbit in the recipe, it was likely a jocular name: a name used in in jest and sometimes in a pejorative way. Other jocular names include 'Welsh Caviar' (laverbread), 'Essex Lion' (veal), 'Irish Apricot' (potato), and 'Rocky Mountain Oysters' (bull testicles). It is not known why or exactly when Welsh Rabbit became Welsh Rarebit, but it may have changed in an effort to be more clear that there was no rabbit in it, or to be taken more seriously on menus and in cookbooks. Eighteenth-century English cookbooks describe Welsh Rarebit at that time as a luscious supper or tavern dish, and as it developed over the next centuries, recipes for English Rarebit and Scotch Rarebit emerged, the main difference between them and Welsh Rarebit being the addition of mustard. By the early 1900s, Welsh Rarebit had built a bit of a mythology around it, supposedly causing vivid dreams. The 1902 book 'Welsh Rarebit Tales' is a collection of short horror stories supposedly from members of a writing club who ate a dinner which included a large portion of Rarebit immediately before sleeping in order to give themselves inspiring dreams, and Winsor McCay's comic strip series 'Dream of the Rarebit Fiend' recounts the strange dreams that various characters experienced thanks to eating Welsh Rarebit before going to bed. I'm interested in trying Welsh Rarebit because I am a cheese-devotee, although I hope I can avoid the nightmares this dish is rumoured to cause! See Max’s video on how to make this dish here or see the ingredients and process at the end of this post, sourced from his website.

My experience making it:

For once, I decided not to halve this recipe, since I knew it would not be the most filling of lunches for my husband and I if I only made the half portion. For the bread, I used whole-wheat pre-sliced bread, and I opted to just toast the slices in the toaster instead of in the oven, because we were in a rush to get outside to enjoy the sun. For the cheese, I used a block of Irish cheddar. Being out of milk and lighter ales, I used Guinness stout as the beer (I checked online to see if this was passable for use in Welsh Rarebit, and it seemed to be a common ingredient). For the mustard, I used a spicy Polish mustard, and for the spices, I used a small bit of salt and a pinch or two of cayenne pepper.

At about lunchtime, I prepared and measured out the ingredients needed, including chopping the cheddar into fine cubes for easy melting. While I set the butter on the stove to melt, I toasted the bread slices in the toaster in pairs, setting them aside on plates for later. Unfortunately, I forgot to butter the toast, but due to how much butter there would be in the cheese sauce, I didn't think it would take away too much flavour if omitted. I added the cheese cubes into the pot with the melted butter, a little at a time, and stirred with a metal spoon as they slowly melted. It took a bit of time, and lots of stirring until the cheddar had melted completely, and I noticed there was still lots of butter that wasn't really incorporating. I ended up pouring out a tiny bit of the butter that had settled on top into the sink (I had worried that I had mis-measured earlier and put in more that the 2 tablespoons called for anyways). Next, still stirring, I poured in the Guinness a little at a time, stirring to incorporate as I went until all the Guinness was folded into the cheese. The consistency at this point was much more like a cheese sauce. When it was just butter and cheese, the cheese just looked like melted cheese, whereas once the Guinness was mixed in, the cheese looked like a proper sauce, and it took on a lightly darker colour than the usual bright orange. I turned the heat down from medium to medium-low at this point, worried the cheese might start bubbling or burning on the bottom. I stirred in the Polish mustard, put in a bit of salt and a pinch or two of cayenne, then stirred until it was all well-incorporated. My arm was getting tired from stirring at this point, but I couldn't stop stirring while it was on the stove, because if I did, the cheese would become more solid, changing in texture, developing a bit of a film on top. So, I snatched the plates of toast over and poured the cheese over each slice, using my spoon to control how much would be on each. The Welsh Rarebit was ready: it looked fairly unappetizing in colour and texture, but I hoped it would be similar to a fondue in taste - goopy, but in a good way. Time to try it!

My experience tasting it:

As Max says to do, we ate the Welsh Rarebit almost right away, since apparently the cheese sauce changes texture pretty quickly as it cools on the toast. I was really impressed with the uniformity and smoothness of the sauce, but was slightly put off by the strange colour of the cheese sauce. It had a somewhat processed look to it, reminiscent of Cheez Whiz. My husband and I dug in, biting into the toast smothered in cheese. I was impressed with the texture and mouthfeel of the cheese sauce, which contrasted well with the crispy and crunchy toast, which made a great vessel. I was surprised, but also somewhat unsurprised that Welsh Rarebit tasted like... just melted cheese. Yes, the texture was much smoother, similar to fondue in that respect, but the flavour was almost purely of melted cheddar, despite the other ingredients I added. I was confused that I could not detect any hint of spice from the cayenne or the spicy Polish mustard. Perhaps I had not added enough? It is entirely possible that I could have under-seasoned the Welsh Rarebit without realizing it. I wonder if it would have tasted a bit more intense and spiced if I had used some of the other spices Max recommended from the time period. While it was tasty, as cheese on toast always is, I don't know if I would go to the extra effort of making this cheese sauce again, as I found it was not really worth the extra work, especially as the final product didn't taste too different. I will try to order this at a restaurant at some point to see if the modern Welsh Rarebit has a little more nuance and flavour than the simple cheese-on-toast flavour I managed. The jury remains hung on this one, but it still tasted alright overall. I'll let you know if any nightmares develop, because that may swing the jury! If you end up making this dish, if you liked it, or if you changed anything from the original recipe, do let me know!

Welsh Rarebit original recipe (1861)

Sourced from a recipe in Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management by Isabella Beeton (1861) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Toasted Cheese, Or Welsh Rarebit Ingredients - 1/2 a lb. of Cheshire or Cheddar cheese, 1 oz. of butter, 2 tablespoonfuls of either milk or ale, 1 teaspoonful of made mustard, hot buttered toast. Method - Melt the butter in a stewpan, add the cheese cut into small pieces, stir until melted, then add the milk or ale gradually, mustard and season to taste. Have ready some hot-buttered toast, pour the cheese preparation on to it, and serve as hot as possible.

Modern Recipe

Based on a recipe in Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Household Management by Isabella Beeton (1861) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Ingredients:

6 slices of bread

1/2 lb (225 g) good quality cheddar cheese*, or something similar

2 tbsp (30 g) butter, plus some more for the toast

2 tbsp milk or ale

1 tsp mustard

Seasonings**, to taste, optional

*Don’t use pre-shredded cheese, as they usually add starches to keep it from sticking, which makes it harder to melt.

**Seasonings they’d add to this dish at the time include salt, cayenne pepper, garlic, and horseradish. Feel free to use any that you like.

Method:

Slice 6 slices of bread. How thick and what size you cut the bread is up to you, just keep in mind you want about 2 slices per serving.

Toast the bread either in a toaster or under the broiler. If you use the broiler, a couple of minutes on each side should do the trick. Spread a little butter on each slice.

Chop the cheese into small pieces or grate it.

Melt the 2 tablespoons (30 g) of butter in a saucepan over medium heat. When it’s melted, add the cheese and stir constantly as it melts.

Once the cheese has melted, stir in the milk or ale a little bit at a time. You want to make sure that the cheese doesn’t get so hot that it starts to bubble or burn. Lower the heat if necessary. Stir in the mustard and any of the seasonings you like to taste.

SPARGELCREMESUPPE (GERMAN WHITE ASPARAGUS SOUP, 1972)

It is now truly spring, which means it is Spargelzeit (asparagus season) here in Germany! So, I make a departure from my usual Tasting History repertoire to contribute my own interpretation of a historical German recipe: Spargelcremesuppe from 1972. When I first moved to Germany, I had no idea white asparagus existed. That is, until I noticed during my first springtime here that restaurants all over town were advertising their special 'Spargelzeit' menus featuring the white, stalky vegetable. I even saw one featuring an asparagus and strawberry dessert! While the dessert sounded terrible, I knew I had to try the quintessential dishes of the season: white asparagus cream soup and white asparagus with Hollandaise sauce. I fell in love with both of these dishes, and this year, I was determined to make them at home. My husband and I enjoyed the Hollandaise version with great satisfaction last week. This week, my husband brought home some old German cookbooks from a German coworker's grandmother, and seeing Spargelcremesuppe listed as a recipe, I knew I had to make this classic 1970s version of the soup! This particular recipe comes from the Dr. Oetker Schul-Kochbuch published in 1972, though the cookbook was released multiple times in various editions over the decades as a teaching cookbook using a range of Dr. Oetker (founded in 1891 in Bielefeld, Germany) products as ingredients, none of which I will be using in this recipe.

White asparagus, or as the Germans call it, 'White Gold', is a curious thing: it is grown in the dark, underground, covered in plastic so no sunlight can reach it (this prevents it from turning green and bitter). It takes 3 years for its tips to emerge from the soil, it is very low-yield per acre, and it is a lot of work to grow considering the short harvest time of 4 weeks (the stalks must be dug out by hand so as not to harm them). Germany is the fourth largest producer of white asparagus in the world, and they still have to import to feed the frenzied diners during Spargelzeit! There are Spargel festivals, Spargel Queens are crowned, and grocery stores and restaurants alike are buzzing with enthusiasm for white, thick stalks of asparagus each spring. Asparagus was brought to Germany by the Romans, but the first mention of its cultivation in Germany, near Stuttgart, is in 1686. Due to its difficult growing conditions, it remained a food for royal courts and the rich: it was grown in castle gardens, revered for its medicinal properties, and served at banquets with special cutlery. In the 19th century, several entrepreneurs began cultivating it and making it accessible for the average person, and this is when the obsession with white asparagus really started in Germany. As a very seasonal vegetable, it began to signify spring, and Germans would look forward to enjoying it after a long winter. While the cultivation of Spargel was restricted during the wartime due to its lack of calories, it was still highly sought after. Also during the communist era, East Germans grew, bartered, and sold Spargel to each other secretly. There is a famous quote by Max Goldt, that I was made aware of through Paul Sies' 2026 song: "Auch in der Nazizeit war zwölfmal Spargelzeit" (Even in the Nazi times, there were twelve asparagus seasons). Spargelzeit here represents the fact that even during the most horrific of terrors, there are still many people in the society of a dictatorship who live 'normal' and even happy lives, loving their families, laughing at jokes, end even celebrating the sunny days of recently-arrived spring by eating asparagus together. It is particularly unsettling and worrying how violence, war, and mass murder can continue, how an inclusive and safe society can devolve, while coinciding with Spargelzeit, the pleasures of nature, and everyday moments of joy. It is very easy to ignore the darkness in which Spargel is grown while enjoying its fresh flavour, after all. On that darker note, it's time to dig myself up and out into the light of day to make this recipe. You can find the original and modern recipe (translated and interpreted by myself) at the end of this post.

My experience making it:

For this recipe, I decided to make the full recipe as listed, which turned out to be perfect: it produced two very full bowls of soup. Since it is currently asparagus season in Germany, I was able to find fresh, thick stalks of Klasse 1 white asparagus. It might be hard to find in other countries or at other times of the year! I used butter instead of margarine, and cream instead of condensed milk.

The recipe was formatted quite strangely in the book: it still used sentences which incorporated the measurements and ingredients, but the latter were spaced so that they were listed along the left side in a column. This made for confusing spacing of the sentences, and as a result, a few of the steps were unclear. I began by peeling and preparing the white asparagus stalks. I'll admit, I had to watch a YouTube video on how to do this properly, because I wanted to make sure they would turn out well. Happily, it seemed the videos I watched instructed in much the same way as this recipe! Once my asparagus was ready in chunks, I boiled some water and dissolved the salt into it. I added in the asparagus chunks and cooked until I could pierce them with a fork. I used a slotted ladle to lift out the chunks and set them aside in a bowl, then strained the liquid into another bowl, which I set aside. The recipe at this part does not specifically say to mix the flour into the butter, but I feel it was implied, as this is a common way to thicken soups and stews. So, setting the pot back on the stove, I melted the butter, then added in the flour and stirred quickly as it was sizzling up, doing my best to integrate the flour well into the butter. It became a dark yellow paste, but as I mixed further, it began frothing up and lightening in colour, sizzling intensely all the while. At this point I added back in the asparagus water, then the milk, carefully loosening anything stuck to the bottom of the pan. I brought it back to a boil, stirring fairly often because I was scared the milk might thicken and stick to the bottom of the pan. I was surprised and worried to see what looked like butter floating at the top of the pot between stirs, and I wondered if I had cooked it long enough with the flour, but I proceeded anyways. I tasted a spoonful out of curiosity at this point, and I was alarmed to discover it tasted like... asparagus water. In a panic, I added more salt, wondering if I should have used salted butter instead of unsalted, since salted would probably have been more period accurate. After ten minutes of simmering with the lid off, I added in the white asparagus chunks. While the pot simmered another couple minutes, I whisked together an egg yolk with the cream, then poured this into the pot as well. I gave it a good stir and noticed that the soup was thickening much better now (before it had been very thin still). The butter that had previously been sitting on top had now also fully incorporated. Tasting the soup once more, and only faintly burning my tongue, I realized once again that it was in need of more salt. The flavour otherwise was developing well, it was tasting more buttery. I shook in quite a bit more salt in until it was up to par, then took the soup off the heat and ladled it into bowls for me and my husband. I quickly chopped some chives as a garnish (I'd seen it made this way in restaurants), and served it up as an appetizer for our unusually fancy dinner of roast duck and Greek salad. I was ecstatic: the soup looked exactly like the ones I had tried in restaurants during Spargelzeit!

My experience tasting it:

My first spoonful (without chives, but with a chunk of asparagus), was really delectable! The soup was not quite as thick as I expected, but it was still silky and buttery, with an agreeable but not too strong white asparagus flavour. If you've never had white asparagus before, it's milder in flavour than green asparagus, and the texture very easy to chew compared to its green relative. It has a silky, creamy mouthfeel, not mushy at all, but no snap either. The asparagus was cooked perfectly, I thought, and came up on my spoonful as a pleasant surprise from the pale yellow, almost white, opaque depths of the soup. I did have to add just a little more salt bring the flavour to exactly where I wanted, but otherwise, the soup was nearly as divine as the first time I had it at the Gaffel Brauhaus in Cologne. One main difference I noticed, was that the Dr. Oetker version I made was not quite as creamy as the Gaffel one, and I suspected that this was because milk was used along with water as a main component for the broth instead of cream. If you wanted a more decadent and rich version of this recipe, you could certainly add cream instead of milk for that part. Another thing I noticed, was that there seemed to be tiny, pale yellow filaments floating in the soup. At first I assumed they were pieces of asparagus that had broken down, but upon closer inspection, they were too yellow for this, so I came to the conclusion they must be cooked bits of the egg yolk and cream mixture. I didn't mind this too much; they were so small you couldn't even notice them texturally when eating. While I will definitely make Spargelcremesuppe again, I will probably try making a modern version of the recipe next in order to compare the methods. It would be interesting to see if anything has changed in the preparation since the 1970s. I could also imagine it would be nice with a few light spices added in. If you end up making this dish, if you liked it, or if you changed anything from the original recipe, do let me know!

Spargelcremesuppe original recipe (1972)

Sourced from a recipe in the Dr. Oetker Schul-Kochbuch (1972).

Spargelcremesuppe Peel 250 g of soup asparagus from top to bottom, making sure that the skin and woody parts are completely removed, but that the tips are not damaged. Wash the asparagus, cut it into 3-cm-long pieces, add it to 1L of boiling salted water, bring to a boil, and cook until tender. Strain the asparagus and cooking water through a sieve. Melt 40 g of butter or margarine. Heat 40 g of all-purpose flour in the saucepan, stirring constantly, until it turns light yellow. Add the vegetable broth and 1/4 L of milk, whisk until smooth, bring to a boil, and simmer for about 10 minutes. Then add the asparagus pieces. If desired, whisk 1 egg yolk with 2 tablespoons of cream or condensed milk, stir it into the soup, and season with salt to taste. Cooking time: About 30 minutes.

Modern Recipe

Based on a recipe from the Dr. Oetker Schul-Kochbuch (1972). Translated and interpreted by myself.

Ingredients:

250 g (8 oz. or about 8 thick stalks) of white asparagus

1 L (34 fl. oz. or about 4 1/4 cups) water

15 g (1 tbsp) salt, plus more to taste

40 g (3 tbsp) salted butter or margarine

40 g (1/3 cup) all-purpose flour

250 mL (8.5 fl. oz. or 1 cup) milk

1 egg yolk

2 tbsp cream or condensed milk

Method:

Cut off the bottom 2 cm/inch of the white asparagus stalks, then peel them top to bottom, making sure that the skin and woody parts are completely removed, but that the tips are not damaged. If using a potato peeler, you may need to peel around the stalk twice.

Bring the water to boil in a large pot and stir in the salt until it is dissolved.

Wash the asparagus, cut into 3 cm long (1 inch) pieces, and add the pieces to boiling salted water, and cook until tender. White asparagus is tender when a fork goes through the bottom of the stalk easily when pierced.

Strain the asparagus and cooking water through a sieve. Set the asparagus and the asparagus broth aside for later, separated.

Set the large pot back on the stove on medium heat and melt the butter or margarine within. Add in the all-purpose flour once the butter is fully-melted and sizzling, stirring constantly until it turns light yellow and bubbles up. Stir until there are no more chunks of flour.

Add the asparagus broth and milk to the pot and deglaze, making sure there are no bits stuck to the bottom of the pot. Whisk until smooth, bring to a boil, and simmer for about 10 minutes.

Add the asparagus pieces back into the pot and turn down the heat slightly. Stir periodically so that a skin doesn't form on top.

Meanwhile, whisk 1 egg yolk with the cream or condensed milk until uniform, then stir it into the soup. Let it cook an extra few minutes so that the soup thickens slightly, then season the soup with salt to taste.

SHEPHERD'S PIE (1894)

In the last cooler days of spring, I thought it best to fit in one more warm and hearty Tasting History dish that my winter heart craves: Shepherd's Pie from 1894. This recipe comes from the Irvine Herald and Kilwinning Chronicle, which was and is still published in Irvine, Strathclyde, Scotland. Nowadays it is said that cottage pie is made with beef, and shepherd’s pie is made with lamb. However, up until about 50 years ago, recipes for cottage pie or shepherd's pie would mention that both beef or lamb could be used, or did not mention what kind of meat to use at all. The terms 'cottage pie' and 'shepherd's pie' were, for a long time, used interchangeably. The term 'cottage pie' is first recorded in 1791, while 'shepherd's pie' was first recorded in the nineteenth century. I have always used the terms interchangeably myself, and have always been partial to using beef mince as the meat. Seeing as this recipe from 1894 uses leftover, already-roasted beef and requires you to mince it yourself by hand, I was really curious to see how this would change the flavour and texture of this dish I know and love. See Max’s video on how to make this dish here or see the ingredients and process at the end of this post, sourced from his website.

My experience making it:

As is custom for me, I halved the recipe, only needing enough for two people. For the cut of beef, I used beef chuck (recommended highly by my butcher). I roasted the beef the night before with just some salt, pepper, and a couple cloves of garlic. Since I don't have mushroom ketchup, I used a very small amount of regular tomato ketchup - just enough to combine the spices into so that I could evenly distribute them among the minced beef.

To start off, I peeled and chopped the potatoes, then set them in a pot of boiling water, in which I had dissolved some salt. While the potatoes boiled, I measured out and prepared all of my other ingredients. Among these, I took the roast beef from yesterday (still medium rare) out of the fridge and chopped it into fine pieces, about half a centimetre each. By the time I had finished mincing the beef, the potatoes were almost ready to take off the stove. In the last few minutes I had before it was time to do this, I mixed the salt, pepper, and ground cloves into the tiny amount of ketchup, stirring with a spoon until they spices were incorporated. It was dark brown and gritty, and there was barely any of this 'sauce' - certainly not enough to properly coat the minced beef. Nevertheless, I stirred this brown sauce into the beef, working it in vigorously, stretching this tiny amount of sauce to coat the beef pieces as evenly as I could. I tried a piece of sauce-coated beef, and honestly couldn't taste the sauce at all, so I'm not sure if I really did have enough sauce to work into all the beef pieces. Proceeding regardless, I spooned the sauced beef into a 9-inch enamel pie dish. There was not enough to coat the bottom, which made sense, since I had halved the recipe but decided to use the same size pie dish as for the whole recipe. I decided to spread the beef about an inch thick on the left side of the pie dish, and I only had enough to cover about 3/4 of the bottom's surface. I figured I could have the last quarter of the pie dish as just potato.

Speaking of potatoes, they were just about ready - my fork went through them when probed, but they were not so soft that they were disintegrating at the edges. I poured them into a strainer over the sink and let them sit for ten minutes to fully drain. After pouring them back into the original pot, I used a potato masher to mash them up as well as I could. My masher always seems to miss a few pieces, since the holes are a little too large, but with persistence, they were eventually fairly smooth, if quite sticky, since there was not yet any liquid to lighten them up. I poured in about half of the necessary cream, now about room temperature, and also added in small cubes of the room temperature butter. Throwing in the salt, I resumed mashing. Though this became easier thanks to the cream, I did find it difficult to get the butter to mix in well. I suspect this was because the potatoes had cooled a bit while they were draining in the strainer, and as a result, could not use their heat to melt the butter easily. Despite this, the friction of my mashing warmed the butter a sufficient amount to get it to incorporate. I poured in the rest of the cream and continued mashing further, eventually left with a uniform, if heavy, mashed potato. The recipe mentioned the mashed potatoes were meant to be stiff, and this was definitely achieved! I spread the mashed potatoes thickly overtop of the meat in the pie dish, about two inches thick. I had a little extra mashed potatoes, but my husband happily accepted this as an appetizer and polished it off. Lastly, I beat 1 egg until fairly smooth, then added a bit of cream and mixed until it was a soft, buttery yellow colour and texture. With a marinade brush, I spread the creamy egg over the top of the shepherd's pie until covered lightly, then used a fork to make a spiral design on the top. I put the pie tin on top of an oven tray and popped it in the oven. Peeking at it every once in a while, it turned out that my shepherd's pie indeed needed the full 20 minutes in order to brown on top. When I removed it from the oven, I was happy to see that it had not overflowed at all, and there was a beautiful shiny crust with light browning that had formed on top. The spirals I had made with my fork didn't show through very well, but that could have been because I didn't make them deep enough. I brought the shepherd's pie to the table and served the first piece. Even though I knew from the recipe that there would be twice as much potato as there would be beef, it still took me by surprise how weighty each piece was, and how meagre the amount of meat was. Yet, the beef had moistened well in the oven, leaving juices behind as I served portions for my husband and I.

My experience tasting it:

I spooned in a balanced bite of both beef and mashed potato. The browned crisp on the top of the mashed potato was a pleasant texture, and the mashed potatoes had a rich flavour, perhaps even a little saltier than the ones I usually make, but not in a bad way. The beef was the most surprising part to me. It was juicy, tender, and the modest spices were the perfect amount to bring out its flavour and just hint at complexity. Without realizing it, I had made assumptions about this dish while cooking: I thought the beef would turn out dry and overcooked (since it had already been cooked yesterday), I thought the cloves would be wildly overpowering and Christmas-y (as they tend to be in other recipes, at times), and I thought there would not be enough meat to counter the large amount of mashed potatoes. I was happily wrong in all of these assumptions! The beef was juicy, the spices perfect, and there was certainly enough meat to balance the creamy mashed potatoes. My husband and I both agreed that using roast beef gave the shepherd's pie a different, richer taste than a shepherd's pie containing beef mince. Of course, the texture was not quite comparable. This may have been because I did not chop the roast beef in small enough pieces (one did still have to chew on a few individual cubes of beef here and there). While we agreed we preferred the roast beef version of shepherd's pie to the beef mince version, I warned my husband that I would still likely not be making this particular 1854 recipe again, primarily because it necessitated making roast beef the night before. I am grateful to have been able to try this early version of shepherd's pie, even if it was a bit of work. If you end up making this dish, if you liked it, or if you changed anything from the original recipe, do let me know!

Shepherd's Pie original recipe (1894)

Sourced from a recipe from the October 5, 1894 issue of the Irvine Herald and Kilwinning Chronicle (1894) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Shepherd’s Pie Minced beef or lamb; if beef, put in a pinch of pulverised cloves; if lamb, pinch of summer savoury to season it, very little pepper and some salt, and put in a baking-dish; mash potatoes and mix them with cream and butter and a little salt, and spread them over the meat; beat up an egg with cream or milk, a very little, spread it over the potatoes and bake it a short time, sufficient to warm it through and brown the potatoes.

Modern Recipe

Based on a recipe from the October 5, 1894 issue of the Irvine Herald and Kilwinning Chronicle (1894) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Ingredients:

Filling

1 lb (450 g) cooked roast beef

1/8 tsp ground cloves

1/2 tsp pepper

1/2 tsp salt

1 tbsp mushroom ketchup*

Mashed Potatoes

4 lbs (1.8 kg) gold or russet potatoes

3/4 cup (175 ml) cream, room temperature or warm is best

1/3 cup (80 g) butter, room temperature is best

2 tbsp salt, plus 1 tsp, divided

1 egg

2 tbsp milk or cream

*This isn’t in this specific historical recipe, but it was in other recipes from the time, and it adds a delicious savory umami.

Method:

Preheat the oven to 400°F (205°C).

For the filling: Mince the roast beef as finely as you can. Mix the minced beef with the ground cloves, pepper, salt, and mushroom ketchup.

For the mashed potatoes: Peel the potatoes and chop them into small pieces, quarters or eighths, depending on the size of the potato.

Add 2 tablespoons of the salt to a large pot of water and bring it to a boil. Add the potatoes and boil them uncovered for about 15 minutes, or until they can be easily pierced with a fork. Don’t cook them too long or they’ll be too mushy.

When the potatoes are cooked, drain them and let them sit in the colander for 10 minutes so they can fully drain and some of the moisture evaporates.

Put the drained potatoes back into the pot and mash them with a masher, or run the potatoes through a ricer.

Mix in half of the cream, all of the butter, and the remaining 1 teaspoon of salt. Add more cream a little at a time until you get a nice stiff mashed potato. You may not need all of the cream.

To assemble: Lay the meat down in an even layer in a 9 inch (23 cm) pie dish, or divide it between smaller individual-sized dishes. Pack the meat down into the dish, then spread mashed potatoes over it. You want there to be about 1/3 meat to 2/3 potato. Make the mashed potatoes a little taller in the center of the dish and smooth.

In a small bowl, beat the egg and mix it with the 2 tablespoons of milk or cream. Brush this mixture over the mashed potatoes, then use a fork to create some decorative lines in the mashed potatoes.

Place the pie(s) onto a baking sheet to catch any drips. Bake for about 20 minutes or until they’re nicely browned.

BRAWN EN PEUERADE (c. 1430)

Having finally returned to our little apartment after a glorious ski trip in the German Alps for my husband's birthday, I was keen to resume my historical cooking, deciding to make this medieval Tasting History dish from c. 1430: Brawn en Peuerade. Sourced from Harleian Manuscript 279, this meat recipe includes five different spices, as well as saffron for the yellow sauce to drizzle on top. An oft-repeated myth is that medieval people spiced meat heavily to hide the taste of spoiled meat, or meat that had gone bad. However, it is just that: a myth. There are many reasons this myth doesn't hold up to reality, but one main one is that spices were very expensive in medieval Europe, and they had to travel great distances in order to reach the continent. If you could afford these expensive spices, you could most definitely afford not to be eating spoiled meat. You would, in fact, most likely be eating the best cuts of meat with your spices. There were also laws at the time forbidding the sale of spoiled meat, and breaking these laws came with punishments. So, we can safely say that it would be rare for medieval people to be eating spoiled meat in the first place unless they were quite desperate, and on top of that, most people simply didn't have access or the money to pay for any spices. Not to mention, it is highly doubtful any spice could convincingly hide the taste of spoiled meat! This medieval Brawn en Peuerade recipe would only have been cooked in the kitchens of someone wealthy due to the many spices it contains. The version of this recipe I will make will be using beef as the meat, and the recipe contains vinegar, wine, and spice combinations (what I like to call 'the Christmas spices') typical of medieval cooking. I am particularly excited to try the bright yellow saffron sauce that accompanies this dish! See Max’s video on how to make this dish here or see the ingredients and process at the end of this post, sourced from his website.

My experience making it:

As usual, I halved the recipe, since I am only cooking for two. For the wine, I used a Rhineland Weißburgunder, for the bread I used a stale piece of baguette, and for the meat I used goulash beef (already cut into chunks). I opted to use white wine vinegar instead of honey vinegar, since it was what I already had in the house, and I omitted the sandalwood completely, since I couldn't find a place to buy the food-grade kind. I used beef broth instead of chicken, and I used saffron powder instead of the strands.

To begin, I measured out and prepared all of my ingredients, including the sides which would accompany the Brawn en Peuerade (green beans and leftover duchess potatoes). I prepared some beef broth on the stove and set it aside, then got out my big pot, setting it on high heat on the stove with a bit of oil coating the bottom. Once it had reached a hot temperature, I added in the beef chunks and seared them on all sides. I then poured in the beef broth and some of the vinegar. At this point, I realized I was meant to have seared the beef in a different pan, but it was too late to do anything about it, so I crossed my fingers and proceeded with the recipe. I peeled and chopped off the ends of the small onions I had (I cut both ends off, since that was easier), and added them into the pot. I poured a little extra beef broth in at this point so that all of the chunks in the pot were covered. Bringing the pot to a simmer, I stirred in the various spices, then let the pot alone to simmer for an hour. I had read online that stew beef usually needs an hour and a half of simmering before it will become tender, so I figured I would check it after an hour and try a piece to see if it needed another half hour of simmering. While the pot simmered, I first broke the stale baguette into crumbs for the saffron sauce, then I prepared the beans on the stove and the potatoes in the oven.

With everything now cooking, I decided to add yet another pot to the stove and make the saffron sauce. I added the white wine and vinegar to the saucepan and stirred in the saffron, letting it incorporate for five minutes with the odd stir before I turned the burner to medium heat. I poured in the breadcrumbs, watching as they became soggy, absorbing the yellow liquid. I slowly brought the saucepan to a simmer, then let it simmer for three minutes. I noticed that the sauce was looking fairly thick and lumpy, especially with the crumbs of bread in there. Next, I took the pan off the heat and pushed the bright yellow contents through a strainer into a ramekin. The resulting liquid was much more uniform than I expected. It looked like beaten egg yolks in both colour and consistency. With the saffron sauce done, I pulled the potatoes of the oven, plated and seasoned the green beans, then tasted one of the chunks of beef to check for tenderness (it had already been more than an hour). The beef was still chewy, so I decided to let it simmer longer. Unfortunately, my husband and I lacked the patience to wait the full half hour; after 20 minutes were were hungry and I made the call to take the pot off the heat, even though the beef was slightly underdone. Still, it was just tender enough to chew through and enjoy. I used a deep spoon to serve each of us a portion of beef and a few onions into our bowls, and I opted to include some of the broth in the bowls as well, since I thought the underdone beef would benefit from the extra juices. I served up the Brawn en Peuerade with sides, and brought the little ramekin of saffron sauce along (I figured we could each choose for ourselves how much we wanted to drizzle on top). The Beef en Peuerade had a fairly dark brown colour to it, no doubt due to the many brown spices that had been added. The broth had not thickened much at all, but was also not clear due to the number of spices floating within. Overall, the dish did not have the most appetizing appearance, but we still curious to try it.

My experience tasting it:

Before trying the Beef en Peuerade, I drizzled a little bit of the yellow saffron sauce over some of the chunks of beef. I loaded up a balanced spoonful containing a chunk of beef, a bit of onion, and a small pool of broth: while the texture of the beef was less than optimal, every other part of the dish worked really well together, flavour-wise! The onion had cooked down to become very soft and sweet, while the broth had a delicious savoury spice to it (I guessed the pepper had done some heavy lifting to counter the usually-dessert-associated Christmas spices of clove and cinnamon), and the yellow saffron sauce added the perfect amount of acidic zing to wake up the dish. I was immediately a fan of the flavour combination, but my husband was not a big fan of the saffron sauce due to its sharpness. I liked the combination so much that I decided to add even more of the yellow sauce to the beef; this time, however, I overdid it and my next bite tasted too sour. I compensated by adding more of the warm, comforting, spiced brown broth. I consider this dish a good one, although I believe it is in need of modernization for efficiency's sake. I especially think that the yellow saffron sauce could be easier to make if it was not thickened by stale breadcrumbs, but by other modern thickening agents that are less painstaking. For this reason, I would not make this recipe again in its specific form, despite it tasting good, but would prefer to make a modernized version, using the same flavours and spices, but with different methods. Once again, medieval use of spices continues to impress me! They go for some unique combinations that are tasty and interesting, if unorthodox for the modern palette. If you end up making this dish, if you liked it, or if you changed anything from the original recipe, do let me know!

Brawn en Peuerade original recipe (c. 1430)

Sourced from a recipe from Harleian Manuscript 279 (c. 1430) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Brawn en Peuerade Take might broth of Beef or Capon, and then take clean fresh meat, and seeth it, but not too much; And if it be fresh meat, roast it, but not too much, and then cut it in pieces, and cast it into the broth; And then take whole onions, and peel them, and then take vinegar thereto, and cinnamon,...then take cloves, mace, and powdered pepper, and cast thereto, and a little saunders, and set it on the fire, and let boil till the onions and the meat be cooked enough, and not too much; then take liquor made with bread and vinegar and wine…and cast thereto saffron to make the color bright, and salt, and serve it forth.

Modern Recipe

Based on a recipe from Harleian Manuscript 279 (c. 1430) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Ingredients:

Meat

2 tbsp oil

2 lbs (1 kg) beef roast or pork shoulder, cut into about 1 inch (2.5 cm) pieces

1-2 quarts (1-2 L) chicken or beef broth, enough to cover the meat and onions

1/4 cup (60 ml) white wine vinegar

Several small onions, or pearl onions if you like

2 tsp cinnamon

1/8 tsp ground cloves

2 tsp ground mace

2 tsp black pepper

1 tsp sandalwood*

Sauce

1 1/2 cups (350 ml) white wine

1/4 cup (60 ml) honey vinegar or white wine vinegar

A large pinch saffron, crushed

3/4 cup breadcrumbs made from stale bread

A small pinch salt

*This is just for color, so if you don’t have food-grade sandalwood, you can leave it out.

Method:

For the meat: Heat a large pan over high heat, then add the oil. Add the meat and cook for a few minutes, turning a few times, just so that the meat gets browned.

Heat the broth and vinegar in a large pot over medium-high heat. While that heats, peel the onions and cut off the top ends. When the broth is steaming, add the meat and onions. You want enough broth to cover the meat and onions, so add more if you need to.

Bring the pot to a simmer, then stir in the spices. Feel free to add more spices as you like. Bring the pot to a gentle boil and let it cook for about 1 hour, or until the meat and onions are nice and tender.

For the sauce: Combine the wine and vinegar in a small saucepan. Add the crushed saffron and let it steep for 5 minutes.

After the 5 minutes, stir in the breadcrumbs. Place the pot over medium heat and bring it to a simmer. Let it simmer for 3 minutes, stirring constantly.

Take the pot off the heat and then pass the sauce through a sieve. Put the sauce back in the pot and set it over low heat. Let it simmer for a few more minutes, or until the sauce thickens.

RYE & CINNAMON CRUSTED PORK (1742)

For our Friday date night, I decided to make this Tasting History dish from 1742 Austria: Rye & Cinnamon Crusted Pork. The original recipe, which is found in the Viennese cookbook Nützliches Koch-Buch (The Useful Cookbook) by Johann Holzmayer, says to use mutton loin, however it also mentions that you can use pork or venison as well. Max (and I, too) used pork, since it is easier to come by and is a great excuse to talk about Mozart! Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, the famed composer and musician, died fairly young, at the age of 35 after falling ill. While many rumours spread about his cause of death (among them, that he was poisoned by a jealous rival or the Freemasons), it is very likely he could have fallen ill with trichinosis from eating undercooked pork. There is proof he ate pork 44 days before falling ill, so it could be the cause of his death in 1791. So, this recipe for cinnamon and rye bread crusted pork from several decades earlier could have been a source for one of the many pork meals he enjoyed during his short lifetime. The recipe calls for the meat to be boiled, and without a cooking thermometer (which I will be using), it is hard to tell if pork is cooked all the way through when boiled. While boiling pork is not the most delicious way to prepare it, I thought that all of the ingredients at least sounded delicious. I've put up with tough meat before, and would do it again if the seasoning was right! See Max’s video on how to make this dish here or see the ingredients and process at the end of this post, sourced from his website.

My experience making it:

Only cooking for two, I halved the recipe - we simply didn't need that much pork. For the wine, I used a dry Riesling from the Rhine region, and for the bread I used a rye bread. I used red wine vinegar instead of white wine vinegar. Otherwise, I followed the ingredients as listed.

I began by trying to dry out the rye bread in thin slices in the oven. While it was toasting, I prepared some potatoes for roasting as a side for the pork. I took the rye bread and began trying to grate it with the small holes of a cheese shredder, but I was still finding it too malleable, not yet dried enough. So, I decided to toast it on a low setting. This hardened the bread a bit more and made it easier to grate. I will admit, it was frustrating work grating the rye bread. Grating for fifteen minutes at a time, I would look under the grater only to find that there was just a tiny pile of crumbs below. Due to how dry the bread was, crumbly bread shrapnel was flying from the grater as I applied pressure, and I'm pretty sure a quarter of each bread slice ended up on the floor. It definitely needed a sweep after! Once three slices of bread had been grated into a fine crumb, I whisked them with the sugar and cinnamon, then I set that aside and began measuring out all of the other ingredients. I tossed the potatoes in the oven, wanting to pre-cook them so that the oven would be available later for the pork. While they were cooking, I got a start on preparing the pork: I rubbed it in the salt and let it sit for a bit while I finished preparing the rest of the ingredients. I then added some butter to a large pot. While it melted, I decided to cut the pork loin in half, because it was very long and would not fit into my pot in once piece. I placed the loin halves in the pot once it was sizzling, searing all sides, including the ends until they had a light brown colouring. I set the pork aside while I began putting together the broth.

I poured in the water and scraped the bottom with my flipper to release all the browned meat and butter particles, creating a light brown liquid. I poured in the Riesling wine and red wine vinegar, then added in the onion slices, lemon zest, rosemary sprigs, and bay leaves. I gave it a stir and let it heat; it smelled really lovely! Once it was steaming, I added the pork loin back in to finish cooking. While it was boiling, I prepared some broccolini to accompany our meal, and removed the potatoes from the oven (I would pop them in for a quick warming later, just before dinnertime). Because I was using much less pork than Max, my pork loins actually came to the safe-for-eating temperature quite quickly. I rushed to melt some butter and coated a casserole dish with it, then I removed the pork loin from the pot and laid the pieces in the casserole dish. They were a little jiggly, and a bit grey in colour, but I hoped some roasting would making them look more appetizing. I drizzled the remainder of the melted butter on them, then sprinkled them thoroughly on all sides with the rye breadcrumb, sugar, and cinnamon mix. I put them in the oven with the hopes that the breadcrumbs would harden into a crust on the outside of the pork. I left the dish in the oven for only about ten minutes, even though the breadcrumbs hadn't quite hardened fully, because I was worried the pork would overcook and become tough. I removed the pork and let it sit for a bit before slicing it, meanwhile popping the potatoes back in the oven to warm and frying up the broccolini with some spices. Since I still had the broth from earlier on the stove, I turned the burner back on until it was steaming again. I cut the pork, with its dark crumbly coating, into slices and set them in bowls so that I could spoon the broth over them without it running all over the plates. I was very impressed with the inside of the pork. Because of the boiling and immediate roasting, I expected them to be tough and colourless, but I was surprised to discover that the inside still had a tiny bit of pinkness, meaning it may be a bit tender! I served up the potatoes and broccolini on the plates alongside the bowls of pork, spooned a bit of the broth over the pork, then poured us the remainder of the Riesling wine. Dinnertime!

My experience tasting it:

I cut into a piece of pork right away, making sure it was an edge piece with some of the rye and cinnamon breadcrumbs on it. I was a bit disappointed that the breadcrumbs seemed to fall off a bit easily; perhaps they had not completely hardened into a proper crust and needed a longer roasting time. I dipped the bottom part of the bite of pork into the broth to soak up some juices. When I bit in, it was decently tender, much better in texture than I expected! The rye breadcrumb coating, as I mentioned, had not really formed into a true crust, so it didn't contribute as much crunchy texture as I hoped. However, this was made up for by the fact that the flavour was really and truly wonderful! The broth lent an extra juiciness to the meat, and imparted a fragrant, herby flavour from the rosemary and bay leaves. I was originally worried that the rye bread crumbed crust, because it was mixed with sugar and cinnamon, might taste vaguely dessert-like, but this was not the case at all. The sweetness balanced out the savoury flavour of the meat. Perhaps the breadcrumbs, having come into contact with melted butter before their time in the oven, had also developed a bit of a saltier flavour, which worked well to season the meat. My husband and I both quite enjoyed rye and cinnamon crusted pork, so much so, that we even drank the leftover broth at the bottom of our bowls (it was even tasty on its own!). I warned him, however, that as much as we enjoyed this dish, I would not make it again it its current historical form. Grating those slices of toasted rye bread was a painstaking task that I do not wish to repeat again, so if I ever made this recipe again, I would definitely use just regular, store-bought breadcrumbs. To make just this once, this recipe was still a hit and made for a romantic date night. I would recommend trying it once, but be sure to fully cook your pork, lest you end up dying young like our unfortunate, dear Mozart. If you end up making this dish, if you liked it, or if you changed anything from the original recipe, do let me know!

Rye & Cinnamon Crusted Pork original recipe (1742)

Sourced from a recipe in Nützliches Koch-Buch (The Useful Cookbook) by Johann Holzmayer (1742 ed.) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

No. 239 - Mutton Loin Take from a mutton the loin, as large as it can be, and dress it as one does a venison loin. Boil it in water, wine, and vinegar with bay leaves, onion, rosemary, and strips of lemon peel until it is quite tender. When it is cooked, arrange it on a casserole dish and pour melted butter over it. Take grated dark bread, mix it with cinnamon and sugar, sprinkle this over the loin, pour more butter over it, and put it into the oven, so that it becomes nicely brown, turning it once or twice. Make a good broth, pour it underneath, and serve it warm at the table.

Modern Recipe

Based on a recipe from Nützliches Koch-Buch (The Useful Cookbook) by Johann Holzmayer (1742 ed.) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Ingredients:

Pork Loin

3-4 lbs (1.5 kg) pork loin

2-3 tbsp coarse salt

2 tbsp butter or olive oil

2 quarts (2 L) water

2 cups (.5 L) dry white wine

2 tbsp red or white wine vinegar

4 bay leaves, fresh if you can get them

1 onion, sliced

4 sprigs fresh rosemary

Zest of 1 lemon

Crust

1/2 cup (110 g) butter, melted

1 1/2 cups (150 g) dark rye or dark wheat bread crumbs*

1/3 cup (65 g) sugar

2 tsp cinnamon

*dark rye or wheat bread can be toasted until completely dry, then grated into crumbs.

Method:

For the pork loin: Rub the pork loin with the salt.

Heat the butter or olive oil in a large pot over high heat. Add the pork loin and sear it on all sides, including the ends.

Remove the loin from the pot and set it aside. Pour in the water and scrape up any browned bits from the bottom of the pot. Stir in the white wine, vinegar, bay leaves, sliced onions, rosemary, and lemon zest.

Once the pot is steaming, add the pork loin back in and let it come to a gentle boil. Cover the pot and cook for about 30 minutes, or until it has an internal temperature of 130°F (55°C).

For the crust: Preheat the oven to 400°F (205°C).

In a large bowl, whisk together the bread crumbs, sugar, and cinnamon.

When the pork loin is done, remove it from the pot and pat it dry.

Pour a little of the melted butter into a baking dish and use a brush to coat the bottom of the dish. Set the pork in. Pour the remaining butter over the top and the sides of the pork.

Sprinkle the bread crumb mixture over the pork loin, making sure to coat it all over. Some of the bread crumbs will fall into the pan, but that’s fine.

Roast the pork loin in the oven for 15 to 20 minutes, or until it has a nice dry crust on top.

BERTITA'S SPECIAL COCKTAIL (1937)

This weekend, I had a friend over for a cocktail and tapas night, meaning it was the perfect opportunity to crack open The Gentleman’s Companion: Being an Exotic Drinking Book, Or, Around the World with Jigger, Beaker, and Flask by Charles Henry Baker Jr.. To cater to the tastes of my friend and I, who both enjoy a strong, yet fruity cocktail, I decided to make the recipe from this book titled Bertita's Special Cocktail. While the book this recipe comes from was published in 1939, this recipe specifically comes from February 1937. Baker and friends had taken a trip to Mexico, and had ended up at "Bertita", what he describes as a "dingy but mildly celebrated" bar in the southwest corner of the square of the cathedral in Taxco. While today I could not find mention of a bar called Bertita's in that location, I did discover that there is a bar in the exact place that Baker describes called Bar Berta which claims to have existed in that spot since 1930. The names sound awfully similar, and since the time period checks out, I have to wonder if this is that bar that Baker describes. Nowadays, like the Bertita bar that Baker describes, Bar Berta is also known for a special Berta cocktail. However, while Baker describes the special Bertita cocktail made with Cuban rum and citrus, the current special Berta cocktail, at least according to a number of Google reviews, instead contains tequila and honey. I can't help but wonder if this is indeed the same bar, if it has changed names just slightly over the years, and how (if they are indeed related) the special cocktail went from being a Cuban rum-based one to a tequila-based one. If anyone knows the story, please enlighten me! Of course, I will one day have to visit Taxco myself to learn more. In the meantime, see the ingredients and process at the end of this post, sourced from Charles Henry Baker Jr.’s book.

My experience making it:

I wasn't able to get a hold of crushed ice, and I didn't fancy using all of my energy to crush what I had (I needed that energy to squeeze various citrus), so I just used regular ice cubes. For the rum, I wanted to use a Cuban white rum that might have existed at the time and could possibly fit Baker's description (an aged, Cuban white rum in a slender bottle): I settled on Havana Club Rum Anejo 3 Anos, since Havana Club was founded as a brand in 1934, not too long before Baker had Bertita's Special Cocktail. The original recipe says you can use grenadine, sugar, or gomme syrup to sweeten the cocktail, so I settled on grenadine, since I thought it would bring a pretty colour to the cocktail, and I already had some in my bar cart.

Because I was having a friend over and I thought it would be a lot of work to have to squeeze limes and oranges every time we wanted another cocktail, I decided to pre-squeeze the limes and oranges, being careful to put the exact amount of squeezed orange and lime juice for two drinks aside in each bowl for refrigeration. As Baker's stated recipe demands, I made two cocktails at a time in one shaker, although the modernized recipe I share below is just for one drink. When my friend was about to arrive, I began assembling the drink. Popping in 4 ice cubes into the cocktail shaker, I then poured in the strained juice from two limes, the strained juice from one and a half medium-sized oranges, 2 tsp of grenadine, and 4 jiggers of the white rum. I shook it for 15 seconds with the lid clasped tight, then strained the drink into the two champagne glasses. There was enough room in the glasses still to accommodate an ice cube each, so I spooned out an ice cube from the shaker to put into each glass. In an ideal world, it would instead be crushed ice to make a more slushy-type drink, but I had to make do. The drink still looked really lovely, however. The citrus had combined with the rum and grenadine to create the most pretty and delicate blush colour, and the drink looked somehow hazy, like a sunset during a wildfire. Similarly, this drink would undoubtedly be beautiful, yet dangerous, considering how much rum was in such a small amount of liquid. My friend and I were both impressed with how it looked, and decided not to bother with any kind of garnish - it simply didn't need it.

My experience tasting it:

Our first sips were cold, refreshing, and absolutely delightful! The citrus was front and centre, its sourness tempered by the sweetness provided by the grenadine and the background complexity of the rum. The rum could only lightly be detected, which I thought was quite surprising considering we were drinking a double out of a champagne glass! For us, who do prefer a sweet and fruity cocktail, it was the ideal situation, however I would recommend that those who prefer a more alcohol-forward cocktail follow the last sentence of Baker's instruction for personal consumption which is to float some Jamaica rum on top to give it a bit more of a zing from the alcohol. My friend mentioned she could imagine this being a great cocktail to have at a celebratory breakfast or brunch, perhaps for a wedding, because it livens up the mood while still tasting fresh, fruity, and sophisticated. We both enjoyed Bertita's Special Cocktail so much, that we decided to make two more rounds! Clearly, a hit. I will most definitely be making this cocktail again, and I recommend trying it yourself. It requires a bit of brute force to squeeze all the fruit, but otherwise, it is easy to make, does not require expensive or hard-to-find ingredients, and is a sure crowd-pleaser. I imagine a mocktail version could also easily be put together by using club soda instead of rum. Evidently, Bertita (or Berta) has been around as a bar for so long for a very good reason - now I just need to try their current Tequila and honey special cocktail to see if it stacks up to this classic from the 1930s. If you end up making this drink, if you liked it, or if you changed anything from the original recipe, do let me know!

Bertita's Special Cocktail original recipe (1937)

Sourced from The Gentleman’s Companion: Being an Exotic Drinking Book, Or, Around the World with Jigger, Beaker, and Flask by Charles Henry Baker Jr. (1939).

Bertita's Special Cocktail, con Habañero, Being an Exotic We Have Personally Fetched Back from Taxco, which is Back in the High Hills of Mexico, where Artists from America Congregate for Varying Reasons, & with Varying Success Bertita, diagonally across the southwest corner of the public square from de la Borda's matchless cathedral is a dingy but mildly celebrated place, noted twice in this volume. This is a potent drink poured with a heavy hand, as we found during a stay in Taxco in February 1937.... Habañero, incidentally, means any of the light Cuban rums properly distilled from sugar cane by-product, and aged in the wood. Properly they should be called rum brandies, we imagine. Bacardi is the best known, but down there in Mexico the citizens blot up an amazing count of Cubaño rums we never even heard of, like El Caney in its slim Rhine wine style bottle... To 4 jiggers of light Cuban rum add the strained juice of 2 limes, the strained juice of 1½ average sized oranges, 2 tsp grenadine, or sugar or gomme syrup. Shake vigorously with lots of ice, serve in big champagne glasses - for 2 people. As we recall it Bertita served it with cracked ice still in the drink. It would pan out well in The Blender, incidentally. Personally we float on 1 tsp Jamaica, atop the finished drink.

Modern Recipe

Based on the recipe from The Gentleman’s Companion: Being an Exotic Drinking Book, Or, Around the World with Jigger, Beaker, and Flask by Charles Henry Baker Jr. (1939).

Ingredients:

Crushed ice

2 jiggers (3 oz/90 ml) white rum

strained juice from 3/4 of an orange

strained juice from 1 lime

1 tsp grenadine

Method:

Prepare a champagne glass.

In a cocktail shaker, fill half-full with crushed ice.

Add in the white rum, strained orange juice, strained lime juice, and grenadine, then shake vigorously for 15 seconds.

If you would like ice in the drink, pour directly into the glass without straining. If you would not like ice, strain the drink into the glass.

GUMBO (1885)

I recently had a dream that I visited New Orleans. I've never been there before, but the dream encouraged my curiosity for this next Tasting History dish : Gumbo from 1885. Gumbo, a rich, thick soup/stew that comes from the melting pot of cultures that is Louisiana, has disputed origins regarding its name. One theory is that the name comes from the West African Bantu and Bambara words for okra, "Ki ngombo/Quingombo" and "gombo" respectively. Okra seeds were brought to the Americas by enslaved Africans, and okra became a key ingredient in early gumbo recipes, as it was used to thicken the stew. Another theory for the name's origin comes from another thickening agent, filé (dried and ground sassafras leaves), which the Choctaw Nation called "kombo". While most academics lean toward the West African theory, since the earliest written recipes do no use "kombo", but "gombo", the topic is still hotly debated. The modern gumbo can be thickened in a variety of ways, from filé to okra to roux, and usually includes some form of seafood. The recipes for gumbo have evolved to include a wonderful mix of ingredients and cooking techniques from the various cultures of Louisiana inhabitants, including the French, Spanish, Acadians, Native Nations, and Africans. Clearly, wonderful creations can come about when all our various cultures contribute something. This specific recipe is an early, okra-based variation of "gombo" from 1885, although it also uses a simple form of a roux to contribute to its thickening. Having never tried gumbo before whatsoever, I am very excited not only to try making it, but to taste it for the first time! See Max’s video on how to make this dish here or see the ingredients and process at the end of this post, sourced from his website.

My experience making it:

As I usually do for Tasting History recipes, I halved it, only needing enough for two people. Since Carolina rice is hard to find here, I just used jasmine rice as a side. I used a mildly spicy Turkish green pepper and used frozen shell-on shrimp, since I don't live near the ocean. For the beef, I used goulash beef, already cut in cubes for me. In terms of the "ham knuckle" called for in the recipe, I thought this would mean a raw German "Schweinhaxe", which is a common butcher shop find here. So I bought one. However, when I got home, I watched the video again, and thought that it looked like the meat was cooked a bit already. After a bit of googling, I realized that Max had likely meant for me to buy a ham hock instead, which has already been smoked. I had already paid decent money for the pork knuckle I had, so I decided to use it anyways. However, as I attempted to chop it up raw with my knife, I found it terribly difficult. After googling once again, I found out it is usually only chopped up once it has been cooked a bit already, otherwise it is very difficult. So, I had to boil it for an hour and a half to get it to the point where I could even think of using it as an ingredient. Off to a frustrating start!

While the pork knuckle was boiling away, I got a start on preparing another of the ingredients: the browned flour. I pre-heated the oven, and once it was ready, I spread out the flour in a stainless steel oven-safe pan and placed it in the oven. I remained vigilant, because I knew there was a chance the flour could burn. I set a timer and checked on the flour every 15 minutes, giving it a stir each time. After 45 minutes or so, the flour had reached the colour of light brown sugar, which is what Max describes as being 'done' for this recipe. It kind of smelled like roasted coffee beans. I set it aside to let it cool, and since the pork knuckle was still boiling, I thawed and peeled the shrimp, then measured out and chopped the rest of the ingredients. I also decided to boil the hot water for the recipe with the leftover shrimp shells, hoping this would impart more of the seafood flavour in the dish. I figured this would make up for using frozen instead of fresh shrimp. When the pork knuckle was cooked well enough, I pulled it out of the pot, let it cool slightly, then began chopping it into bite-size pieces. This was so much easier now that the meat had cooked a bit. With all the ingredients ready, I could finally start making the gumbo.

In my large soup pot, I melted a tablespoon or so of lard, then added the meat for browning in shifts: first the beef, then the pork. A bit of fond had already begun to develop at the bottom of the pot from the meat. Setting the meat aside, I added in the rest of the lard, and quickly stirred in the browned flour. I had to turn the heat down to medium because the lard was disappearing fast, and I wanted to make sure the flour was worked well into the lard, without clumps. It ended up turning into what looked like a very thick gravy. It was thickening quickly on such high heat, so I again turned it down to medium-low, then added in the onion, pepper, okra, salt, and meat. I stirred to mix it all together, hoping that this would coat the chunks in the dark brown lard and make it less likely for anything to burn onto the bottom of the pan. Apparently, that was not enough. With my spatula, I could feel a layer of the browned flour and lard mixture adhering to the bottom of the pot, no matter how much I scraped at it. I could barely let it alone to cook for a minute, let alone ten! So, in an executive decision, I decided to move on to the next step in the recipe, which I believed would alleviate the situation: adding in the hot water. I strained the boiled water to get the shrimp shells out, then added a litre to the large gumbo pot. The urgency of stirring finally let up, and I scraped the bottom to release the bits that had stuck. It was starting to look more like gumbo now, I thought. I brought the pot to a simmer and let it cook for about an hour and a half, stirring periodically to make sure nothing was stuck to the bottom and a film wouldn't form on top. Nearing the end of the cooking time, I had to stir every couple minutes or so to make sure this didn't happen. It was beginning to smell very good - like a hearty beef stew almost. I was surprised it could smell that good without adding any herbs or spices! In the last 10 minutes or so of cooking the gumbo, I added in the shrimp and made the rice in a separate pot. I continued to stir the gumbo as the shrimp curled up and turned pink. Most of the vegetables had broken up into very small bits by this point, and I think the meat even shed a few bits here and there, which brought an interesting texture to the gumbo. It had even turned just slightly green amidst its previous gravy brown colour. The shrimp looked ready, so it was time to serve up. I spooned up the rice, then ladled the gumbo into the bowls alongside. After nearly 5 hours of kitchen time, I was very proud of how it looked and smelled - I hoped it would taste just as good, considering the long prep time!

My experience tasting it:

My husband and I sat down past 10pm (thanks to needing to cook that pork knuckle first...) for our big bowls of gumbo. Having only seen gumbo in movies before, I was happy to say that it looked just like the ones I had seen, and thankfully, also like Max's. My first bite, with a bite of rice, shrimp, and meat, was packed full of flavour! The taste was much saltier than I expected, and I suspected this might be the pork knuckle's doing. There was also just a whisper of spice from the Turkish green pepper, but in my opinion, it could use a lot more (I'm a fan of spicy food, in general). I was just a bit disappointed that I couldn't detect much of the seafood taste in the 'broth' part, but luckily, the shrimp volunteered to supply that, just enough that it was present. I wished it had a bit more of a seafood taste to it, but having nothing to compare to since I have not tried gumbo before, I am not sure if its meant to taste very seafood-y or not. I was also very surprised that the okra didn't cause the gumbo to thicken in a 'slimy' way, especially seeing as I mostly skipped the part of the recipe where the okra was meant to shed its slime before the water was added. The texture ended up very much like a hearty Irish stew (so, lovely!), but with the vegetables clearly forming more of the bulk of the broth, chopped fine enough and disintegrated to the point it was hard to pick out any of their chunks. Both my husband and I gobbled up the gumbo quickly, not only hungry from waiting so long for dinner, but also thoroughly enjoying the warm and savoury taste of the gumbo. While we both enjoyed the gumbo immensely, I would not make this specific recipe again, as it posed several challenges for me and also used several quite expensive ingredients (one dish with shrimp, pork knuckle, AND beef?!). Instead, I will happily make a more simple modern recipe, and I would encourage you to do the same. Nevertheless, I am so happy I finally tried gumbo and liked it! The next time I see gumbo on a menu at a restaurant, I would like to order it and see if it tastes similar to this one. Wherever the name gumbo comes from, it seems its creators - of various origins - agree that it is indeed delicious. If you end up making this dish, if you liked it, or if you changed anything from the original recipe, do let me know!

Gumbo original recipe (1885)

Sourced from a recipe in the La Cuisine Créole compiled by Lafcadio Hearn (1885) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Gombo With Crabs, or Shrimp To a pound of beef add half a pound knuckle of ham; chop up both in inch pieces and fry them brown in two tablespoons of boiling lard; add to them four large crabs cut up, or a pound of peeled shrimps, or both if desired; cut into this four dozen small okra pods, one large onion, a little red pepper, and salt to taste. Let all simmer on a slow fire for about twenty minutes; then fill up with warm water, enough to cover the contents two inches deep. Let this boil for two hours. If it becomes too thick, add as much water as required. If preferred, a chicken can be used instead of beef.

Modern Recipe

Based on a recipe from La Cuisine Créole compiled by Lafcadio Hearn (1885) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Ingredients:

Browned Flour

1/2 cup (120 g) flour

Gumbo

1/3 cup (70 g) lard, divided

1 lb (450 g) beef, stew meat or short ribs are perfect, cut into 1 inch (2.5 cm) pieces

1 large ham knuckle (hock), cut into 1 inch (2.5 cm) pieces

1/2 cup (60 g) browned flour

4 dozen small (3 dozen large) okra pods, sliced

1 large yellow onion, chopped

1 red bell pepper or hot pepper without the seeds, chopped

2-3 tsp salt

2 quarts (2 L) hot water

1 lb (450 g) peeled shrimp or crab legs or whole crabs, or a combination

Method:

For the browned flour: Preheat the oven to 400°F (205°C).

Put the flour in an oven-safe pan and spread it evenly. Cook in the oven, stirring every 15 or 20 minutes, for 1 1/2 to 2 hours, or until the flour is the color of light brown sugar.

For the gumbo: Melt 2 tablespoons (30 g) of the lard in a large pot over high heat. Once it’s sizzling, add in the beef and ham knuckle. You don’t want to crowd the pan, so cook in a couple of batches if necessary. Cook the meat for a few minutes, getting it nice and browned all over. It doesn’t need to be fully cooked at this point. Remove the meat and set aside.

Add the rest of the lard, and once it’s hot, whisk in the browned flour and cook for about 1 minute.

Add the meat back in along with the okra, onion, bell pepper, and salt. Reduce the heat to medium and cook, stirring frequently, for 20 minutes.

Stir in the hot water, scraping up the browned bits from the bottom of the pot. Bring it to a low boil and cook uncovered for 2 hours, stirring frequently.

After 2 hours, taste and add salt if desired. Add in the shrimp and crab, then cook for another 5 to 7 minutes, or until the shrimp have curled up and become opaque.

INDIAN PUDDING (1829)

This next Tasting History recipe is one I have actually been meaning to make for months: Indian Pudding from 1829. That is, Indian in the Native American sense, not in the Asian country sense. However, Indian Pudding is not quite a Native American dish, but rather a mixture of British cooking methods and Native American ingredients coming together to make something new. Puddings had long been a popular dish in Britain, so when British colonists came across to America, they tried to make familiar foods that reminded them of their homeland using the ingredients that were available to them in their new home. Instead of wheat flour, they used cornmeal to make their puddings. Nowadays, Indian Pudding is mostly made and eaten in New England - and as of today, Germany! Molasses is not a common ingredient in Germany, so I thought I would not be able to make this dish without a long hunt for it. Since I went home to Canada for Christmas, I finally bought some and packed it in our checked luggage to bring over. Unfortunately, I did not pack it well enough: it exploded inside the baggage, coating half our clothes in the thick, sweet slime of molasses. We spent days washing everything out in the tub and running loads of laundry. Worst of all: I still didn't have any molasses to use in this recipe! Finally, this week, I finally found one store in my city that stocked blackstrap molasses, making this recipe once again possible. I know Indian Pudding doesn't look appetizing, but most chocolate desserts don't either, and they all taste wonderful. After all the work I went to in order to secure the molasses for this recipe, I hope it tastes good! See Max’s video on how to make this dish here or see the ingredients and process at the end of this post, sourced from his website.

My experience making it:

Just wanting enough dessert for my husband and I, I halved the recipe. As mentioned, I used blackstrap molasses. Since the molasses Max uses is undoubtedly lighter, I decided to use half and half blackstrap molasses and maple syrup in order to achieve the lighter flavour. I'm not sure if that is technically equivalent, but having seen how thick and concentrated my molasses was, I knew it needed to be lightened/cut in some way. Also, since I am not a huge fan of ginger, I decided to use only cinnamon in this recipe, and for the milk, I just used my usual 1%.

To start, I measured everything out, preheated the oven, and buttered my small enamel casserole dish. I poured the larger amount of milk into my saucepan and set it on the stove on medium heat. Stirring with my spatula periodically, I used a meat thermometer to monitor until it reached the correct temperature, bubbles rising up at the sides and steam emerging. After mixing the cornmeal and salt in a bowl with a whisk, I added it in and stirred constantly while it cooked in the milk for about 5-6 minutes (I wasn't sure if I was supposed to halve the times as well as the amounts of ingredients, but I decided to do so). Next, I added in the molasses/maple syrup mixture, stirring with my spatula until it combined completely. The milk turned a caramel beige colour and was starting to smell sweet. At this point, I sifted in the cinnamon, stirred and cooked for another couple minutes until the cinnamon seemed to incorporate, then I turned off the stove. For some reason, I expected the mixture to thicken, perhaps for the cornmeal to enlarge, but it had not at all by this point. The mixture was just thin and beige, with what seemed to be cornmeal granules floating within when I stirred. I convinced myself to trust the process, though, and poured the liquid into my buttered casserole dish. As instructed, I poured in the remainder of the milk. Although I did not stir it, it seemed to mix itself into the beige liquid all by itself. I gently set it in the oven without spilling. The instructions are not really clear on when to take it out of the oven, so I decided to leave mine in for 2 hours, check it, and take it out if it was starting to burn or if it only had a light jiggle to it, whichever came first. Luckily, the latter came first, after 2 hours and 15 minutes, although I could tell that the molasses was beginning to smell more bitter than sweet, which may have meant it was at the beginning stages of burning. Just like Max's, my Indian Pudding also had a very obvious, dark brown film that formed on top and partially deflated when it emerged from the oven. I let it cool on the counter, meanwhile fetching some plates, spoons, and canned whipped cream. When it had for the most part cooled, I spooned it out onto plates. It was then that I discovered its true texture... it looked like - forgive my swearing - shit. Like the poop of someone going through terrible food poisoning. I quickly tried to make it look better by adding a pretty dollop of whipped cream. You can't polish a turd, but you can roll it in glitter, after all. I was at least happy that the Indian Pudding had firmed up enough to serve for dessert.

My experience tasting it:

For the first bite, I had the Indian Pudding alone, without the whipped cream. A strong waft of molasses emanated from it. It was very flavourful, and, unsurprisingly, was very molasses-forward. I found myself wishing I had used more maple-syrup than molasses - that blackstrap molasses is just too strong! Otherwise, the Indian Pudding had a caramel-like flavour, and was surprisingly salty. Without the whipped cream, you could have convinced me this was a savoury spread for crackers or toasts. I could only lightly taste the corn flavour, and the cinnamon had all but disappeared into the unavoidable sludge of molasses. Unfortunately, the texture was much worse. I am one of those people who struggles eating something if it has a strange texture; for this reason, I don't like raw fish and rice pudding. This Indian Pudding had a very strange texture, like the jiggly-ness of a flan combined with the wet residue of oil and the grittiness of granola. If you were used to such textures in food, perhaps this wouldn't bother you, but for me, it was firmly in the "unpleasant" zone. When I tried the next few bites of Indian Pudding with the whipped cream, it was much better in both taste and texture: it really needed the soft lightness and the silky stability of this topping to counter its bold texture and taste. In order to finish my portion, I ended up adding even more whipped cream. Looking across the table, my husband visibly winced while eating it, and he will eat almost anything without reacting. While I would like to pin the failure of this dish on something I did wrong in making it (and it very well could be the type of ingredients I used), it did look similar to Max's in the end, which makes me think that maybe we just have different tastes and preferences on this one. Needless to say, I will not be making this dish again. I was sad to have gone to all that trouble to get my hands on some intact molasses for this dish, especially as half of it ended up going in the trash bin. Oh well, there are bound to be a couple dud recipes here and there. I'm sure a modern Indian Pudding might taste a little better. If you end up making this dish, if you liked it, or if you changed anything from the original recipe, do let me know!

Indian Pudding original recipe (1829)

Sourced from a recipe in the The American Frugal Housewife by Lydia Child (1829) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Baked Indian Pudding Indian pudding is good baked. Scald a quart of milk, (skimmed milk will do,) and stir in seven table spoonfuls of sifted Indian meal, a tea-spoonful of salt, a teacupful of molasses, and a great spoonful of ginger, or sifted cinnamon. Bake three or four hours. If you want whey, you must be sure and pour in a little cold milk, after it is all mixed.

Modern Recipe

Based on a recipe from The American Frugal Housewife by Lydia Child (1829) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Ingredients:

1 quart plus 1/2 cup (1 L plus 120 ml) milk, divided

1/2 cup (80 g) cornmeal

1 tsp salt

1/2 cup (180 g) molasses

1 1/2 tsp ground ginger or cinnamon

Whipped cream, for serving

Method:

Preheat the oven to 300°F (150°C). Butter the bottom and sides of a 9x9 inch (23x23 cm) baking dish.

Scald 1 quart (1 L) of the milk by heating it in a saucepan or double boiler to 180°F (82°C), or until it just starts to have little bubbles, stirring frequently so that the milk doesn’t burn or form a skin on top.

While the milk heats, whisk the cornmeal and salt together in a bowl.

Once the milk hits 180°F (82°C) or starts to have little bubbles, reduce the heat to low and stir in the cornmeal and salt. Cook for 10 minutes, stirring constantly.

Stir in the molasses and cook and stir for another 2 minutes.

Stir in the ginger or cinnamon. It’s best to sift it in so there are no clumps. Cook and stir for another minute or so, or until everything is nice and smooth.

Pour the batter into the prepared baking dish. Pour in the remaining 1/2 cup (120 ml) cold milk, and don’t stir it in.

Bake for 3 to 4 hours, then take it out of the oven and let it cool completely. There may be a kind of film that forms on top.

WORKHOUSE SCOUSE (1901)

Pardon my disappearance; my husband and I just returned from the Winter Olympics (so fun!) and a ski holiday in the Dolomites. After a ski day what better way to fuel up again than with a warm and hearty Tasting History recipe: Workhouse Scouse from 1901. Workhouses in Victorian England were harsh, state-run institutions created to house and employ the destitute. However, the conditions were often intentionally designed to be worse than the lowest paid jobs elsewhere, intended to act as a deterrent. Families were separated, inmates wore uniforms, and the jobs consisted of monotonous tasks, like stone-breaking. This recipe for Scouse (basically stew) comes from the Manual for Workhouse Cookery from 1901, which contains several recipes to aid in the running of a workhouse. While the food served in Victorian workhouses could vary widely depending on the time, place, and management of a particular establishment, the ingredients were generally all-around poor, some barely fit for consumption. So, while this specific recipe for Scouse may make a great stew when made with nice cuts of meat and fresh vegetables, the workhouses would often be using nearly-rotten vegetables or the worst cuts of meat, sometimes leftover from the meals of the rich 'patron's' dinner. There would sometimes even be bugs and rat droppings that found their way into the ingredients, and the stew would sometimes be watered down to the point of tastelessness. Patrons usually operated under the notion that if the food served to the inmates of a workhouse was worse than average, it would encourage them to choose to not be poor (terrible, they actually believed it was a choice!). I do not envy the inmates, and feel for them that one of the best parts of the day, mealtime, was spoiled in such a manner, especially when life was already so hard for them. With gratitude that I have fresh ingredients to cook with, I look forward to a simple stew for dinner. See Max’s video on how to make this dish here or see the ingredients and process at the end of this post, sourced from his website.

My experience making it:

As I tend to do, I halved the recipe, as I was aiming to make just two bowls of Scouse. Since I couldn't find turnips at the grocery store, I decided to use a little extra potato and onion. I used a cut of beef chuck from the butcher, which is advertised here in Germany as 'goulash beef'.

I began by measuring out the ingredients and by chopping the onions, carrots, potatoes, and beef into bite-sized cubes. In a large pot over medium heat, I melted the butter, quickly adding in the flour and stirring vigorously to get it to combine quickly. I was already shocked at the ratio of flour to butter. There was so much flour that I knew there was no way it was going to combine all the way into the butter. In a panic, I added a bit more butter to compensate. Max said the mixture would be dry, but mine was so dry that there was just plain flour in some parts of the pan that had no fat to mix into. There was absolutely no way I was going to cook this for 5 minutes in such a state, for fear of burning. So, I added butter until there was just enough for the flour to incorporate. This created a yellow play-dough-like material; lumpy, mushy, and all-around quite dry. I tried to 'brown' the lumpy dough for a minute or two before giving up and adding in the water. As the water heated up, I did my best to stir until the lumps had dissolved into the cloudy water. It seemed to have worked, but I couldn't be sure until later.

Next, I added in the rest of the ingredients (beef, onion, potato, carrot, salt, and pepper). I gave it a good stir, set the lid on, turned the heat to low once it was simmering, and let it slowly bubble for two hours. I watched the Winter Olympics in the meantime, periodically getting up to give the Scouse a good stir to ensure nothing was burning or sticking to the bottom of the pot. In the last 15 minutes of simmering, the stew was getting so thick that it was sticking to the bottom quite a bit if I didn't stir every couple minutes. On the bright side, this meant that my strange flour and butter dough had fully worked as a thickener! While the stew smelled really delicious and hearty - of vegetables, onions, and meat - the colour was a quite ugly grey, and the texture was a bit sloppy and stodgy. If I didn't stir often enough near the end of cooking, it developed a film on top. Once the 2 hours of simmering was done, I ladled up some Workhouse Scouse into our bowls. There was even a bit of leftovers for tomorrow's lunch.

My experience tasting it:

Taking the first bite of potato and carrot in the Scouse onto my spoon, I was already impressed with how thick the stew had gotten. While its grey colour made it look unappetizing, I was still happy my thickening worked, despite my troubles with that part of the recipe. The first bite tasted alright, if severely under-seasoned. It was a plain, no-nonsense stew that worked sufficiently to fill your tummy while tasting passable. The beef did become tender, and was nice to chew through amidst its thick blanket of grey. It was clear the vegetables had done some heavy lifting in flavouring the Scouse, but only to meagre results. My husband and I thought it was okay, but quickly decided to add more salt and pepper, and this was how the stew livened up to become tasty! Once we adjusted the seasoning, the stew went from fairly bland to a meal we happily gobbled down, even with pleasure. I would probably not make this specific recipe again, but I would probably make a version of it again with more interesting seasonings. When I heated up the leftovers over the stove the next day for lunch, I added in more salt and pepper, as well as a healthy dose of smoked paprika, and this really livened up the Scouse to become a delicious meal. Even so, modern methods of thickening a stew are probably easier to perform and yield better results. I can imagine in the workhouses, this fairly bland stew could go from edible to absolutely gross quite quickly if rotten or pest-ridden ingredients were involved. If you end up making this dish, if you liked it, or if you changed anything from the original recipe, do let me know!

Workhouse Scouse original recipe (1901)

Sourced from a recipe in the Manual of Workhouse Cookery (1901) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Meat Stew (or Scouse) Ingredients: 5 ozs. Raw Beef free from bone (Stickings or similar quality) 1 oz. Flour ½ oz. Dripping or Fat 4 ozs. Potatoes 4 ozs. Carrots and Turnips ½ oz. Onions Pepper and Salt to taste Water to make 1 pint Method—Cut up the meat and vegetables. Fry the flour in the fat till brown, stir in the water, add pepper and salt; then put in the meat and vegetables. Simmer gently for two hours. To make 1 pint of stew. 

Modern Recipe

Based on a recipe from the Manual of Workhouse Cookery (1901) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Ingredients:

3 tbsp (42 g) butter or other fat

3/4 cup (90 g) flour

7 1/4 cups (1.7 L) water

1 lb (450 g) beef, stew meat works well

4 small (340 g) potatoes, I used yellow potatoes

2 large (255 g) carrots

1/2 small (85 g) turnip

1/2 cup (45 g) chopped onion

2 tsp salt

1/2 tsp black pepper

Method:

Prepare the meat, potatoes, carrots, and turnip by chopping them into bite-sized pieces. Leave the vegetables unpeeled.

Melt the butter in a large pot over medium heat. Stir in the flour and keep stirring it as it cooks for about 5 minutes, or until it browns. The mixture will be quite dry.

Stir in the water and bring the pot to a simmer. The flour mixture should dissolve into the water.

Stir in the meat, vegetables, salt, and pepper. Bring it to a simmer, then lower the heat to medium-low. Cover the pot and let it simmer for 2 hours. Every once in a while, give it a good stir and scrape the bottom to make sure nothing is burning to the bottom.

BEEF BOURGUIGNON (1885)

The wind is still howling outside, so this calls for another cozy and decadent Tasting History recipe: Beef Bourguignon, a famously French stewed beef dish. Although this dish seems like it should have a long and storied past due to its fame today as a typically French dish involving a sauce made with red wine, the first recipe with the name comes about only in 1867. Not long after this, many recipes for all kinds of meat, from beef to lamb to rabbit, are described as prepared "à la Bourguignonne", or "in the Burgundy style". While Beef Bourguignon, first entailing a red wine sauce and in modern times becoming more of a stew, most definitely has some kind of roots, like most stews, as a peasant dish where leftover meat could be made palatable again, there is no evidence that it originally comes from Burgundy. It gained fame and became a worldwide favourite only after it was elevated from peasant dish to haute cuisine by the father of French haute cuisine, Auguste Escoffier. It is around this time that the dish made the transition from a sauce to stew. Beef Bourguignon was eventually popularized even further among English-speaking audiences by the American cooking icon Julia Child. This recipe coming from long before Julia Child entered the scene, it is for the sauce version rather than the stew version of this dish. I decided to give this recipe a try since firstly, I have never had Beef Bourguignon before, and secondly, every French recipe I have tried making so far has tasted absolutely divine, so I assume this one might as well. Time to pop open a bottle of red wine and feel both fancy and French for the evening! See Max’s video on how to make this dish here or see the ingredients and process at the end of this post, sourced from his website.

My experience making it:

I halved this recipe, since dinner would just be for my husband and I. For the wine, I used a Burgundy pinot noir, and for the beef, I used chuck. Since I don't have clarified butter, I used olive oil, and for my bouquet garni, I used a few of my go-to Scarborough Fair herbs: sage, rosemary, and thyme.

As I usually like to do in order to stay organized, I chopped and measured out all my ingredients - mise en place is so helpful for me! I seasoned the beef, which I chopped into cubes, with salt and pepper and let it sit for half an hour while I continued prepping the ingredients. Then, I heated the olive oil in a large pot on high heat and seared the beef cubes until they got some light browning, being sure to turn them so all sides would have some sear. Once all sides had a bit of sear, I added in the beef broth. The beef broth actually already covered the beef, so I didn't need to add any extra water. I tossed in the bouquet garni, which I had tied up all cute with a bit of twine, then brought the pot to a boil. I turned the temperature down so it would remain at a simmer with the lid on for the next hour or so. For the first five minutes or so, I scooped off the foam that rose to the top with a wooden spoon, but I was scooping off less and less until I figured it was no longer worth watching anymore. I let it simmer while I worked on preparing some oven-roasted potatoes and carrots with garlic and herb butter. After an hour, I decided to taste one of the beef chunks to see if it was tender enough to begin the next steps: it was indeed very tender! So, I scooped all the beef out with a slotted spoon and set it aside, threw out the bouquet garni (which was now quite wilted and wet), and strained the cooking liquid into a measuring cup to use later for the sauce. I rinsed the large pot out briefly, then returned it to the stove, adding in the butter so it could melt. Because the stove was on high heat for this, the butter was sizzling quite intensely, and when I added in the diced pork belly, it began popping and crackling. I couldn't help but think: "I AM IN DANGER". I turned down the heat to medium high to make sizzling the pork belly a little less unpredictable. It cooked for about 5 minutes or so before it was already browning, so I took that as a sign to remove them from the pot and set them aside; they left behind some bubbling fat which would be needed for the next step. For this bit, I had to be ON IT. I added the flour in and mixed urgently with my spatula, trying my best to mix it into the fat before the flour could burn. I added in the salt and pepper and returned to vigorous mixing until the mixture turned into a pale brown colour and began to look fairly uniform. With the spatula, I could feel a layer on the bottom of the pot solidifying, so I quickly poured in the beef broth and wine, hoping that would dislodge the solids at the bottom, thereby deglazing the pot. It seemed to work luckily! I added the pork belly back into the pot as well as my onions and let them boil.

The sauce was supposed to thicken at this stage, but after boiling for 20 minutes, I realized the sauce was still very liquidy and there would soon not be enough to cover the beef. I also tried a small spoonful, and the sauce was already very flavourful and probably would taste too strong if I let more of the liquid boil off. So, I decided to use my quick fix to make a sauce thicker, and made a roux. I added a ladleful of the sauce to a couple teaspoons of flour and made a paste, then added the paste back into the pot and stirred to integrate it. After a couple of minutes, the sauce had thickened to the right sauce consistency like a charm! Time to add in the beef again, and cook it long enough just to warm up the beef. While that simmered, I plated up the oven-roasted potatoes and carrots. Then, I turned the stove off and spooned the Beef Bourguignon into small bowls to accompany the sides. The Beef Bourguignon had a deep brown colour, and the chunks were completely smothered in a thick and silky gravy-like sauce. It smelled amazing in the house, like herbs, beef, and onion - we were so excited to try it! I lit a few candles, put on my French music playlist, poured us each a glass of the leftover wine from cooking, then we dug in.

My experience tasting it:

Our first bites were heavenly. It seemed that everything had come together just right to not only create the perfect Beef Bourguignon dish, but also the perfect moment. It was overwhelmingly cozy, and I was content. The beef was melt-in-your-mouth tender, nearly falling apart, which made it very easy to scoop up the sauce. The sauce was just wonderful: I could clearly taste the red wine in it, but it was well balanced out with a general savoury flavour, perhaps from the pork belly, herb, and onion flavours. The texture was like a very thick gravy, but it remained silky, almost shiny. The Beef Bourguignon was complemented well by the oven-roasted potatoes and carrots, and after we had finished our beef, onion, and pork belly pieces from the bowl, we continued dipping the potatoes and carrots in the sauce, because it was just that good. Even though this recipe took me almost three hours start to finish and a decent amount of stress, it was worth it for the idyllic moment of eating it. It's probaby the best-tasting meal I have ever made, even though it doesn't look like much visually. Unfortunately, because of how long it takes to make, how expensive the meat was for making it, and the amount of stress it cause me during the process, I will probably not make it again unless it is for a very special occasion like an anniversary meal. Still, the memory of eating it will stay with me, and I look forward to trying Beef Bourguignon in a restaurant to see how it compares. I completely see why this has become a haute cuisine kind of dish! If you end up making this dish, if you liked it, or if you changed anything from the original recipe, do let me know!

Beef Bourguignon original recipe (1885)

Sourced from a recipe in La Bonne Cuisine Pour Tous ou l’Art de Bien Vivre a Bon Marché by Marcel Butler (1885) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Boeuf Bourguignonne Brown a piece of pork belly, diced, in butter; add a little flour, salt, and pepper, and add a mixture of half broth and half red wine; add a few small white onions, well peeled; let cook for 20 minutes, then add to this sauce your stewed beef, cut into slices. When the meat is well heated through, serve with the sauce.

Modern Recipe

Based on a recipe from La Bonne Cuisine Pour Tous ou l’Art de Bien Vivre a Bon Marché by Marcel Butler (1885) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Ingredients:

Stewed Beef

3 pounds (1.3 kg) beef, such as chuck roast, short ribs, oxtail, or any other cut that is delicious when cooked for a long time

2 teaspoons salt

1/2 teaspoon black pepper

2 tablespoons clarified butter or olive oil

1 quart (1 L) beef broth

1 bouquet garni*, I used thyme, rosemary, and bay leaf

Sauce

2 tablespoons (30 g) butter

1/2 pound (225 g) diced pork belly or lardons

3 tablespoons (25 g) flour

Large pinch of salt

1/4 teaspoon black pepper

2 cups (475 ml) red Burgundy wine, plus more if desired (you might end up using the whole bottle)

2 cups (475 ml) reserved beef broth from cooking the stewed beef, or new beef broth

1 1/2 cups (190 g) small white onions or pearl onions**

*Grab some of your favorite fresh herbs and tie them together into a small bundle with some kitchen twine.

**You can also use regular white onion chopped into chunks about the size of a pearl onion.

Method:

For the stewed beef: Sprinkle the salt and pepper all over the beef, then let the pieces sit out for 30 minutes, or leave them in the fridge overnight. You can leave the meat in larger pieces or cut them up.

Heat the clarified butter or olive oil in a large pot over high heat. Once it’s hot, add the beef and brown the pieces on all sides.

Add the beef broth along with enough water so that the meat is fully covered. Add the bouquet garni. Bring the pot to a boil, then skim off any foam that rises to the top. Reduce the heat to a low boil, cover the pot, and simmer until cooked through and tender, about 90 minutes to 4 hours depending on the size of the pieces of beef. If it’s one large piece, it’ll be closer to 4 hours to cook all the way through.

When the beef is done, remove the meat from the pot and save 2 cups of the cooking liquid.

For the sauce: Melt the butter in a large pot over high heat, then add the pork belly. Stir it around as it cooks and let most of the fat render out, about 8 to 10 minutes. When most of the fat has rendered out and the pork belly pieces are nice and brown, remove them from the pot.

Lower the heat to medium-high, then stir in the flour. Stir constantly and cook for about 5 minutes, or until the flour mixture has browned and smells nutty. Stir in the salt and pepper, then stir in the beef broth and wine. Be sure to scrape up any browned bits from the bottom of the pot. Add the pork belly back into the pot.

Bring the pot to a gentle boil, then add the onions. Boil for 20 to 30 minutes, or until the onions are nice and tender. The sauce will thicken as it cooks, and feel free to add more red wine to get a consistency and flavor that you like.

MEDIEVAL PEASANT FISH WITH GARLIC WALNUT SAUCE (c. 1450)

Pinching a few pennies after the expensive Christmas period, I am now turning to a simpler Tasting History recipe: Medieval Peasant Fish with Garlic Walnut Sauce (c. 1450). On top of their usual laborious schedule, European peasants often had to work extra days, called 'boon days', for their lord. They were not paid money for working these extra days, but they were given better food than usual; the meals could include cheese, good bread, ale, meat, and fish. This specific original recipe features barbel, a bottom-feeding fish which would still probably pale in comparison to the taste of other types of fish. Although the medieval recipes used here were written for the wealthy, they may have been an option if a lord wanted to feed their serfs: tasty, but not too tasty, fancier than their everyday peasant fare, but without using expensive spices. In place of barbel (which I couldn't find, even at my local fishmonger), I used a similar bottom-feeding fish: catfish. I had never tried catfish before, so I thought it would be interesting to try. Similarly, I have never heard of a sauce made out of walnuts, so I thought it would be interesting to see how that works. Let's be grateful we don't have to work boon days to earn such a meal! See Max’s video on how to make this dish here or see the ingredients and process at the end of this post, sourced from his website.

My experience making it:

Only serving two peasants - my husband and I - I halved the recipe to make enough for just the two of us. As I mentioned, I used a fileted catfish instead of the barbel called for in the recipe, but they are both bottom-feeders, so they should hopefully taste similar enough for the purposes of this dish. For the ale, I used a Kilkenny Irish Red Ale - not only ideal for cooking with due to its rich flavour (without tasting hoppy), but also one I opt for often in a pub setting. The bread I used was a day-old half-baguette.

I began by measuring out and grinding the necessary ingredients with a mortar & pestle, since I do not have a food processor. Despite this laborious work, the most frustrating part was picking out little crumbs out of the baguette, which took about 45 minutes - I think by this point I had already earned my meal! I added all the ground ingredients, including the breadcrumbs, into a saucepan and mixed them well, setting it aside for a bit while I cooked the fish and prepared the sides: green beans and oven-roasted potatoes. After getting the sides going, I put the beer, water, and salt into a large pot and brought it to a simmer, then added in the chopped parsley and the catfish filet; it only just fit in the pot! Since I am not very good at telling whether meat or fish is cooked through, I decided to look up online at what temperature catfish is cooked through, then I used a cooking thermometer at the thickest part of the catfish to tell if it had boiled long enough. After about 7 minutes, it was cooked to the proper temperature, which was kind of surprising to me, since the catfish still looked very white and seemed a bit gelatinous in some spots. Apparently that's just what happens when you boil fish! I took the fish out of the boiling liquid and set it aside on a cutting board to rest and cool down a bit while I turned my attention to the sauce. Taking some of the cooking liquid and adding it to the saucepan of dry ingredients, I mixed very well until everything looked incorporated. Letting the sauce cook on low heat until it simmered for about 5 minutes, it was looking very thick indeed, with quite a few lumps in it. Worried this might be because I didn't grind the ingredients small enough, I decided to strain the sauce in order to make it less lumpy. Unfortunately however, this took out all thickness, leaving behind what looked like only garlic walnut water - it was thin as could be! In a bit of a panic, I decided to thicken it using a roux. Putting it back on the stove, I took a ladleful of the sauce and then stirred in a few small spoonfuls of flour, mixing vigourously to make a paste. I stirred the paste into the saucepan, and was happy to see that it thickened correctly - finally! I finished up cooking the beans and potatoes, then plated them along with half a catfish filet for each of us. Next, I spooned on some garlic walnut sauce onto each of the filets, putting the remainder into a ramekin in case we wanted more. I garnished the sauced fish with a tiny amount of chopped parsley, then brought the plates to the table. I was very proud the sauce had come together to the right consistency in the end, and it looked nice enough, if a bit bland, on the plate. Luckily, the sides added some colour! It ain't a pretty dish, but hopefully it will be tasty.

My experience tasting it:

Cutting directly into the sauced catfish, I was happy to see that the fish's texture was not completely gelatinous - it had the usual flaky texture of a white fish, but was just a little bit squidgier than I'd like. The taste of the catfish itself was quite plain and inoffensive, with just a faint hint of a fishy taste. However, draped in the garlic walnut sauce of almost the exact same colour, it gained some much-needed flavour from the garlic, which was certainly quite present. The sauce was a nice thick consistency and was so garlicky that there was a faint spice in the aftertaste, although the black pepper might have contributed to this. I thought the sauce was quite nice overall, but I did think it could have used more salt. In terms of the walnuts, I think they provided more toward the silky texture than to the taste - I couldn't quite pick them out. While this dish tasted decent enough, and I would eat it again if it was provided, I don't know if I would want to make it myself again. While simple in terms of recipe, I did not enjoy picking out all those stale breadcrumbs, then there was a lot of mortar and pestle grinding. It also seemed like a bit of a waste of a nice bottle of Kilkenny, since most of that is just boiled away. I suppose the ale did provide a slight bitterness to the sauce which was quite unique, though. If I were a peasant, I don't know if I would want to work a whole extra day with this meal as my payment, but I would eat it still - it's just alright. If you end up making this dish, if you liked it, or if you changed anything from the original recipe, do let me know!

Medieval Peasant Fish with Garlic Walnut Sauce original recipe (c. 1450)

Sourced from recipes in the manuscripts Ashmole MS 1439 and Harleian MS 4016 (c. 1450) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Barbell boyled Take a barbell, and kutte him, and draw him round; And pike in the nape of the hede and seth him in water and salt, Ale, and parcely. And whan hit bygynneth to boile, skeme hit clene, and caste the barbel there-to, And seth him. And his sauce is garlek or vergesauce, And then serve him forth.

Sauce:

Take kernels of walnuts, and cloves of garlic, and pepper, bread, and salt, and cast all in a mortar; and grind it small, & mix it up with the same broth that the fish was sodden in, and serve it forth.

Modern Recipe

Based on recipes from the manuscripts Ashmole MS 1439 and Harleian MS 4016 (c. 1450) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Ingredients:

Fish

1 quart (1 L) ale, something not hoppy

3 quarts (3 L) water

2 tsp salt

3/4 cup fresh parsley

1 1/2 lbs (700 g) barbel, carp, or catfish, preferably whole or with skin

Sauce

3/4 cup (80 g) walnuts

2 cloves garlic, crushed

1/2 tsp black peppercorns

1 cup stale breadcrumbs

1/2 tsp salt

1 cup (235 ml) liquid from cooking the fish

Method:

For the fish: Combine the ale, water, and salt in a large pot and bring it to a simmer.

Add the parsley and fish and simmer for 5 to 8 minutes, depending on the thickness of the fillets or if your fish is whole.

When the fish is cooked through, gently remove it. If it’s whole or has the skin, it’ll probably hold together well. Either way, be careful so it doesn't break up too much. Keep the cooking liquid for the sauce.

For the sauce: Grind the walnuts, garlic, black peppercorns, breadcrumbs, and salt either in a mortar and pestle or in a food processor. You want crumbs about the size of coarse polenta or grits.

In a pot, stir together the ground ingredients and the 1 cup (235 ml) of liquid from cooking the fish. Cook on low heat for about 5 minutes, stirring occasionally, until the sauce simmers and thickens a bit. Keep in mind that it will thicken more as it cools. The sauce will be grainy, and you can leave it like that as I did, or you can strain it and still be period-accurate.

PUITS D'AMOUR (1817)

It seems my sweet tooth continues into January, outlasting the Christmas holidays; as a result, I continue with my next Tasting History recipe: Puits d'Amour ('Wells of Love' in English) from 1817 France. While the first mention of the recipe appeared in Vincent De La Chapelle's 1735 book Le Cuisinier Moderne, the recipe we are making here is the 1817 version from André Viard's Le Cuisinier Royal. The pastries themselves are usually a puff pastry in the shape of a well with a fruit jelly (or later on, creams and custards) inside. In the eighteenth century, the puits d'amour caused scandal because of their name and presentation, which were interpreted as the female genitalia; nevertheless, they were enjoyed among the court at Louis XV's intimate dinners. Myself, I think they look more like actual water wells more than female genitalia, but I can see how the association was made. Having never baked puff pastry before, even the pre-made kind, I thought it would be good to try it out here for this recipe, and who can say no to fresh raspberry jam? See Max’s video on how to make this dish here or see the ingredients and process at the end of this post, sourced from his website.

My experience making it:

As usual, I halved the recipe - I've had enough sweets over the holidays, and I really shouldn't be making any of these, but I can't resist giving them a try! Just as Max did, and as most people do nowadays, I used a pre-made 250g puff pastry sheet. I have no desire to spend all day making such a finicky dough only to find out upon baking that I've done it wrong. Maybe I will try making it someday, but that someday isn't today. For the fruit, I used raspberries, since it's winter and they were one of the few fresh fruits that looked plump and juicy enough. I chose not to add the maraschino cherries as garnish initially, partially because my husband doesn't like them, and also because I wanted to try them without before adding them. Since I love maraschino cherries, I indeed added one to mine in the end.

Even though the recipe starts with the puff pastry, I decided to start with the raspberry jam in order to give it enough time to cool completely before using it. While I was waiting for our pasta dinner to cook, I measured out the ingredients needed and mashed the berries in a saucepan until they did not look like berries anymore. Setting the pan over medium heat on the stove, I stirred in the sugar once it was steaming. This brought the deep red raspberry colour into more of a dark pink. Stirring periodically, once it began steaming again, I added in the fresh-squeezed lemon juice required and stirred it in. I turned up the heat at this point just slightly, enough to bring the pan to a boil. While I finished up making our pasta dish, I continued stirring the jam here and there, intermittently reading its temperature with a thermometer. Dinner was on the table by this point, and well after the 10-minute mark had passed, the jam was finally reaching the necessary temperature. It took what felt like ages for it to go up those last few degrees. Once the jam finally managed the jump up to 105 degrees Celsius (and once my pasta was beginning to get a bit cold waiting for me), I took the pan off the heat and poured its contents into a bowl to cool.

After a leisurely (but slightly cold) dinner, I resumed my post in the kitchen to begin making the puff pastry. The jam was still cooling. I rolled out the puff pastry. After a long search, I realized I did not have any circular cookie or pastry cutters, so it was time to improvise! I ended up using the opening of a plastic up for the large circle and the underside of a cajun spice shaker's lid for the smaller circle. The edges weren't pretty and ruffled like Max's, but they would do the job. Using the cup, I made 14 circles in the thin puff pastry, then using the spice shaker lid, I made 7 smaller circles, one inside each of half of the larger circles. I set up my new silicone baking mat on a baking tray, despite it being slightly too large, then placed six of the large puff pastry circles on it, evenly spaced from each other. I quickly beat an egg in a tiny bowl, then brushed some egg wash on each circle. Next, I took out the puff pastry rings from the remaining circles and placed one ring on top of each circle, again brushing each of these with egg wash. While I pre-heated the oven, I set the tray in the fridge, then took it out and brushed the puff pastry with egg wash anew, placing the try in the oven just after once the oven was pre-heated. While the first, perfect-looking batch baked for 12 minutes, I set aside the remaining circles I had created, then rolled out the puff pastry again in order to create a couple more circles and rings. I even decided to get a little experimental and make some mini pierogi-shaped dumplings with a thin layer of gouda cheese inside - just to see how they would turn out. After the first batch had baked for 12 minutes, I took out the tray, sprinkled each well with sugar, and set it back in the oven. They had partially risen, but were clearly not done yet. They baked for a few minutes more, then I turned the pan around (to bake them evenly) and baked them for a few more. Once the sugar on top had browned up, I removed the tray from the oven. For some reason, one of the wells had completely turned on its side! The others looked well-balanced, but somehow the lower layer of pastry had puffed up more than the top layer, meaning the wells were very, very shallow. Oh well - onwards! I put together the last few unbaked wells of puff pastry, being sure to add two rings to one of the large circles to see if that would make it more of a deeper well in the end. I also put my mini cheese puff-rogi on the tray, and brushed everything with egg wash. I baked this batch the same way as the first, but I took the cheese puff-rogi out after 12 minutes, since they looked done. I did notice that this second batch did not rise as fast as the first, and I wondered if this could have been due to my re-rolling the dough. They rose enough in the end, and I was quite happy to discover that the well with two ring layers had indeed created more of a true well shape.

The well d'amour were now all puffy and brown, cooling on a rack - time to get that jam ready for filling! Once the pastries were cool, I spooned in enough raspberry jam that they were full to the top. I had to press down on the centres of some of them in order to create room; this seemed to make room for enough jam without ruining the structural integrity of the wells. I served up a couple for my husband and I immediately, and they looked pretty, if a bit incongruous, with their dark red centres of jam and golden walls! I got out the maraschino cherries in preparation to eventually garnish mine.

My experience tasting it:

The puits d'amour were indeed wells (if shallow), and if you call raspberries love, then they were indeed full of love - true to their name. My husband and I took great big bites, careful not to spill any of the jam out of the top. They were super flaky, airy, and crispy, with delicious jammy centres both sweet and tangy! The combination of the textures was lovely, and the jam absolutely awakened my tastebuds with its flavour. It tasted fresh, and just almost too sweet - without the puff pastry along with it, it would certainly be a sugar overload. Before my second bite, I added a maraschino cherry to mine, and while I deeply enjoyed this addition due to my everlasting love for cherries, it was perhaps a bit too sweet to add. My husband was very impressed with this recipe, and I was also happy to have not only successfully baked puff pastry (with only minor issues), but also to have made a delicious dessert for us. They turned out great! I would happily make this recipe again - it was easy and fun to make, didn't take too long, and could be customized in many ways (both fruity and savoury). I recommend trying these out - there are so many combinations you could try! I am glad these ended up being puits d'amour instead of puits de haine. If you end up making this dish, if you liked it, or if you changed anything from the original recipe, do let me know!

Sidenote: The cheesy experiments were also tasty.

Puits d'Amour original recipe (1817)

Sourced from a recipe in Le Cuisinier Royal by André Viard (1817) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Puits d'Amour When the puff pastry has received all its turns, roll it out to a thickness of two lines; cut it with a fluted cutter, that is to say with a pastry cutter, and place the first piece on a baking sheet; then, with a cutter of the same type but smaller, cut another piece and place it on top; moisten the round with a little water, press it in slightly, brush these puits with egg, and put them into a hot oven. When they are three-quarters baked, sprinkle them with sugar in order to glaze them—that is, until the sugar melts; then remove them, hollow them out, and fill them with whatever preserves you judge appropriate.

Modern Recipe

Based on a recipe from Le Cuisinier Royal by André Viard (1817) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Ingredients:

Puff Pastry Rings

Puff pastry*

1 egg

A few tbsp sugar

Preserves

2 1/2 cups (300 g) berries or fruit

1 1/2 cups (300 g) sugar

2 tsp lemon juice

Garnish

Maraschino cherries, optional

*The amount of puff pastry you have will determine how many pastries you make, so the amounts are flexible.

Method:

For the puff pastry rings: The size and number of pastries you make are up to you and how much puff pastry you have. You need two round cutters, one slightly smaller than the other. With the larger cutter, cut out twice as many rounds of puff pastry as pastries you want to make. For example, I made 8 pastries, so I cut out 16 rounds. Place half of them on a lined baking sheet.

With the smaller cutter, cut out the middles of the remaining rounds. Use the middles for whatever you like, we’ll just need the rings for this recipe.

Beat the egg. Brush the rounds on the baking sheet with the egg wash, then place the rings of puff pastry on top of them, making sure the edges line up. Save the egg wash because we’ll need it again.

Put the pastry in the fridge to chill while you preheat the oven to 425°F (220°C).

When the oven is ready, take the pastry out and brush the tops of the rings with egg wash. Bake for 12 minutes. At this point, the pastry will be partially baked.

Take the pastry out of the oven and sprinkle them with some sugar, then return them to the oven for another 5 to 7 minutes, rotating the pan halfway through.

When the pastry has browned and the sugar has melted to a nice glaze on top, take them out and let them cool.

For the preserves: Mash the berries or fruit in a saucepan, then set it over medium heat.

Once it steams, stir in the sugar. Return the saucepan to the heat and when it starts to steam again, stir in the lemon juice. Bring the saucepan to a boil. Let it boil, stirring occasionally, for about 10 minutes or until it reaches around 220°F (105°C). Take it off the heat and let it cool completely.

CHOCOLATE WINE (1723)

Happy New Year! Now back in Germany, my husband and I are enjoying our Christmas decorations for one last weekend before taking them down. Meanwhile, we wanted to sip on this warm and wintery Tasting History  (or rather, Drinking History) recipe: Chocolate Wine from 1723. The recipe comes from The Cooks and Confectioners Dictionary: Or, the Accomplish’d Housewives Companion by John Nott, who was the chief cook for a string of English aristocrats including the Dukes of Somerset, Ormond, and Bolton, and the Lords Lansdowne and Ashburnham. Drinking chocolate was all the rage in England in the 18th century, and the drink was consumed in a variety of public chocolate houses. One of these houses was owned by Thomas and Grace Tosier. Their chocolate house became well-known, to the point that King George I hired Thomas Tosier to work in his royal chocolate kitchen. This special kitchen at Hampton Court Palace, devoted only to the production of chocolate, was rediscovered in 2013 by a curator, and can now be visited by the public. While none of the Tosiers' original chocolate recipes survive, to our knowledge, this recipe from 1723 could be similar, since it is of the time. As someone who does not like coffee, I am a frequent hot chocolate consumer, and I am so curious to try it put together with another drink I love: port wine. Time to turn my kitchen into a royal chocolate kitchen! See Max’s video on how to make this dish here or see the ingredients and process at the end of this post, sourced from his website.

My experience making it:

Since just my husband and I are partaking, I halved the recipe. For the chocolate, I used 60% dark chocolate nibs - I couldn't find unsweetened chocolate at the grocery store, so I opted to use slightly less sugar (about 10g less) in order to accommodate for the extra sweetness in the chocolate. Since I am not a fan of sherry, I decided to use port for the wine, specifically Astrada Tawny Port, since I didn't have a ruby port on hand and tawny is still on the red, sweet side.

To start, I measured out the required ingredients, then poured the tawny port into a saucepan. Next, I poured in the sugar in and whisked until I couldn't feel any more granules beneath, meaning the sugar had dissolved well into the port. At this point, the port was still a dark red wine colour, no longer translucent but opaque. For the next instruction, I didn't realize it said to sift the flour into the port until I had already whisked in a couple clumps. Luckily, with some vigorous whisking, I was able to break them up before sifting in the rest of the flour. The mixture had now taken on a lighter, dark magenta colour. I added the dark chocolate nibs in next, not bothering to chop them up further since they were already pretty small, and I figured they would melt fairly quickly anyway. Putting the the saucepan over the stove on medium heat, I whisked constantly for about five minutes while the chocolate melted in. The drink began to take on a deep maroon colour, and it was beginning to smell wonderful, mostly of chocolate. When the drink finally reached a simmer, I continued whisking for just under ten minutes more before taking the saucepan off the heat. Still stirring while it cooled a bit, the drink thickened just slightly once it was off the heat. Hoping it wouldn't thicken to a pudding-like texture, I quickly poured the drink into our Christmas market mugs, just the right size for a small, cozy tipple.

My experience tasting it:

My husband and I tucked into our mugs straight away to try the chocolate wine while it was still hot (but not too hot). The texture was certainly much thicker than a modern hot chocolate, but it was not so thick as to become gloopy, chunky, or wiggly like pudding. It was actually silky smooth! The taste was oh so rich and decadent, I had to go get a glass of water to drink alongside the chocolate wine in order to balance out the strong flavour. It was still very delicious, however: the dark chocolate was in the forefront with its sumptuous and thick sweetness, and that was directly followed by the more acidic sweetness of the port, ending with the light, sensual bite of the alcohol. It was like a drink version of a chocolate raisin dipped in port. Each sip was so full of flavour and texture that I wanted to savour it slowly, but this was not a good idea, because the drink was thickening with every second. By the time we were halfway done our mugs, the chocolate wine had become a thicker drink, and the chocolate was beginning to stick together into very small clumps. To solve this, I added some water: just enough to return the drink to its original texture. This had great results not only for the texture, but also for the flavour, as the chocolate wine became less powerfully decadent and more of an enjoyable, balanced drink to sip on more consistently. Overall, I quite enjoyed the chocolate wine, but unfortunately my husband couldn't say the same. It was simply a bit too rich for him - he winced with each sip due to the strong sweetness, following sour taste, and ending of alcohol. While it was an interesting experiment to try, and I would be interested to try different ratios, types of chocolate, or types of port in this recipe, I probably will not try making something like this for quite a while. The changing texture was difficult to deal with, and I can imagine it would only become more difficult in larger batches. I can only wonder whether the Tosiers' drinking chocolate recipes contained solutions to such challenges. Either way, it was a fascinating and decadent start to 2026. If you end up making this dish, if you liked it, or if you changed anything from the original recipe, do let me know!

Chocolate Wine original recipe (1723)

Sourced from a recipe in The Cooks and Confectioners Dictionary: Or, the Accomplish’d Housewives Companion by John Nott (1723) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

To make Wine Chocolate Take a Pint of Sherry, or a Pint and half of red port, four Ounces and a half of Chocolate, six Ounces of fine Sugar, and half an ounce of white Starch, or fine Flour; mix, dissolve, and boil all these as before. But if your Chocolate be with Sugar, take double the Quantity of Chocolate, and half the Quantity of Sugar; and so in all.

Modern Recipe

Based on a recipe from The Cooks and Confectioners Dictionary: Or, the Accomplish’d Housewives Companion by John Nott (1723) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Ingredients:

750 ml ruby port or 2 cups (475 ml) sherry

Heaping 3/4 cup (170 g) sugar

2 tbsp (14 g) flour

4 1/2 oz (130 g) unsweetened chocolate, grated or chopped finely

Method:

Pour the port or sherry into a medium saucepan. Whisk in the sugar a little at a time until the sugar is mostly dissolved.

Sift in the flour and whisk until it’s incorporated, then stir in the chocolate.

Set the saucepan over medium heat and bring it to a simmer, whisking constantly. Continue to whisk and simmer it, reducing the heat if it starts bubbling too much, for 10 more minutes.

Remove the saucepan from the heat and let it sit, stirring occasionally, until it’s cool enough to drink. It will thicken a bit more as it cools and will form a skin if you don’t stir once in a while.

GINGERBREAD COOKIES (1773)

Just in time for Christmas, my mom and I decided to work together to make this festive Tasting History recipe: Gingerbread Cookies from 1773. This Georgian era recipe comes from a book titled The Universal Cook or, the Lady’s Complete Assistant. Published in 1773, it was written by John Townshend, who owned the Greyhound Tavern in Greenwich, England and who claimed to be "Cook to his Grace the Duke of Manchester". The book serves as an all-in-one assistant for cooking and cleaning. This specific gingerbread recipe contains a myriad of interesting spices that would not normally be found in a gingerbread recipe, so I thought it would be an especially interesting one to try this Christmas. Not only that, but it would allow us to try using a cookie mold that I gave to my mom last Christmas: a windmill-shaped one that is normally meant for making speculaas, a similar, crispier spiced cookie popular in the Netherlands, which is where my family comes from. I am always excited to bake Christmas cookies, and I especially love getting to share my passion for making historical recipes with my mom, who taught me how to bake. See Max’s video on how to make this dish here or see the ingredients and process at the end of this post, sourced from his website.

My experience making it:

As is tradition by now, we halved the recipe to start. We decided to use molasses instead of treacle, since it was what we already had in the house, and we didn't have any ground carraway seeds, so we ground whole ones ourselves using a mortar and pestle.

While I got started grinding the carraway seeds, my mom began sifting the other spices into the flour. Once I was finished grinding, my mom sifted the carraway seeds in then whisked until they were well-incorporated while I mixed the molasses, brown sugar, egg, and melted butter in another bowl. We didn't have a stand mixer, so I mixed it by hand, bringing the mixture to a smooth, deep dark brown. Having misread the directions, I then mixed in all the flour into the brown batter at once instead of in parts, which made the mixing quite difficult. I ended up giving up using the spatula in favour of forming a dough with my hands, doing my best to incorporate all the little crumbs. Overall, the cookie dough was dryer than I expected; when we turned it out onto the counter to knead, there were still many cracks forming as we worked it. We hoped that after leaving it to rest for 20 minutes it would become moister, but that wasn't quite the case - it remained fairly dry, but still moist enough to proceed.

Now, for the mold part, we kind of strayed from the listed instructions, partially because we were using a different type of mold than the large ones that Max used. After dusting our mold with the cornstarch and flour mixture, we grabbed a few small handfuls of dough and pressed it into the openings of the mold by hand, trying to keep a consistent thickness as best as possible. While that seemed to work alright, we had mixed success with shaking the cookies out of the mold again. The first few looked good and you could clearly see all the details, but after the fifth or sixth one, the cornstarch seemed to form some kind of paste that filled in the deepest crevices of the mold, meaning our cookies came out looking a bit foggy, without the small details. We tried using a knife to clear the deepest parts of cornstarch in between molding each cookie, but that was a lot of work, so we switched to just using a cookie cutter to make gingerbread men for the rest of the dough, rolling it out and producing gingerbread people until the dough was gone. We planned on icing a few of them later. Since the recipe said to let the molded cookies sit out for many hours before putting them in the oven, we baked the gingerbread people first, then waited until after dinner to finally bake the windmill gingerbread cookies. When we took the batches of cookies out, some of them had small cracks, which I suspect was due to the dry consistency of the dough, but otherwise they looked quite good - a very classic gingerbread colour and texture.

My experience tasting it:

The whole family gathered around to try the windmill gingerbread cookies warm, straight out of the oven. The texture was just a little bit soft still - really lovely. The cookies were quite spiced indeed, most similar to a German-style Lebkuchen in flavour, but not at all in texture. I could specifically taste the ground carraway seeds, fragrant and fresh. I imagine making these cookies with treacle or golden syrup would offer a more caramel-like flavour, while ours tasted more strongly of the more bitter molasses, deep and dark. Later in the evening, as my mom and I returned to ice faces and clothing (shirts, pants, and dresses) onto some of the gingerbread people with royal icing, we tried a couple plain gingerbread men to see how they tasted once cooled. The spices were just as present, but the cookies had really hardened up upon cooling! They really snapped now, and we could tear their limbs off cleanly. Me being the sweet-tooth I am, however, my favourite version of this cookies was the iced version. Especially for a cookie this spiced, I think it needs a little sweetness to balance it out. I would definitely recommend this gingerbread recipe for those who lean more savoury than sweet in taste, and also to those who like to dunk biscuits in their tea. We tested these in tea later, and they were of strong structural integrity, even when tea-logged and submerged! I will definitely make this recipe again - it was a hit with the family, added a little extra spice to our Christmas preparations, and were a lot of fun to make with my mom. Next time, I would use only flour instead of flour and cornstarch for the mold, but otherwise, it was very fun making molded and cookie-cuttered designs. We wish you a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! If you end up making this dish, if you liked it, or if you changed anything from the original recipe, do let me know!

Gingerbread Cookies original recipe (1773)

Sourced from a recipe in The Universal Cook or, the Lady’s Complete Assistant by John Townshend (1773) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

The Make Ginger-bread Take a pound and a half of treacle, two eggs beaten, half a pound of brown sugar, an ounce of ginger beaten and sifted; of cloves, mace, and nutmegs all together half an ounce, beaten very fine, coriander-seeds and carraway-seeds of each half an ounce, two pounds of butter melted; mix all these together, with as much flour as will knead it into a pretty stiff paste; then roll it out, and cut it into what forms you please; bake it in a quick oven on tin plates; a little time will bake it.

Modern Recipe

Based on a recipe from The Universal Cook or, the Lady’s Complete Assistant by John Townshend (1773) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Ingredients:

7 cups (840 g) flour

2 1/2 tablespoon (14 g) ground ginger

1 teaspoon (2 g) ground cloves

1 1/2 teaspoons (2.5 g) ground mace

1 1/2 teaspoons (2.5 g) ground nutmeg

1 tablespoon (7 g) ground coriander seeds

1 tablespoon (7 g) ground caraway seeds

1 cup (340 g) treacle or molasses

1 cup (225 g) brown sugar

2 cups (450 g) melted salted butter

1 egg, beaten

Cornstarch, if using a mold

Additional flour, if using a mold

Method:

Put the flour in a large bowl, then sift the spices into it to make sure there are no clumps. Whisk them together.

In a separate bowl (a stand mixer will be very helpful for this recipe if you have one), stir together the treacle or molasses, brown sugar, melted butter, and egg until thoroughly combined.

Add the flour mixture to the wet ingredients about one third at a time, mixing on low until mostly combined before adding the next addition of flour. Once all the flour is mixed in, turn it out onto a work surface and knead it a few times to make sure that the dough is well mixed and cohesive. Cover it and set it aside to rest for 20 to 30 minutes.

If you’re using a gingerbread mold: Mix about 2 parts flour to 1 part cornstarch in a bowl, then generously dust the inside of your mold with the mixture. Brush out the excess. How much dough you use and how thick you roll it out will depend on the size and shape of your mold. You want a piece of dough big enough so that when it’s rolled out, it’s a little bigger than your mold and it’s thick enough to fill the mold. Roll your piece of dough out on a piece of parchment, then place your mold cavity-side down over it and press down firmly and evenly. I found it helpful to flip the dough, parchment, and mold over and use a rolling pin to really press the dough into the mold. Flip it all back over and gently remove the mold. If the dough sticks, work a little more flour into the dough before you shape the next piece. Trim the excess dough. Repeat the process for all of the dough.

Place the dough on lined baking sheets and let them sit uncovered for 6 to 8 hours, or until the tops have dried out and hardened. This will help them keep the definition of the mold.

When the gingerbread is dry enough, preheat the oven to 300°F (150°C), then bake the gingerbread for 20 to 22 minutes depending on the size of the cookie.

If you’re not using a gingerbread mold: Preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C). Roll the dough out to about 1/8 inch (1/4 cm) thick and cut it out into whatever shapes you like using a floured cookie cutter. I did mine in rounds and a classic gingerbread man. Bake on lined baking sheets for 10 to 12 minutes.