Bountiful Summer Squash

20180907_114408September is the harvest month–the time to gather the abundant bounty from our summer gardens . And nothing demonstrates abundance quite so well as zucchini squash. It’s so easy to grow that even a complete amateur gardener can produce more zucchini than any family can reasonably eat in one season. Zucchini grows well in almost any soil, survives drought and neglect and even produces when choked by weeds left by the lazy gardener.  But zucchini is a relative newcomer to the panoply of summer squashes. It is a hybrid variety of Cucurbita pepo (all summer squashes belong to this family), developed in Italy in the second half of the 19th century. The first records of zucchini in America are not quite a hundred years old, dating from the 1920’s.

So this summer, I decided to explore the summer squashes more likely to appear on Colonial tables. Of course all squashes are native to the Americas, where they have been eaten since prehistoric times. The word ‘squash’ even comes from the native word ‘askutasquash’–which means the fruit eaten green or immature (that is, summer squash).

The earliest European explorers noticed native-grown squash, though they often thought of this novel food as varieties of cucumbers or melons.  Good things travel fast and so by the 16th century, squash was commonly found in European gardens.

Squash hybrids easily, sharing traits with neighboring squashes, which explains why there are so many varieties. One of the earliest mentions of summer squash I found was in 1562, in Fuch’s Vienna Codex. He described what he called cucumer paniformis, so named because the pale green squash resembled a scalloped-edge baking pan. You might recognize this as patty pan squash.

The patty pan squash was one of Thomas Jefferson’s favorites. He said they were “one of our finest and most innocent vegetables.” (seed packet)  Patty pan squash were grown in Jefferson’s gardens at Monticello, in the gardens of enslaved African-Americans, and in kitchen gardens throughout the colonies.

This popular colonial-era squash had many different names based on its distinctive shape, including buckler squash, for its resemblance to a buckler-type shield. One of the most interesting names I came across was cymling (pronounced sim-lin) and also spelled symnel, simlin, or cimlin. The Oxford English Dictionary lists the earliest recorded use of this word for pattypan squash from 1648, in Beauchamp Plantagenet’s A Description of New Albion. Symnels or simnels were a Lenten cake, made for Mothering Sunday, the fourth Sunday of Lent. The day originated as a day to return to one’s ‘mother’ church, although in recent times it has become more like the American Mother’s Day. So how does a name for a cake get transferred to a squash? It turns out that simnels are a circular cake, with small round balls of almond paste decorating the circumference. Indeed, that’s a good description for a large pattypan squash.

Recipes from the 16th through the 18th centuries use pattypan squash in soups and stews. The most common suggestions are for boiling it and serving it with butter or cream. Pattypans were often harvested and eaten while they are very small, the size of large walnuts. The pattypan squash I used were larger, ranging from the size of an apple to the size of eight inch layer cake (because, like zucchini, pattypan squash seem to grow into giants overnight).

The following recipe comes from The Virgina Housewife (p. 110)

Squash or Cimlin

Gather Young squashes, peel, and cut them in two, take out the seeds, and boil them till tender; put them into a colander, drain off the water and rub them with a wood spoon through the colander; then put them into a stew pan with a cup full of cream, a small piece of butter, some pepper and salt–stew them, stirring very frequently until dry. This is the most delicate way of preparing squashes. (p. 110)

20180905_161449This original recipe calls for peeling the pattypan squash. I found that it is very difficult to peel because of the irregular shape. In the days of modern appliances, peeling the squash is unnecessary. Placing the boiled, unpeeled squash in a food processor and processing it for 2 minutes produces a sauce just as smooth as the colonial method of forcing the cooked squash through a colander.

My modern recipe for Pattypan Squash Puree:

3-4 large pattypan squash                                                                                                                       ¾ c. cream                                                                                                                                              3 T. butter                                                                                                                                                 Salt and pepper to taste

Wash the squash. Remove the seeds and stem ends. Cut into chunks. Cover with water and boil for twenty minutes, or until tender. Drain well. Puree in a food processor for two minutes. Add cream, butter, salt and pepper to the squash and simmer another ten minutes or until the mixture is as dry as you like it. The pureed squash can be eaten as a side dish. It also makes an excellent soup base. 20180810_141421.jpg

I’ve eaten pattypan squash many times, but I’d never grown it before. Using seeds from The Thomas Jefferson Center for Historic Plants, I planted seven hills of cymlings.

They all grew.  They all produced a prodigious number of pale green scalloped edge squash.

Obviously, pattypans are just as abundant as zucchini. Anybody want some?

20180921_113754
Sources:

Cymling or Pattypan Squash. Seed packet from The Thomas Jefferson Center For Historic Plants. 2016

CurcurbitsColonial Williamsburg. The Colonial Williamsburg Foundation, 2018. Colonial Williamsburg: That The Future May Learn From The Past

Randolph, Mary. The Virginia Housewife Or, Methodical Cook. T. E.H. Butler and Co. : Philadephia, 1860.

Simnel. The Compact Edition of the Oxford English Dictionary. 1971.

Climbing Mt. Fuji with my son

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“Behind the Great Wave at Konugawa”-The most famous image from Katsushika Hokusai’s 36 Views of Mount Fuji. (1823-1829)

When my youngest son, Rory, graduated from high school, he wanted to go to Japan. I wasn’t ready for an empty nest, so I decided to take him there myself.

Our biggest goal in Japan was to climb Mt. Fuji, the majestic peak of 12, 388 feet. Mt. Fuji has been a sacred mountain for hundreds of years, with the experience of watching the sunrise from the top of the volcano prized above all. But the mountain is climbable only in the height of summer. So one July evening at 8:00 p. m., we took a bus from Hakone part-way up the mountain to Fifth Station. The night was warm, but we had escaped the oppressive heat of Tokyo.

The route began as a wide, clear path, but within minutes it had deteriorated into little more than an animal track, overgrown with roots and branches and strewn with boulders. It was too dark to see anything clearly. Rory, who was increasingly far ahead of me, had the flashlight. As I stumbled over roots and clambered up the boulders, I knew I was in trouble. Altitude, plus the heat and humidity, had me breathing like I had run a mile at top speed.

After fifteen minutes I caught up to Rory, who was waiting for me at a turning in the path.

“Hey, Mom, you okay”’ he said, real concern in his voice.

“Sure,” I wheezed, immediately taking on my familiar role of Mom– the one never in trouble, never hurt. “I’m just a little slower than you.” I tried to catch my breath, but there didn’t seem to be enough air.

Reassured, Rory asked if I minded if he went on ahead.

“Just give me the flashlight,” I said.

“Great, Mom. I’ll see you at the top.”

So he left. It shouldn’t have surprised me. Kids always leave their parents behind.

I struggled on alone. My heart pounded and my ears throbbed. At first, I worried about Rory. What if he fell without the light? What if he got lost? But as the path grew steeper, I stopped worrying about him, to worry more about myself. By the time I reached the Sixth Station, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t make it to the top by sunrise. Still, Rory was expecting me. I struggled onward.

The flashlight burned out around midnight. Plenty of people had begun the hike at the same time as I had, but I had no idea where any of them were. I stumbled on, apparently alone on this great pile of rock in utter darkness. Somehow I missed the trail, and found myself on a slope of loose gravel scree. I took a step forward and slipped backward two feet. I fell to my knees and crawled, aiming upward, until I found a rope strung along the trail to mark the path.

At the Seventh Station I shared some raisins and chocolate with some other hikers. One of them gave me fresh batteries. It was colder by now, so that each time I stopped, my glasses steamed over. I was drenched in sweat, and the cold breeze cut into me. My legs felt like spaghetti, limp and slow to respond to my attempts to walk. I knew I wouldn’t reach the top. Rory would just have to manage without me. Still, I’m too stubborn to give up, so I kept putting one foot in front of the other.

By 2:00 a.m. the second set of batteries burned out. A pinkish half moon rose and illuminated a barren landscape of dark rock and stunted scrub, far above the treeline. A myriad of stars glittered the sky.

The trail zigzagged back and forth in steep switchbacks. Sometimes it wound between big stone steps, while other times I crunched through rocky gravel. Occasionally a thin rope marked the trail. Mostly, the way followed a narrow path worn smooth by thousands of passing feet.

I stumbled on, refusing to quit. Dizziness made me light-headed. Sometimes I could see the flickering flashlights of other hikers or hear jingling bells on hiking sticks. Sometimes people passed me. Once in a while I passed a group sitting alongside the path, resting. Each encounter brought a brief exchange of greetings, konbanwa, sumimasen, dozo. These conversations were always brief. We had no breath to waste.

I began counting my steps to keep going. Twenty steps I promised myself, twenty steps before resting. I shuffled forward. Always up with the great empty sky arching above me and the great empty mountain embracing me. I felt like a tiny, insignificant speck in the vast universe.

Soon, I couldn’t make twenty steps anymore. I tried ten steps. Ten steps before resting. Each step brought me a few inches closer to the top.

At the Eighth Station I met three Japanese teenagers. We shared water and chocolate cookies, and discussed the merits of Star Wars in a strange mixture of Japanese and English. I thought of Rory, my own teenager, somewhere on this huge mountain, out of reach, but not really too far away. Gradually my breathing eased.

After a brief rest I continued on trembling legs. Overhead, the Big Dipper turned on the axis of the North Star. The moon crossed the sky and set in the West. In the East there grew a pale, curved glow.

As I neared the Ninth Station, the faint light of pre-dawn slowly lifted the eastern edge of night. I could hardly move forward. I took five steps, then a rest. Five more. My steps grew shorter. Two inches forward. A tiny bit closer. I began to think I could make it.

Suddenly, the trail became very crowded. Hundreds of people converged from various paths and we merged to become a long, slow-motion line, a solid snake-like queue of people inching up the mountain. Above and ahead I could see the lights of Tenth Station, the last station. With new hope, I struggled forward, reaching the station with an overwhelming sense of relief.

But it wasn’t the top. The top was another hundred yards, a hiker told me, another hour. I sat on a boulder at the edge of the station, too discouraged to move, too tired to walk another ten yards, let alone a hundred. I could watch the sunrise from here just as well as the top, couldn’t I? Rory wouldn’t mind if I didn’t show up.

I knew I was fooling myself. I didn’t want to disappoint him. Or myself. Whatever the reason, I sighed and stood up. Maybe I couldn’t get to the top, but it wouldn’t be because I had stopped trying. I took a step. Then another. A hundred yards to go. Four hundred steps. A rest between each one.

At last I could see the red torii gate. Two white lions guarded it, and the pillars were wreathed in bells. Tears of exhaustion, of joy, of relief streamed down my face as I stumbled through and rang the bells in the long-standing tradition.

There was Rory, waiting for me. He didn’t say much. He never doubted I would get there. Together we stood on the top of Mt. Fuji and watched the sun creep over the curve of the horizon and finally explode in a sudden burst of daylight.

And I knew it was enough. Rory would leave me behind many times as he went off to college and embarked on his adult life, but he would still be there, ready to share a new dawn, whenever I caught up to him

on top of Mt. Fuji
On top of Mt. Fuji

Hamilton: Historical fiction with a modern twist

1566Earlier this summer I had the very distinct pleasure of attending the popular rap-musical, Hamilton, with my daughter in Chicago. A lot has been written about this show, and its well-deserved popularity. Indeed, the music, the lyrics, the acting, the set, the choreography–all that and more are truly amazing.

Beyond this critical acclaim, what I find most interesting is the fact that this show is historical fiction at its best, the stories of who lived, and who died, and what happened. Lin-Manuel Miranda, who created the show and starred as the protagonist in the Broadway production, based this musical on the Ron Chernow’s biography, Alexander Hamilton (2004), so a lot of research went into the making of the show.

In school, kids study George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and Ben Franklin. Less attention is paid to Alexander Hamilton, even though he was a prolific writer and of tremendous influence on the establishment of this country. Sure we learn about his stint as the first Secretary of the Treasury and his death from a duel with Aaron Burr. We know he’s the guy on the $10 bill. And some of us wade through excerpts of the Federalist Papers for which he, John Jay, and James Madison are responsible. But we don’t learn much about the man. His life doesn’t become legend the way the lives of others Founding Fathers have.

Lin-Manuel Miranda’s genius is grabbing us by the throat and showing us the story of this remarkable man and his important role in the unlikely founding of the United States of America. Hamilton’s rise to power is the epitome of American opportunity. Miranda opens the show by demanding to know how a bastard, orphaned immigrant can become great. From the very beginning notes, we in the audience care about this young man full of hopes and dreams coming to what will become America. As we follow Hamilton’s story, we witness America itself being born.

For the most part, the show is well-researched and factually correct. Even his emotional turmoils, his dreams and goals, and his scandalous affair are documented through Chernow and Miranda’s study of Hamilton’s extensive correspondence and other writings. Those few departures from historical fact were made with thought and deliberation to enhance the story without losing sight of the truth. For instance, in reality the Schuyler sisters had two brothers, which Miranda left out, probably because they had little effect on Hamilton’s story. Another example is the duel between Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton. The shooting actually happened in 1804 after Burr lost the election for governor, not in 1800 after Burr’s failed bid for the Presidency. Though the details of the duel’s timing are inaccurate, the rivalry between Hamilton and Burr is well-documented and clearly portrayed in the musical. The discrepancy doesn’t take away from the story or the shock of Hamilton’s death.

It’s no easy task to make Americans care about history. We tend to be a forward-looking people, too often ignoring the past and forgetting the problems from yesteryear. Yet we can learn a lot from history. Modern Americans still struggle with racial inequities, federal budget deficits, immigration issues, and the of balance work and home life. Miranda’s story of Hamilton entertains, but also reminds us of who we are. Through modern rap, dance, and song, we can see ourselves in this story of our past.

History is told by the survivors. Unlike the other founding fathers, Hamilton’s life was cut short, so he did not survive. But his wife, Eliza, lived for another fifty years after him, and even though her voice was ignored by many for years, she never quit telling Hamilton’s story.  Now Lin-Manuel Miranda has taken up the story and given it to us again. I am grateful.

 

On visiting history–Surgeon’s Quarters

by Mark Meier, guest blogger

(Today we welcome Mark Meier, author of Ebony Sea: Origins.  Check out Mark’s blog at Meier-writers.com )

I’d like to thank Terri for the opportunity to blog for her. When I read her message the second time I noticed the word “historic.” Only a surprise that ANYONE asked me to write something that qualifies as “historic.”

Pondering that for a while revealed a couple of interesting points.

1 – I’ve written fantasy. Writing about low-tech people in fantasy novels really isn’t that much of a divergence from historic.

2 – Some of my favorite places to visit would qualify as historic.

The “historic” place I’ve visited most often is the Renaissance Festivalin Minnesota. It usually runs from late August through September and is an absolute blast. I highly recommend going if you have the opportunity.

Terri would be more qualified to comment about the authenticity. Because of that . . . questionable . . . accuracy, my post here isn’t about that festival.

There is also a heritage center near where I live called Norskedalen. I’ve been there more than once, and it’s fairly interesting. Not as much funas Ren Fest, but more historically accurate.

Another destination that fits about half-way between the fun of Ren Fest and the accuracy of Norskedalen is Medieval Times dinner theater. Jousting, swordplay, a torture museum, and a meal without forks and knives. Yep. Eat with your fingers.

The place I’ve visited most that actually qualifies as accurate history is Surgeon’s Quarters. While I’ve been to Ren Fest more often, Surgeon’s Quarters is far more compelling for someone interested in history.

There’s a location in Wisconsin where the watersheds to the Saint Lawrence and the Mississippi is close enough to portage from one to the other. Back in the colonial days people used that portage (which is how the City of Portage got its name) so much it became of strategic importance. Fort Winnebago was established to protect that important area.

The original use of Surgeon’s Quarters was a portage company and fur trading venture. It was sold to the Americans, and eventually became the home for the Fort Winnebago army surgeon. Hence the name, “Surgeon’s Quarters.”

One of the reasons I want to write about this location is to point out how ingenious people were – and are. The simplest example I can give is the multiple uses early pioneers had for things. Take for instance a table at Surgeon’s Quarters. The top is hinged so tipping it up reveals it’s also a chair. With the wide, round back, people could pull it up close to a fireplace and hold in the heat. On the coldest of winter nights that seat would be a relatively warm place to pass the time.

At Surgeon’s Quarters I learned another tidbit of information. The phrase “sleep tight” came from the beds used in that period. Ropes were woven across the wooden frame of the bed, and a tick mattress was placed on top. Occasionally the ropes had to be tightened or a sleeper would sag to the floor. So telling someone to “sleep tight” wished them a good night’s sleep.

On the other side of interesting bits is how people can get history all wrong. There’s a trap door in one of the rooms at Surgeon’s Quarters leading to a dirt hole beneath the building. On one visit the tour guide told my wife and me that it was used to store pelts in a cool place so they wouldn’t “go bad.” On our next visit we were told it was probably used to hide runaway slaves from those hunting them down.

The point of that is what we think we know about history might change. Interpreting what hashappened through the lens of current understanding can lead to inaccurate perceptions. When someone tells you “this definitely happened,” take it with a grain of salt.

I wonder where that aphorism came from.

Terri?

Shakespeare in Love: A Review

Very little is known about William Shakespeare. He was born in Stratford-on-Avon sometime in April, 1564. In 1582, at the age of 18, he married Anne Hathaway, and had three children with her. Then he lived in London without his wife and wrote some of the world’s best dramatic works ever to be produced. What he thought, who he cared about, and how he worked are all unknown. All we have for evidence are his plays. These plays serve as great fodder for the imagination of writers.

For centuries, writers have imagined the real William Shakespeare in poetry and stories. A book I read recently, Fools and Mortals, by Bernard Cornwell, portrays William from the point of view of Richard, his younger brother as William writes A Midsummer Night’s Dream. According to Richard, William is haughty and unfriendly. The story is very well-written and provides a fascinating view of early 17th century London.

A much different picture of a younger, far more likeable William Shakespeare is presented in the play (first a screenplay by Marc Norman and Tom Stoppard), Shakespeare in Love, which I recently saw performed during Winona’s Great River Shakespeare Festival. This tragic romantic comedy or (comedic romantic tragedy) gives the poignant backstory for the creation of one of Shakespeare’s most enduring tragedies, Romeo and Juliet. Both plays (the modern and the Elizabethan) present star-crossed lovers whose story could have been happy, if the forces of the world would only let them be. In Shakespeare in love, young Will falls in love with Viola de Lesseps, a wealthy woman bound by the cultural norms of her time to obey her father and marry a man she does not love (or even like.) Both she and Will want poetry in their lives. In each other’s company, they find both poetry and love.

In a hilarious set of circumstances rivaling Shakespeare own mixed identities, Viola disguises herself as Thomas Kent, an actor, and ends up playing Romeo in Will’s new comedy which he plans to call Romeo and Ethel the pirate’s Daughter. In Elizabethan times, women weren’t allowed to perform on the stage. One particularly funny scene is when Viola, a woman disguised as Master Kent, plays Romeo against a young boy, disguised as a woman, playing Juliet. The comedy deepens when Will, helping to direct the rehearsal, steps in to play Juliet, and sparks fly. But when Will and Viola’s real life comes crashing in and their love is thwarted, the comedy turns dark, and the tragedy of Romeo and Juliet is created.

Shakespeare in Love is marvelous historical fiction. Though full of anachronisms, (ie-Wessex, the nobel suitor to Viola, talks of his tobacco plantation in Virgina. The tobacco culture in Virginia didn’t begin until 1607), the play presents a very believable late 16th century London. We see a credible picture of the life of an actor and playwright, including the constant threat of the theater being closed, the stealing of play manuscripts, and the restrictions on women attending or working in the theater.  Indeed, one of my favorite aspects of this play is the portrayal of Queen Elizabeth played beautifully by Melissa Maxwell. At this point in history, Elizabeth is a cantankerous, powerful woman holding her own in a man’s world. With just the right mix of poignancy and hubris, she says to Viola, “I know something of a woman in a man’s profession. Yes, by God, I do know about that.” At that moment we recognize the struggle of women of all ages for self-determination. Our hearts go out to both the queen, who seems to have succeeded, and Viola, who ultimately cannot.

What makes Shakespeare in Love really stand out are the many connections to Shakespeare’s work and the way events are presented as inspiration for Shakespeare’s plays. Young Will’s friend, Christopher Marlowe, and Will’s feelings of guilt over Marlowe’s death are echoed in the character of Mercutio. Viola De Lesseps’ nurse becomes Juliet’s nurse. Many of Shakespeare’s best plot devices, such as disguised identities, men and women cross-dressing,  jealous lovers, and sword fights find their way into the modern play. Shakespeare in Love is thoroughly peppered with lines from many of Shakespeare’s plays and even from one of his most famous sonnets, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day…”

Good historical fiction connects our past with the concerns of today. Shakespeare in Love tells a story that makes us laugh and cry as we recognize the power of love. At this publication, there are still three performances, July 29, Aug. 3 nd Aug.4.  Here’s the link:

GRSF: Shakespeare in Love

If you can’t make the show, there is always the movie. Like Shakespeare’s own work, this is a show well worth seeing, again and again.

 

Lettuce: As Easy as Pie

a-salad.jpg
Everyone knows lettuce–that mundane, leafy green vegetable. It’s indispensable in fresh salad. It’s center of a BLT. It adds crunch to a tuna sandwich. It’s grown world wide and even in space on the International Space Station. For nearly 5000 years, lettuce has been a part of the human diet.

 

Egyptians were the first to grow lettuce, originally for the oil from the seeds. Over time, they bred lettuces for tastier leaves. Because of the milky sap and thick, upright stems of these early plants, the Egyptians associated lettuce with sexuality.

The Greeks continued breeding lettuces for more flavorful leaves, but they told various stories of Adonis being killed in a bed of lettuce. For the Greeks, lettuce signified impotence rather than prowess.

The Romans continued the lettuce-growing tradition, siding with the Egyptians on the question of how lettuce affects male stamina. Lettuce was also served before meals and after meals to improve digestion in the first case and sleep in the second. By 77 AD, at least eight different types of lettuce are recorded in Pliny the Elder’s Natural History.

Lettuce cultivation spread into Asia and Western Europe, with many more varieties developing along the way. Early lettuces were all leafy and upright, like romaine. By the 15th century, loose head lettuces were developed. By Elizabethan times, lettuce was popular throughout Europe. Gerard, a notable medieval cook, claims lettuce helps with heartburn, thirst, and sleep problems. He also says that it “maketh plenty of milk in nurses.” (as quoted by Hess, 99).

Europeans settling in America brought along their love of lettuce. Thomas Jefferson, well-known for his interest in gardens and plant varieties, recorded seventeen kinds of lettuce in his garden. This year I grew two heritage varieties of lettuce. Grandma Hadley’s is soft, slightly sweet lettuce with a bit of purple on the leaves. It comes from Emma Hadley of Illinois, stemming from 1915. The second lettuce I grew is called Tennis Ball lettuce. According to the seed saver’s packet, this type of lettuce was “often pickled in a salt brine during the 17th and 18th centuries.” (Weaver)

By this point you may be asking what does all this have to do with pie? Currently in America, we usually eat lettuce raw. Indeed, from ancient times, lettuce was often eaten as a raw salad, perhaps drizzled with oil and vinegar. One such salad is described in The Virginia Housewife or, Methodical Cook. Mary Randolph suggests mixing lettuce with chervil, pepper grass, cress and other greens and tells how to make a dressing of hard boiled egg yolks, salt, sugar, mustard, oil, and vinegar.

This all sounds familiar, but in looking at the history of lettuce, I came across a very unusual recipe for a lettuce pie, in Martha Washington’s Booke of Cookery.

The recipe (from Martha Washington’s Booke of Cookery, 98)  is a follows:

To make a lettis tart

     When you have raised the crust, lay in all over the bottom some butter, & strow in sugar, cinnamon & a little ginger; then boyle yourcabbage lettis in a little water and salt,& when the water is draynedfrom it, lay it in your coffin with some damask pruens stoned;  then lay on the top some marrow& such seasoning as you layd on the bottom.Then close it up and bake it.

Lettuce pieThere are a number of challenges in following this recipe. First I had to figure out what it means to raise the crust. A raised crust is not, as I first thought, made from a yeast dough. Rather, a raised crust is a thicker crust made without a mold. So raising the crust means pushing the sides up to make a free-standing, pie-shaped bowl, often in a rectangular shape.

Another challenge for this crust was what recipe to use. The author calls it a tart, but tart crusts were generally rolled thinner and baked uncovered. A tart crust is too thin to be raised. Later in the recipe, the cook calls for a coffin. A coffin is generally a heavier pie crust, rolled thicker, allowing it to be raised.  With this distinction in mind, I used a heavier, thicker paste based on suggestions from Hannah Glasse and Karen Hess.

Alas, it turned out to be beyond my skill to raise a crust. I could roll the crust and form the bow shapel, but it collapsed on itself when baked. I ended up making the crust using a springform pan to hold the sides in place.

The next challenge with this recipe is the term ‘cabbage lettis.’ This is head lettuce. I used iceberg lettuce, though it was not developed until the 20th century. There were head lettuces available in Colonial America, mostly softer, looser and more flavorful than modern iceberg lettuce.

The only challenges remaining were figuring out how much of each ingredient and how long to bake it. My answers to those questions came through trial and error. In the end, I came up with a flavorful, pie unlike anything else I’ve tasted, though the cinnamon makes it slightly reminiscent of apple pie.

Here’s my modern version of Lettuce Pie:

Crust:

Melt 6 Tablespoons of shortening in ½ cup water.
Mix 1 c. rye flour, 1 c. white flour and ½ teaspoon salt in a food 
processor.
Add the melted shortening and water and pulse until well mixed. (Use a spatula if necessary to scrape the sides)
Knead the warm dough a few minutes.  Divide into two balls, one slightly bigger than the other.  Roll the large ball into a circle between ⅛ and ¼ inch thick. 
Place it in a 8” springform pan, and push the edges up the sides. You may have to repair cracks as you do so.
Reserve the smaller ball to form the top crust.

Filling:

Spread 2 T. soft butter over the bottom pie crust.
Mix 4 Tablespoons of sugar, 1 teaspoon cinnamon, ½ teaspoon ginger. 
Sprinkle half of this on the buttered crust in the pan.
Roughly chop one head of lettuce. Boil it in salted water for about 3 minutes, or until limp. Drain thoroughly and place it in the pie 
shell.

Chop ⅓ cup pitted prunes. Strew those over the lettuce. Sprinkle the remaining sugar mixture over the lettuce and prunes. 
Dot with 2 Tablespoons butter (shaved or cut in bits).

Roll out the remaining pie crust to cover the pie. Crimp the edges.

Bake 45- 50  minutes at 400 degrees. Enjoy warm or cold.

lettuce pie sliceP.S. Whoever invented the phrase ‘easy as pie,’ probably never made a scratch pie.

Sources:

Fischer, Nan. The History of Lettuce: From Ancient Egypt to outer space, lettuce is a well-traveled little plant. Heirloom Gardener, Spring, 2018. www.heirloomgardener

Glasse, Hannah. The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy. Cotton and Stewart, 1805. (Facsimile Reprint, Applewood Books, 1997.)

Hess, Karen, transcriber. Martha Washington’s Booke of Cookery. Columbia University Press, 1995.

Randolph, Mary. The Virginia Housewife Or, Methodical Cook. (Fascsimile reprint) Dover Publications,1993.

 

The National Museum of Funeral History

T-shirt

I’m a big fan of museums, especially historical museums. Best of all are quirky historical museums. Recently my husband and I found ourselves in Houston, Texas with a day of leisure. Houston has many wonderful museums to choose from, but the one we found the most intriguing was the National Museum of Funeral History (NMFH).

What? A museum of funerals? Absolutely.

It may be a bit macabre, but it’s not too surprising that we were drawn to this museum. After all, my husband sells monuments (doublespeak for tombstones), and I have several stories about a guy (Roscoe Gordon) (13 Haunting Tales) who talks to ghosts. The museum has several different exhibits including celebrity funerals, a money casket, casket making, funerals of popes and presidents and Japanese funeral customs, to name just a few.

One of my favorite exhibits is Victorian mourning customs. We learned the length of time a widow matte black in full mourning (a year and a day) and how she could add a bit of black satin to her mourning costume for the next nine months.  A widow’s full mourning lasted two years, after which she might go into half-mourning, wherein she wore muted, dull colors. Men did not have such strict customs when it came to grieving, and the length of time of full mourning varied considerably for the death of parents, siblings, grandparents or children

In the 19th century, it wasn’t always easy to tell exactly when someone died. I heard before about coffin bells, which were bells placed on the coffin with a string leading inside so that if the deceased turned out to have been buried alive, he or she could ring the bell, thus calling or help. In the same vein, 19th century wake lasted three days, during which time, mourners kept a close watch on the deceased, just in case he or she woke up. In fact, this practice may be the origin of the word, “wake.”

The largest permanent exhibit is of historical hearses. From horse-drawn carriages of the 19th century to the sleek Packard Funeral Bus of 1916, this is probably one of the best collections of rare funeral vehicles.  A hearse is much more than a car or wagon. Remember the gruesome kid’s song, “Whenever I see a hearse go by…” A hearse leading a funeral procession makes everyone stop and think about death. It’s like the bell in John Donne’s Meditation 17, when he says, “…never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.”

But lest our reflections become too somber, think about the hearse as a sometimes opulent and always powerful statement honoring the dead.  When I was in Ireland several years ago for my father’s funeral, everyone we saw along the streets and lanes, stopped and removed their caps as the hearse carrying Dad passed by. I was very touched by this sign of respect, as if all these others, strangers though they were, shared in my own mourning.

In spite of its focus on death, the museum has its share of whimsy, especially in the elaborate fantasy coffins of Ghana. In Ghana, death is seen as a transition to a spiritual realm. The coffins are designed to reflect the character of the departed. They include fancy cars, animals such as a crab or chicken, a shallot, and even an outboard motor.

black hearse panelMy favorite kind of history is the exploration of how people in the past dealt with the problems of living. In their fascinating displays about how other people have dealt with the problems of dying, National Museum of Funeral History earns my recommendation. And who knows…another Roscoe Gordon story could come out of our visit there.

On cooking with Pearl Ash

Experiments in cookery

gingerbreadSometime in the middle of the eighteenth century, an adventurous (or careless) housewife added pearlash to her dough and the first chemical leavening was discovered. Before pearlash found its way into food, housewives had to use yeast or egg whites if they wanted their baked goods to rise. But it takes a long time to whip egg whites to a froth, and the resulting mix is not very stable. Yeast also takes a long time to work. Thus with the new chemical leavener, pearlash, cooks could bake ‘quick’ breads, a great convenience in the labor-intense colonial kitchen.  

Historically, pearlash has had many uses including soap and glass making. Various cuisines around the world use pearl ash in traditional dishes. (For instance, German gingerbreads and Chinese mooncakes.) It has also been used in the production of cocoa, wine and mead.

But be aware, pearlash is potassium carbonate,  a caustic substance made by refining potash, which in turn is made by soaking plant-based ash in pot of water. This is the same way that lye is produced. Like lye, pearlash is caustic, and must be used in the right proportions.

 

While the lye has been used in cooking for a long time, (for instance in ramen, hominy, and lutefisk), pearlash wasn’t used as a leavening agent in dough until about 1740. The potassium carbonate mixed with acid (like sour milk or vinegar) creates pockets of carbon dioxide. These bubbles are trapped,  making the dough rise and the resulting bread lighter.bubble s 2

In fact, pearlash can even be used to freshen yeast. Mrs. Child recommends mixing pearlash in with yeast that has soured, and using it when it ‘foams up bright and  lively” (79) and suggests that “everything mixed with pearlash be put in the oven immediately” (71).

Though pearlash works well enough as a leavening agent, it can leave a bitter taste in baked goods. In fact, many colonial recipes I found using pearl ash, also use molasses, which not only masks the bitterness, but also provides citric acid to activate the pearlash. Of the sixteen colonial recipes I found with pearlash, only two had neither molasses nor some other strong spice like nutmeg, ginger, or coriander. 

As chemistry advanced, new chemical leaveners were developed. Pearlash went out of fashion around 1840, in favor of saleratus, which is closer to today’s baking soda. 

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 With this knowledge, I cautiously began experimenting with pearlash in cooking. Since none of the colonial I found gave directions on making your own pearlash, I purchased some online. (Even the food grade variety comes with a warning label.)  (Food grade potassium carbonate).

 

 

First  I made a tea cake, one of the few recipes that did not have a great deal of spice. Add old recipe and my version

Tea Cake

There is a kind of cake still cheaper. Three cups of sugar, three 
eggs, one cup of butter, one cup of milk, a spoonful of dissolved 
pearlash and four cups of flour, well beat up. If it is so stiff it 
will not stir easily, add a little more milk. (Child, 71)

Modern version:
Mix  4 c. flour (half whole wheat)
     3 c. sugar
Cut in 1 c. butter
Add 1 c. milk
     ¼ t. pearlash dissolved in 2 T. water
Bake at 350 degrees until a pick comes out clean.
This makes a heavy loaf cake, similar to a pound cake in texture and taste. Quite delicious!

I had only used a 1/4 of a teaspoon pearlash in this, which may account for the heaviness of the loaf and the lack of any bitter aftertaste. I decided to be a bit bolder in the next attempt and made gingerbread.

Molasses Gingerbread
One tablespoon cinnamon, some coriander or allspice, put to four 
teaspoons of pearl ash dissolved in half pint water, four pound flour, one quart molasses, four ounces butter, (if in summer rub in the 
butter, in winter, warm the butter and molasses and pour to the 
spiced flour,) knead it well 'till stiff, the more the better, the 
lighter and whiter it will be; bake brisk fifteen minutes; don't 
scorch; before it is put in wash it with whites and sugar beat 
together. (Simmons, 36)

A modern version:

Mix: 1 pound flour (approximately 3 1/3 cups)
     1 teaspoon cinnamon
     1/4 teaspoon allspice
Warm: 1 cup molasses with 1 ounce (two tablespoons) butter
Add to the flour mixture
Dissolve one teaspoon pearlash in 1/4 cup water  
Add this to the flour and molasses mixture.
Beat the dough well, then roll it out on a floured board to about 
1/4" and cut in shapes as desired. 
Bake at 425 degrees for 12 to 15 minutes. 
Note: I skipped the egg white and sugar wash, but that could easily 
be added to the modern version of the recipe.

Still cautious, I tasted these the cookies myself before offering them to anyone else.  These had a nice light texture, with a hint of crunch, and a good molasses flavor. Still wary, my husband and I limited our own consumption to one or two a day. When neither of us had any ill effects from eating these cookies, we threw caution to the wind and enjoyed them to our heart’s content.

While I don’t recommend cooking with pearl ash, I do urge you to do your own experiments with historical cookery. Who knows what delights you will concoct?
__________
Child, Mrs. The American Frugal Housewife. Carter, Hendee and Co., 1833 (12th edition)

Simmons, Amelia. The First American Cookbook: A Facsimile of “American Cookery,” 1796. Dover Publications,1984.

On Being Rescued: Assateague Island Adventure

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We went to Assateague Island to see the ponies, made famous by Misty of Chincoteague. This shows the salt marsh at high tide.

I know it sounds ungrateful, but really, I don’t much like being rescued. It’s not that I like having trouble or getting stuck, I’d just rather ‘do it myself’.

Of course,I am just as happy as anyone else to accept help with chores or share the work of driving or divide tasks at a campout. But there is a difference between sharing the work and being rescued. There’s a sense of failure when help is absolutely needed.

IMG_0893Take for instance my kayaking trip with my great-nephew to Assateague Island from Chincoteague. At eleven years old, Ian was the youngest in the group, and I was clearly the oldest. He and I shared a double kayak. Everyone else, including our guide, was twenty-something. We crossed the bay from Chincoteague to Assateague. Once there, we beached on the mud flats, then walked across the mud and sand to the edge of the salt marsh. We saw the ponies way on the other side of the tall grass, but the real drama was on the mud. At our approach a ‘herd’ of fiddler crabs scuttled sideways to scramble under the driftwood. (The collective term for crabs is ‘cast’, but these creatures resembled a galloping herd or flowing wave more than anything else.)

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After returning to the kayaks, we paddled up one of the drains to get a better view of the ponies. The drain was like nothing else I’ve kayaked through. It was low tide, so we glided through the twisting canal, below the salt grass. On either side, cliff-like banks, crusted with clams and mussels, rose above us. Exposed, tangled roots of the salt grass capped the banks. Herons stalked the marshes and gulls wheeled overhead. There was an eerie remoteness to the place, an otherworldly feeling separating our silent kayaks from the bustle of civilization.

Civilization intruded, however, when our guide’s boss called and said a storm was approaching. It was time to head back.

As we emerged from the drain, we could see the dark sky looming to the west. Now, I like storms. I like the energy in them, the sense of something immense building, the moment when the rains pounds down and the wind howls. I like all of that, but I like it best from some sort of shelter. On the Assateague side of the bay, we had no shelter.

Instead, we had a bay to cross before the storm hit. The black wall of storm with its ‘comb-over’ white top filled the sky. The kayak suddenly felt quite small as the puffs of wind churned up the water  Young Ian and I couldn’t keep up with others as we fought the waves. We paddled hard toward shore while the storm barreled toward us.

About 300 yards from the Chincoteague shore, the wind running ahead of the storm hit us. We stopped, dead in the water. The first splatters of rain hit the kayak and I knew at that moment, we would lose the race. No matter how hard I paddled, we wouldn’t reach land before the full force of the storm hit us.

The others had all reached the shore. Our guide saw our trouble and came back out to help us in. He hooked his kayak to ours, and with all of us paddling hard, we made it to shore just as the sky broke open and the rain poured down.

This is where it gets complicated. I really did appreciate the guide’s help, but I was embarrassed at being ‘hauled’ in. I hadn’t  been afraid as the storm rolled inexorably toward us , though I admit to a surge of adrenaline. But I was keenly aware I wasn’t going to be able to get us in before we were drenched. The thought we might not get in at all didn’t occur to me. Looking back, I realize the force of the wind and rain might have capsized us, and it was a long way to swim.

So the guide’s decision to tow us was the right choice. He did what he needed to do as a responsible guide. The thing is, I’ll always wonder if I could have made it in.  I’m left with a sense I wasn’t strong enough or good enough, a sense that I lost the race.

I didn’t rail or fuss at his help or tantrum like I might have done when I was two. I took what was offered, and I am grateful for his help.  

But I’d still rather do it myself.

 

On the quest for majesty

Pillars of the Earth by Ken FollettUnknown

Why do people strive for majesty? In some ways, this is really the same questions as why people climb the mountain or why they strive for the gold medal. The answer to any of these questions could be ‘because we can’. But the real answer is much more complex. In his acclaimed novel, Pillars of the Earth, Ken Follett provides a much richer and more nuanced set of answers, exploring our very human desire to achieve and the equally human obstacles to such glory.

Unknown-1Pillars of the Earth is about building a cathedral in Medieval England. The story follows three generations of stone masons, and the people they love, care for, hate, and work with Follett provides clear, accurate detail of how such a magnificent structure could be built. However, the story is more than just a manual on how to build a cathedral. (For that I suggest reading the excellent book, Cathedral, by David MaCaulay.)

Follett’s story digs into the decisions, twists of fate, and accidents of that span decades of cathedral building. Even more importantly, Follett weaves a tale that explores why people are driven to build majesty. It is a story of faith and politics, which are deftly interwoven into the fabric of society today as much as they were in medieval times.

At its core, Pillars of the Earth is the story of ordinary people doing extraordinary things, of good people reaching and achieving beyond what anyone could imagine, in spite of the naysayers, preachers of doom, and obstacles of fate. The novel shows how these lives interconnect, how actions have ripples, and how people go on living their own daily lives, often unaware of the consequences. To me, this is historical fiction at its best.

As I read about Tom Builder’s arrival in the fictional medieval town of Kingsbridge, Prior Phillip’s vision for a glorious cathedral, and Jack Builders’ quest for poetry in stone, I thought of cathedrals I have seen. Each is different in style and design, yet each is a marvelous example of human aspirations. Each is intended to inspire awe, to force the visitor to look up and contemplate divinity.

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St. Peters Cathedral, Regensburg, Germany
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St. Sebold, Nürnberg, Germany
St. Matthias Budapest
Matthias Church, Budapest

 

Pillars of the Earth is a long book, (over 1000 pages). In some ways, it is Follett’s own reach for majesty. Like the cathedrals of Europe, the temple of the sun in Machu Picchu, and the Torii Gate of Japan, the book celebrates the very human desire to approach God and touch the sky.