The Maple Sugar Scheme in the Early United States: A Failed Plan to End Slavery

20180323_211017Spring is finally here. The ice is off the lake and the trees are budding out. With the end of the sugaring season, it’s time to talk about maple sap.  Maple syrup is one of the uniquely American foods. No one knows for sure when the indigenous people of North America began collecting ‘sweet water’ from maples and other native trees, but it was long before Europeans arrived. Sixteenth century French fur traders described how the natives collected sap in birch-bark baskets. When the sap rose in late winter and other food sources were scarce, Indians drank the ‘sweet water’ straight. They also boiled meat or other foods in it. Using hot rocks they boiled it down to make syrup or sugar.They even molded the sugar into decorative shapes. In other words, maple sap was an important part of the native food culture in North America.

While maple trees grow in Europe, Europeans did not discover the process. One explanation for this has to do with climate. Sap rises in trees in late winter as the temperatures vary between daytime highs of 40 degrees and lows of 20 degrees Fahrenheit. Without this fluctuation of temperature, the sap does not recede and flow. Most of the areas in Europe where maples flourish do not have the right temperature fluctuation.

Interesting, but what does this have to do with slavery?                                                        The answer is both complicated and fascinating.

In Colonial and Early America, one of the most important imports was cane sugar produced in the West Indies by slave labor. After the United States  won independence from British rule, the new nation looked for other ways to assert their self-sufficiency. Maple sugar, produced at home, was cheaper than imported cane sugar, and more patriotic.

Dr. Benjamin Rush, a prominent physician in Philadelphia, spoke out in favor of maple sugar. As an abolitionist, he hated supporting slavery through the use of cane sugar. He argued that maple sugar was both more pure in flavor and morally superior to cane sugar. In 1791, he wrote to Thomas Jefferson, “I cannot help contemplating  a sugar maple tree with a species of affection and even veneration, for I have persuaded myself, to behold in it the happy means of rendering the commerce and slavery of our African brethren in the sugar islands as unnecessary, as it has always been inhumane and unjust.”1 Other patriotic abolitionists also urged citizens to “Make your own sugar, and send not to the Indies for it. Feast not on the toil, pain and misery of the wretched,” 2.

For a time, the scheme to promote maple sugar worked. Frugal farmers found that tapping maple trees was cheaper than buying expensive cane sugar. Abolitionists rallied to support the cause. Thomas Jefferson, who hated slavery though he never figured out how to free his own slaves, joined in the effort. He became a member of the Society for Promoting  the Manufacture of Sugar from the Sugar Maple Tree, and urged farmers to plant maples and develop a large enough business to export the sugar. In this way, the Caribbean stronghold on the sugar market would be broken, and slave labor would no longer be needed. Jefferson even tried growing maple trees at Monticello, though without success.

Maple sugar became a symbol of freedom well into the 19th century. The  Vermont Almanac in 1844 urged readers “suffer not your cup to be sweetened by the blood of slaves.”3

In spite of all these efforts, maple sugar as a commodity never became more economical than cane sugar. All of the schemes to promote maple sugar failed commercially, although production in the northeast did increase. Cane sugar continued to outsell maple sugar, and slavery continued until the Civil War.

One reason for the failure of the scheme is that maple sugar production is not as easy as Rush and Jefferson suggested. Although it doesn’t require slave labor, it does require a lot of sap and fuel to make. I collected 21 gallons of sap from my maple this year, and made 6 pints of syrup from it– a thinner, less viscous syrup than found in the store.

The process is fairly straightforward. Drill a hole or holes in the tree, collect the dripping sap in buckets. Strain and boil the sap down until it is the consistency of syrup. It took me about two weeks to collect the sap, and about 17 hours to boil it down.

IMG_0553Hannah Glasse gives similar directions for making maple sugar. She claims ”This sugar if refined by the usual process, may be made into as good single or double refined loaves, as were ever made from the sugar obtained from the juice of the West India cane” (Glasse, 141). She also talks about maple molasses, which is really what we would call maple syrup today.

A few pages earlier Hannah Glasse gives directions for mush, made with Indian meal (now called corn meal). She serves the mush with milk or molasses. Surely she meant maple molasses. The scheme for maple sugar to end slavery failed, but the push to use maple had sweet results.

20180504_080318To Make Mush

Boil a pot of water, according to the quantity you wish to make, and then stir in the meal till it becomes quick thick, stirrintall the time to keep out the lumps, season with salt and eat it with milk or molasses. (Glasse, 137)

Modern version

  • 3 c. boiling water                                       
  • 1 c. cold water                                                                 
  • 1 c. cornmeal1 t. Salt
  • Maple syrup to taste

Add the salt to the  boiling water. Mix the cornmeal with the cold water. Stir the mixture into the boiling water. Boil 5 minutes, stirring constantly. (Be careful as the boiling mush tends to spit hot bits out as you stir.) When it is thick enough, take it off the heat and let sit a few minutes. Serve with maple syrup.

1. Rush, Benjamin. An account of the Sugar-Maple Tree, of the United States, and of the methods of obtaining sugar from it, together with observations upon the advantages both public and private of this sugar (Philadelphia, 1792).

2 Farmer’s Almanac, 1803

3 Vermont Almanac 1844

4 Glasse, Hannah. The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy. Cotton and Stewart. 1805.

 

Hatta: Beyond the city of Dubai

A stark mountain retreat

IMG_0712Outside the sprawling city of Dubai lies the rest of the emirate- mostly sweeping sand dunes and scrubland. A few farms (date and camel) and villages dot the landscape. Sparse grasses grow in marginal areas and the occasional acacia or ghaf tree can be found, but for the most part the area is empty desert. About 134 miles east of the city of Dubai lies the ancient village of Hatta in the Hajar mountains. Hatta is unusual in that it is an enclave. That means that although it is part of the emirate of Dubai, it is surrounded by other political entities. The country of Oman curls around to the east and south, while the emirate of Ras al-Khaimah lies to the north, and the emirate of Ajman forms Hatta’s western border.

Hatta is a popular getaway from the city for those who want to see an quieter, more natural part of the emirate. The Hajar Mountains, a chain of sharp, jagged outcrops of red-grey and blackish rock, has periodic water holes, which make village life and mountain farms possible in the area. The small village of Hatta (50 sq. miles)  is best known for two things: Hatta Dam Reservoir and Hatta Heritage village.

Hatta Dam is a beautiful reservoir with sparkling blue-green water surrounded by stunning mountains. The dam was built in the 1990’s and took two years to fill with rainwater. This makes water available year-round for the area. Previously, residents had to rely on deep wells and scattered springs. Although the mountain climate is supposedly cooler than the surrounding desert, it was 102 degrees Fahrenheit on the spring day in March when we visited. In spite of the heat, kayaking or paddle-boating on the reservoir is a great way to spend a morning.

The other major attraction in Hatta is the Hatta Heritage village. Here there are some 30 reconstructed buildings showing centuries-old styles of rural mountain desert life. The buildings are constructed of traditional materials including mud, date palm trunks, fronds, reeds and stone.

Within the Heritage Village lies Al Husan Fort. The fort was built in 1896 for both surveillance and defense. High mud-brick and mountain stone walls surround the fort, which includes a luxurious residence and a large internal courtyard. Ceilings are made of palm trunks supporting fronds and mud.

Outside the fort, stand two round watchtowers, built in the 1880’s.  Each tower has a small door a bit more than 8 feet above ground level. In the old days, the guard would use a rope to climb the tower to reach the door. Once inside, the guard could use the semi-circular staircase to reach the roof.

IMG_0719As I scrambled up the steep, rocky path to the watchtower, I thought about why such a defensive tower was needed in such a remote place. Were they looking out for raiding tribesmen? Or perhaps, hoping for a desert caravan seeking a watering hole before reaching the Gulf of Oman? From the hilltop at the base of the tower, it’s easy to see why Hatta was important. Water is available here, a scarce commodity in such a barren part of the world. For now, the village is quiet and peaceful, Still, though the watchtowers are deserted, they remain standing, a stark reminder that the history of humanity is a story of conflict, even in the most remote places.

 

Dubai: Glittering City in the Desert

by Burj KhalifaTo be honest, I would never have gone to Dubai if our daughter hadn’t moved there with her family. And I would have missed a gem.

Dubai is one of the seven emirates (think city-state) in the United Arab Emirates. It’s a city of superlatives, built from fantastical imagination: The tallest building. The biggest indoor ski slope. The most unique man-made islands. The world’s only 7 star hotel (Burj al Arab). Dancing fountains pierced with multi-colored laser lights. A city of glitz and glamor, meant to inspire awe in the visitor.

And it does.  On my most recent trip to Dubai, I visited the newly erected Dubai Frame, billed as the world’s largest picture frame. At 150 meters high, with a glass floor, the monument offers stupendous views of both Old Dubai and New Dubai. The Frame provides the perfect context to contemplate Dubai’s history, as remarkable as the city itself.

Frame

The exhibits at the beginning of the Frame show Dubai’s transformation from a village of pearl divers and pirates to a international city of commerce.

Archeological evidence shows there were people growing  date palms in the area since at least 2500 BCE- 4 ½ thousand years ago. But as the area became more desert and less mangrove swamp, population stagnated. It was an important caravan location in the 6th century, but still a small village. In the 7th century the Umayyads introduced Islam to the area and the village became known for fishing and pearl diving. By the 16th century, the village  was trade center, catering to expats, with many Venetians working in the pearl industry.

In 1833, the Al Maktoum dynasty took over, and settled 800 members of the Bani Yas tribe at the mouth of the creek, though border disputes with Abu Dhabi continued for more than a century.  This settlement is considered the founding of Dubai.

By the late 1800’s, the area was rife with pirates, so the British signed several treaties in an attempt to reduce piracy. In 1892, Sheikh Maktoum signed a business deal with the British, turning the area into a British protectorate which granted full tax exemption for foreign trade. Dubai became a major port of call and trading center, boasting some 20,000 residents by 1930, with ¼ of the population foreign.

When oil was discovered in 1966,  Dubai’s ruler, His Highness Sheikh Rashid bin Saeed Al Maktoum, used the increased revenue to begin a frenetic building spree that continues today, developing roads, hospitals, schools, hotels, parks and attractions. In 1971-72 Dubai joined with 6 other emirates (Abu Dhabi, Sharjah, Ajman, Umm Al Quwain, Fujairah and Ras Al Khaimah) to create the United Arab Emirates, which has become one of the richest countries in the world. The current ruler of Dubai, His Highness Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid Al Maktoum, is considered the inspiration for the modern, forward-thinking city. He says, “We, in the UAE, have no word as ‘impossible’; It does not exist in our lexicon.” It is his vision that has created Dubai not just as a world trade center but also an exquisite tourist destination, with a population of over two million.

For a city to grow so exponentially in less than a 100 years means there are bound to be problems underlying the surface. For all its glitz, Dubai still exists in a desert, with few natural resources other than oil. The city must rely on desalination for all of its water. A dark haze blurs the outline of the city skyscrapers, and dust settles on every surface. Green spaces are all artificial and mostly manicured so that one feels a disconnect from the natural world. And it’s hot. Too hot to spend much time outside, so the city residents rely on air-conditioning. More cars than parking spaces and limited public transportation makes going anywhere a real challenge. Hovering cranes dot the landscape and the sounds of construction vibrate from Sunday morning till Thursday night, pausing only for the weekend.

But there is another side to Dubai, beyond the glamour and the fantasy, beyond the crowds and abuse of natural resources; that is the family side. 90 percent of residents in Dubai are expats–from India, the Philippines, south Africa, Britain, Germany, the United States, and elsewhere.These people look for stores, schools, restaurants and play spaces in their own images, resulting in a curious mix of the familiar and the foreign– English with an Arab veneer (or vice versa).

McDonald’s, Wendy’s, and Starbucks fill the malls, but the menus include McArabia Chicken in pita as well as chicken nuggets. Fancy modern malls and old style souks offer pashminas from India, rugs from Iran, and Dubai souvenirs made in China. In the grocery stores you can find Jello or spaghetti noodles as well as dozens of varieties of olives and dates, and open bins of spice. In the malls, the rich aromas of cardamom, rose, and za’atar spice assault the senses. Perfumes hang in the air: the heavy scent of rosewood, sandalwood, and incense. Women in black abayas, their hair covered with a shayla, stroll alongside their -t-shirt clad children. Arab men in their white dishdashas shake hands with German CEO’s in suit and tie. Tourists in shorts, jeans, or Indian saris amble through the crowds. Strains of music from European and Arabic pop stars mix by the fountains, and overall wafts the periodic call to prayer from the mosques. This is the Dubai where people live and work, not just visit. This is the Dubai our daughter calls home.

Perhaps more than anything else, Dubai offers a vision for the city of the future, a place where cultures mix, imagination soars, and anything is possible.

 

On Corning Beef

IMG_0552As March draws toward its closing, we have just finished celebrating St. Patrick’s Day, the biggest Irish-American holiday of the year, with one of my favorite meals–traditional corned beef and cabbage.

Except that it’s not.

Not traditional Irish that is. In Ireland, corned beef is not particularly special or common. So how did this iconic dish gain first class status for Irish-Americans? The story is complicated.

First of all, what is corned beef and how did it get its name? Corned beef is beef preserved with a salt brine,various spices, and saltpetre.The saltpetre gives the meat its pinkish color. (Modern corned beef uses sodium nitrite.) ‘Corn’ related to kernel, means grain and refers to the large grains of salt used in the process.

The Irish did not invent corned beef. Many cultures around the world salted beef or other foods as a way of preserving them even before the Greeks and Romans. Corned beef appears in Irish cookery as early as the 12th century. The dish is mentioned in a satiric poem, Aislinge Meic Conglinne, about a king trying to defeat gluttony. It’s interesting, because in ancient and medieval Ireland, only kings were wealthy enough to eat beef. Cattle were a mark of wealth and status. Though used for dairy products, cows were not often eaten. Most of the Irish people ate pork, salted or fresh.  

Then things changed in the 12th century, when England invaded Ireland. By the 16th century, England ruled all of Ireland. The English brought their love of beef (inherited from the Romans during that invasion centuries earlier). Ireland had wonderful pasture lands for raising beef cattle. In fact, the English overlords did such a good job of expanding beef production that in the 1660’s, the English parliament passed the Cattle Acts which prohibited exporting Irish beef since the Irish beef was hurting English farmers.

At the same time that Ireland was increasing beef production, the English navy was expanding, and English merchants (including slavers) began increased trade with the new world. Salted beef was very important for long sea voyages because it keeps well. Another factor in the rise of Irish corned beef was the tax on salt. Ireland had a much lower tax on salt imported from Spain or Portugal.

This plentiful combination of good salt and good beef meant that the Irish became known for great exported corned beef. They even sold it to both sides (French and English) during the Seven Years War. However, since corned beef was now an important trade commodity, it was too expensive for the average Irish to eat.

In another twist to the story, the demand of corned beef indirectly contributed to the Great Potato Famine in the middle of the 19th century. So much acreage was used for pasture land for beef production for export that ⅖ of the total population of Ireland relied completely on potatoes. When the blight hit the potato crop, they had nothing else to eat.

Thousands of starving Irish came to America, where they found corned beef regarded as poor food, fit mostly for slaves. For the first time, corned beef was affordable and the Irish immigrants embraced it. And so began the association of corned beef and and cabbage (another cheap food) with the celebration of all things Irish.

Most people buy packaged corned beef from the supermarket, but I found a couple of recipes from colonial times for salting your own beef.

The one I tried comes from The American Frugal Housewife, by Mrs. Child, (12th Edition) published in 1832.

It is good economy to salt your beef as well as pork. Six pound of coarse salt, eight ounce of brown sugar, a pint of molasses, and eight ounces of salt-petre are enough to boil in four gallons of water. Skim it clean while boiling. Put it to the beef cold; have enough to cover it’ and be careful your beef never floats on the top. It it does not smell perfectly sweet, thurw in more slat. If a scum rises upon it, scald and skim it again, and pour it on the beef when cold. …A six pound piece of corned beef should boil full three hours. (41-42)

Mrs. Child does not say how long to leave it in the brine, before boiling, but she does say that in summer the beef won’t keep well more than a day and a half, but will be good for a fortnight in winter. She also recommends leaving out the saltpetre in summer since it inhibits the absorption of other salts, and so the meat won’t keep as long.

For my recipe, I left out the saltpetre (because I didn’t have any) and adjusted for a much smaller piece of beef.

IMG_0550

Corned /Salted Beef
1 c. coarse salt
¼ c. brown sugar
¼ c. molasses
2 qts. water
2 lb. piece of beef (rump roast is all right, but a fattier cut works better)

First, make the brine. Pu all ingredients except the beef in a large pot. Bring it to a boil and boil until the salt and sugar dissolves. Skim it if necessary, then cool it thoroughly. Put the beef and brine in a non-reactive container. Make sure the brine can cover the beef. The beef will float, so put a weight (like a plate or inverted bowl) on the beef to hold it down in the brine. Refrigerate for 3 days, 
turning the beef daily.

To cook the beef, drain the brine, rinse the meat, and put it in 
fresh water. Boil it for about 2 hours.

Since this recipe does not include the spices of the more common corned beef, the result tastes like nicely salted roast beef- quite delicious. Other colonial recipes suggest adding various spices when boiling the beef, but I didn’t have a chance to try those. Perhaps next year.

In the meantime, I’ll keep my Irish (American) tradition. Erin go bragh (Éirinn go Brách)!

 

Irish Mysteries: The Proleek Dolman

A  Megalithic Portal Tomb

cr. at Proleek Dolman

With the coming of St. Patrick’s Day, March is the perfect month to celebrate all things Irish. Though perhaps most famous for the saint that drove away the snakes, Ireland has far more ancient mysteries, including nearly 200 portal tombs, often called dolmens or stone tables. Dolmens usually have three or more standing stones with a (more or less) flat capstone resting on top. Usually two of the standing stones form a portal to the inner chamber. Some evidence suggests that the standing stones and table stone were originally covered with a cairn of smaller rocks, so what we see today is only the skeleton of the neolithic structure.

These neolithic monuments are found in Europe, Africa, and Asia. Like the more famous Stonehenge, the massive stone pillars inspire awe and wonder in the millennia since they were built. Why were they built? How were they built? Who built them? For the most part, these  questions remain unanswered. No one knows for sure why the dolmens were built. Many archaeologists consider these monuments to be single-chamber, megalithic tombs, but there is insufficient evidence to be sure. A more intriguing, those less scientific explanation can be found in many legends that have been told explaining the dolmens, including stories of giants buried there, sleeping on top, or using the table stone as a griddle.

One delightful example is the Proleek Dolmen found on the grounds of Ballymascanlon House Hotel in County Louth. This dolmen was built around 3000 BCE. Its portal stones are about 3 meters high, and the capstone weighs over 35 tons. The portal faces westward, toward Slieve Gullion, so that at the summer solstice it is facing the sunset behind the mountain.100_6095

Why it’s called the Proleek Dolmen is another mystery. References to this monument in 1895 call it the Puleek Cromleach or Puleek Dolmen. The Irish name is Dolmain Phrollig. One nickname is the Giant’s Load. According to legend, a Scottish giant called Parrah Boug MacShagean carried the stone here. Para challenged the famous Irish hero, Fionn mac Cumhaill. Always more ready to trick his opponents than fight them, Fionn poisoned the Flurry River which runs nearby. Para drank from it and died, leaving Fionn the victor. The legend claims that the Scottish giant was buried in the wedge tomb found about 80 meters from the Dolmen.

100_6089.jpg
Wedge tombs were generally built 500 to 1000 years after the portal tombs and are unique to Ireland. The wedge tomb here runs west to east. The tomb is formed by two rows of large stones, decreasing in width and height to form a wedge.  A single roof stone remains, capping the east end of the tomb. Though not as impressive as the portal tombs, the wedge tombs are still a marvel of neolithic engineering. They are the last of the great megalithic tombs built in Ireland.

Finding the Proleek Dolmen can be an adventure. With little fanfare and few signs to guide the visitors, this 5000 year old monument to human ingenuity sits in a small clearing on the estate grounds. I’ve been to see the Proleek Dolmen a couple of times on my visits to Ireland, since it is in the same county where my Dad lived. The most recent was a visit with my three sisters. We arrived on a rainy afternoon after a stressful encounter with Irish roads and ditches.  


Golf ball warning

We arranged for both tires on the rental car to be replaced, indulged in a restorative cup of tea in the hotel dining room, then ambled out through the rose courtyard, through a cattle gate, and alongside the fairway of the hotel golf course (where the intrepid tourist must beware of stray golf balls.).

The rain let up by the time we reached the dolmen in a little clearing in the Irish countryside. Legend says that whoever throws a pebble on top of table stone and gets it to stay there, will either (depending on the version) marry within a year or have good luck. Since my sisters and I are already married we hoped for the luck. All of us managed to get the rock to stay on top, though it took me three tries. Perhaps that’s enough to guarantee continued good luck.

7.1.10 Proleek Dolmen.23

Lucky or not, the dolmen is worth the visit. Touching stones lifted into place by nameless hands centuries ago gives a profound sense of awe. Did they mourn for their loved ones? Did they believe the dead would live on, perhaps in a better place? There are no answers. Those who were buried beneath the stones, those who built the tomb, those who loved and cared for the dead are all gone now, unknown and perhaps unknowable. Yet the tomb remains, a mystery and an inspiration.

 

Thoughts on Remembering

Children’s Crusades and the Impact of Historical Fiction

My enchantment with historical fiction goes way back. The first real chapter book I remember reading was called A Boy of the Lost Crusade by Agnes Danforth Hewes. It was a long book, very long for a second grader–279 pages. It had a reddish brown hard-cover and a picture of a boy in a ragged tunic with a red crusader’s cross on it. Inside were just words, no pictures. In fact, my teacher told me it was too hard for me, which made me want to read it all the more.  And read it I did, starting a lifelong interest in the genre.

There is a lot I don’t remember about the book. The main character’s name is gone. The details of where in France (or was it Germany?) he started, exactly when the crusade occurred, and how the story ended have all slipped my mind in the 50+ plus years since I first read it. Actually, I even mis-remembered the title, thinking for years it was called Children of the Lost Crusade. (Perhaps because in my mind, I always became the main character in the book I was reading, and so I subconsciously remembered it as the story of a girl.)

What is more amazing is how much I do remember from this very first real book.  I remember being fascinated with the idea of children going on a crusade, and realizing it had really happened. I remember wondering why it was so important to ‘take back’ the Holy Land. I remember seeing slavery in a new light, understanding for the first time that many different people had been enslaved in many different places. In the parts of plot I do remember, the main character was headed toward the holy land toward a port in Italy with hundreds of children from all over Europe.They were cheated by a ruthless ship captain who sold them into slavery. The leaky ship wrecked somewhere in the Mediterranean, maybe Northern Africa or the shores of Jordan perhaps. At age 7, I had no idea these places even existed before  reading this book. Most of all I remember being carried away on that ship, agonizing over the boy’s fate, and feeling totally immersed in another time and place.

I’m not sure I would still like the story. The style of writing from 1923 is slower and less culturally sensitive than styles today. But in second grade, the story fascinated me–so much so that I remember the the book (or at least parts of it) decades later.  I began a quest to find out more about the past and the people who lived in it. My first novel (A Mistake of Consequence) explores the idea of forced indenture in the American colonies. A different time period, to be sure, but still another look at how people throughout history have forced others to work for them. I am still intrigued by how people lived and what they thought. I see so many connections between what happened ‘back then’ and what happens now. People of long ago fought over religious issues (some of the same ones) and struggled for power both in their personal lives in the political world. Mothers and fathers worried about caring for their children. Children got into mischief. Everyone needed to find food and shelter and avoid the bad guys, whoever they were. The solutions to the problems of long ago differ from today, but the problems are much the same. Both the solutions and failures of our forebears can help us learn to navigate the complexities of life today.

This all goes to say, historical fiction is valuable. For me, it opened new ways of looking at the world. With historical fiction, I do indeed live in interesting times…a lot of interesting times.

On Hedgehogs and Subtleties

Whether you call them hérisson (Fr.) or igel (German), sündiznó (Hungarian) ,or yrchouns (Middle English), hedgehogs are terribly cute. Of course, they haven’t always been regarded as such. Like guinea pigs and rabbits, this enchanting little creature has been considered a delicacy for the table. In fact, some evidence points to 8000 years ago, when roast hedgehog was served to the rich. In medieval times, the cook was advised to put a reluctant hedgehog in hot water to make it unroll so it could be properly cut open, cleaned and roasted.

That has changed. Perhaps it was because hedgehogs are so prickly, or perhaps it was that the medieval cooks loved subtleties (foods cooked to look like something else, serving also as table decorations). In any case, roasting actual hedgehogs became less popular among the elite, and hedgehog-themed foods took the animal’s place on the table.

My first encounter with a hedgehog subtlety was years ago, cooking for a medieval feast in the Society for Creative Anachronisms.  The recipe, called hedgehogs or yrchouns was a sort of glorified meatloaf/meatball stuck all over with almonds.

The original recipe:  Yrchouns. Take Piggis mawys, and skalde hem wel; take groundyn Porke, and knede it with Spicerye, with pouder Gyngere, and Salt and Sugre; do it on the mawe, but fille it nowt to fulle; then sewe hem with a fayre threde, and putte hem in a Spete as men don piggys; take blaunchid Almaundys, and kerf hem long, smal, and scharpe, and frye hem in grece and sugre; take a litel prycke, and prykke the yrchons, An putte in the holes the Almaundys, every hole half, and eche fro other; ley hem then to the fyre; when they ben rostid, dore hem sum wyth Whete Flowre, and mylke of Almaundys, sum grene, sum blake with Blode, and lat hem nowt browne to moche, and serue forth                 (Harleian Manuscript 279, c. 1430)

This recipe seems to be a variation from the French cookbook, Le Viandier de Taillevent. In that recipe, no almond spikes are included. Rather the rounded, stuffed sausage looks like a hedgehog without spines.  (Yrchoun is an anglicization of the French hérisson.)

hedgehop crop

My version:

2 lb. ground meat 
2 t. Ginger
1 t. mace
1 t. Salt
½ c. breadcrumbs
1 egg
Slivered almonds, raisins, food coloring

Mix the first 6 ingredients  and 
form into oval shaped balls. 
Color some of the almonds red and 
yellow with food coloring.Stick the almonds into the balls to resemble spines. Add 2 raisins for eyes. 
Bake 350 degrees about 30 minutes. 

Notes: Other recipes for hedgehogs suggest other meats,(ie mutton) which is why I use a mixture of pork and beef. I add breadcrumbs and egg to hold the mixture together more like a meatball, though neither is suggested in the original. (The French recipe calls for soft cheese for binding.) Spicerye just means spices, so which spices are added is up to the cook. I use mace as fairly common medieval spice added to ginger in meats. I leave out the sugar since it really isn’t necessary. Raisin eyes are not documented as period correct, but the French recipe does include raisins in the mixture.

Having enjoyed medieval meatball hedgehogs for years,  was recently astounded to see a completely different sort of hedgehog recipe in colonial and early American cookery. In the 1805 version of The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy, by Hannah Glass, there is a recipe for an almond paste hedgehog (a dish which in my mind is neither plain nor easy if the ‘marzipan’ is done by hand.)

Take two pounds of blanched almonds, beat them well in a mortar, with a little canary and orange-flower water, to keep them from oiling. Make them into stiff paste, then beat in the yolks of twelve eggs, leave out five of the whites, put to it a pint of cream sweetened with sugar, put in a half pound of sweet butter melted, set it on a furnace or slow fire, and keep it constantly stirring, till it is stiff enough to be made in the form of a hedgehog, then stick it full of blanched almonds, slit and stuck up like the bristles of a hedgehog, then put it into a dish; take a pint of cream, and the yolks of four eggs beat up, sweetened with sugar to your palate. Stir them together over a slow fire till it is quite hot; then pour it round the hedgehog in a dish, and let it stand till it is cold, and serve it up. Or a rich calf’s-foot jelly made clear and good, poured into the dish round the hedgehog; when it is cold, it looks pretty, and makes a neat dish; or it looks pretty in the middle of a table for supper .     (Glass, 185)

For modern cooks, a half recipe should suffice and still allow you to serve an impressive, delicious and decorative dish to the table.I kept the full amount of custard since it is such a delicious addition to the hedgehog. My adaptation for modern cooks is as follows

hedgehogs in custard
‘Marzipan’ Base:
1 lb almonds
1/2 c. Sherry
1 T orange extract
¼ c. sugar (more if you like a sweeter confection)
3 whole eggs
3 egg  yolks
¼ lb butter
½  pint cream
Decorations:
Slivered almonds
Raisins 
Custard sauce:
1 pt. Cream
4 egg yolks
¼ c. brown sugar

Blanch the almonds (Put raw, whole almonds in boiling water. Boil for 2 minutes. Drain and cool.  Squeeze or rub the almonds to pop them 
out of their skins.) and crush them to paste, adding the sherry and 
orange extract gradually. Put the almond mixture and remaining base 
ingredients in a saucepan. Cook over medium heat until it is stiff 
enough to mold.
Make into small oval shapes resembling hedgehogs- approximately ½ c. mixture for each one.
Set each in a custard dish or plate with a lip. Add raisins for eyes, and slivered almonds for spines.

To make the custard,
Mix the cream, egg yolks, and brown sugar. Cook over medium heat, 
stirring constantly, until thickened. Do not boil.

Pour the warm custard into each dish with the hedgehogs. Serve warm 
or chill and serve cold.

Notes:

Hannah Glass’s recipe is obviously designed for a wealthy home, with a large kitchen staff. Pounding the almonds in a mortar is difficult and time consuming. Whole blanched almonds are as slippery as real hedgehogs, and are as likely to pop out of the mortar and go flying as they are to be crushed.  I found chopping them first made it much easier. But crushing them is still time consuming. The modern cook can use a food processor to get the same effect. I ended up with a sort of crunchy paste, similar to crunchy peanut butter, but drier and finer. More pounding or processing may have made a smoother paste, but I was running out of time. For a smoother dish, the modern cook could purchase marzipan paste.

It is possible to get or make orange flower water (distilled from orange petals) but I substituted orange extract.

Canary is a sweet wine from the Canary Islands. I used sherry as a reasonable alternative.

Not surprisingly, hedgehogs continue to inspire. Pinterest boards abound with ideas for hedgehog crafts, cards, and cakes.  In fact, I made a hedgehog cake for my daughter-in-law’s baby shower.

hedgehog-cake.jpg

Though thoroughly modern in taste and ingredients, this hedgehog unwittingly carries on the medieval tradition of the subtlety. Food for show? Absolutely. We’re not so far from those lords and ladies of old trying to impress their guests. And who doesn’t like hedgehogs?

SNOW FALLING ON CEDARS: A Review

20180125_160746On a bleak winter’s day in January, nothing beats curling up with a cup of hot tea and a good book. Snow Falling on Cedars, by David Guterson, is a perfect choice for metaphorically shivering in your cozy chair.

The story takes place in the ironically named town Amity, on an island in Puget Sound off the coast of Washington in 1954, nine years after the end of World War II. It soon becomes apparent that the war and its consequences still haunt the islanders. Kabuo Miyamoto, an American of Japanese ancestry, is on trial for the murder of his fellow veteran and neighbor, Carl Heine. The trial, held during a December blizzard, reveals deep prejudice between the islanders of European/ German descent and those of Japanese descent. Their scars barely hide the festering wounds and smoldering resentments from war-time activities.

Through flashbacks skillfully woven into the trial narrative, Guterson takes readers back to the war years when the Japanese American citizens were rounded up and sent to Manzanar. Gradually we learn how Kabuo’s and Carl’s lives intertwined around seven acres of disputed strawberry fields. And we watch with sympathy as their high school classmate, Ishmael, an embittered, one-armed war hero-turned-journalist, struggles with his demons from the past, including his never-forgotten love for Kabuo’s wife, Hatsue. Suspenseful, poetic and well-plotted, Snow Falling on Cedars, is at its heart, also a love story, where love and hate  are two sides of the same coin.

With superb, evocative writing, Guterson takes us on a roller coaster ride, making us question our own convictions and prejudices as we consider Kabuo’s guilt or innocence. Guterson’s vividly portrayed characters reveal a community deeply divided by cultural rifts and mutual suspicions. Like To Kill A Mockingbird, another famous novel revolving around a trial, Snow Falling on Cedars examines  themes of prejudice, justice and personal integrity, with a deep understanding of the human heart and its weaknesses. It “portrays the psychology of a community, the ambiguities of justice, the racism that persists even between neighbors, and the necessity of individual moral action despite the indifference of nature and circumstance”(from dust jacket blurb), and makes us realize that love, chance, and accident all play a part in the universe of humanity.

This is historical fiction at its best, with solid research backing the story and nuanced characters so real they could be our own neighbors. Even though 1954 and WWII were before I was born, even though I’ve never gone gill-netting in the Pacific Northwest, or dug goeducks on a beach, or sheltered in a cedar tree in the rain, Guterson’s writing transported me to another time and place. This is a book is bound to be a classic, well worth reading and re-reading.

On Silver Linings

IMG_3832Part 2: Train wrecks

Remember Pollyanna? The girl who saw the good in every bad situation? I have been accused of being too much like her. I see adventure even in adverse situations more than I see the trouble. Take for instance, my luck with train travel. I’ve had three journeys that while memorable, were not ones I would ever want to repeat.

My first bad experience with a train was in Scotland. My at-that -time fiance and I were stranded in Loch Ness on New Year’s Day, 1976. (Why we were stranded is a story for another day). The train station was closed most of the day, and we had no place to stay except the sitting room of a B & B where we had spent part of the night. (We had to check out by 10 am and there were no other rooms available.)  When the train station finally opened in the late afternoon, we took the first train to Edinburgh. The train was not crowded and the compartments would have been comfortable, except there was no heat on the train. January in Scotland is cold. Very cold. Ice on the inside of the windows cold. Luckily, we traveled with a sleeping bag, under which we shivered all the way to Edinburgh.

Worse than a frigid ride are the wrecks. I’ve been in two, whIch I think far more than my lifetime allotment. (If bad things come in threes, than I’m safe, right?)

The most recent took place in 2014 in Tiffany Bottoms Wildlife Area, along the Chippewa River near Durand.  This stretch of track was built in 1882 to haul lumber to the Mississippi  River. For 14 miles, the rails run through a lush green corridor of marsh, wetlands, meadow, and bottomland forest. A winter derailment in 1977 caused the Chicago, Milwaukee, St. Paul and Pacific Railroad to abandoned the line. In June of 1979, NSP (now X-cel Energy) bought the track for possible future use, but didn’t actually use it. The tracks fell into disrepair, and some bridge sections collapsed. In 1995, a local group of rail enthusiasts founded the Chippewa Valley Motor Car Association to maintain and use the tracks for private interests. In an ingenuous use of resources, cars that had been used by maintenance workers were put to work hauling tourists, bird-watchers and nature lovers on 20 mile (out and back) trip through the Tiffany Bottoms, which is part of the Chippewa River Delta, the largest river delta in the Midwest.

The day Mike and I took the trip was a crisp, fall day with the sumac turning. Puffy clouds drifted across a deep blue sky. The train itself had a little gas-powered engine at each end, and open cars with back to back benches in between. We chugged along slowly on the way out, stopping frequently to take pictures and listen to the naturalist explain the history of the area. The excitement came on our return when the train hit a tree that had fallen on the tracks after our passing. Seated near the front of the second car, I saw the tree about the same time the engineer did. I also saw that we weren’t going to stop. Hand brakes, metal wheels on metal tracks, and stopping distance all combined to mean the crash was inevitable. At first I thought the train would break the fallen tree. Instead, when the engine hit, the tree bent. In a flash, I knew it would snap back with tremendous force. Instinctively I ducked. Half a second later a four inch log hit my head, skittered across Mike’s back and slammed into the people in the next car. At least two people tumbled off the train into the brush. Amid the screams of the passengers, the train screeched to a halt. Shaking, we disembarked to help the injured and assess the damage.

The conclusion? It could have been far, far worse. No one was seriously injured, though one man probably needed a few stitches in his cut lip. I had a mild headache, but no concussion, just a new story to tell.

Far worse than this mild catastrophe, was the wreck of the California Zephyr in 1982. My family (husband, and two toddlers) boarded the train in Iowa, heading toward California for my brother’s wedding. We had a sleeper berth on the upper floor and bedded down right after boarding with my husband and our 3 year old son on the top bunk, and me and our 1 year old daughter on the bottom.

Several hours later I was wakened by a tremendous crashing, a terrible lurching, and the thump of something hitting my back. As the train tilted over, I was desperately afraid I would crush my daughter.  Fortunately for all of us, that didn’t happen.

We soon determined that our car was half submerged and all exits blocked, but everyone on the floor below was safely brought upstairs. For three hours we sat in semi-darkness, waiting for dawn and rescue, which eventually came in the form of a boat. We learned there had been a flash flood that washed out the bridge, causing the the derailment. As dawn broke, we saw the water swirling below our window on the tilting train car and a helicopter with a net hovering downstream, presumably to rescue anyone swept away in the flood.  

So what’s good in all this? Well, I believe that any experience a writer survives is good in the long run because it provides new dimensions and new perspectives. I can write more realistically about a train crash in a flood because I’ve been in one. Less specifically, but just as important I can write about the confusion of waiting for rescue, the fear of not knowing what is going on, and the heart-warming gratitude toward strangers who remembered to bring diapers to the Red Cross shelter.

Pollyanna? Maybe, but I prefer to think of it as using the lemons to make lemonade.

Riding the rails

cropped sepia tracks      The Holiday Train

One of my earliest memories is riding the upper deck of a passenger train from San Bruno, California to San Francisco. I must have been about 6 or 7. Mom put me on train in San Bruno and my Aunt Betty picked me up at the end of the line in San Francisco. I don’t remember for sure, but I think one or two of my little sisters came along. I mostly remember how grown up I felt sitting in the fancy seat, and watching the hills fly by.

I still like train travel. It’s more  comfortable than flying, more elegant than a bus, and more relaxing than driving. Over the years since that first experience with trains I’ve had a many memorable train trips. I have taken the bullet train in Japan, and the Train de Gran Vitesse in France, a Jacobite steam train in Scotland, and Amtrak in the United States.

It’s a good thing I like trains, because the tracks in Winona run through my backyard.  When my kids were little, we made a game of watching the trains (from a safe distance). To this day, freight trains clank and screech as they park just beyond bedroom window. They shake the house and rattle the windows as they rumble past.

Trains are a part of life in Winona, a town divided by train tracks. Getting from one place to another almost always involves crossing the tracks. That makes for a good excuse for being late, but a lot of people (myself included) get annoyed when they have to wait for a train.

The one train no one minds waiting for is the Canadian-Pacific Holiday Train. For the past nineteen years, this fabulous train has criss-crossed the US and Canada bringing holiday cheer as they raise support for local food banks. Over the years, they have raised C$13 million and four million pounds of food for food banks across North America.  It’s a tradition in Winona I’ve grown to love.

This year, the train was due at 4:00 on December 8. Since the weather was so nice, I decided to walk to the station, only about a mile from my house. Families lined the tracks watching for the train. Children craned their necks and (mostly) minded their parents to stay off the tracks.

At last the train, ablaze with holiday lights, roared into the station, where hundreds of Winonans had gathered, munching cookies and sipping hot chocolate.  The doors of the freight car rolled open and the band began to play. The audience clapped mittened hands and stomped boots on frozen ground as we sang along to Jingle Bells, Up on a House Top and other Christmas favorites. Fog rolled from the train car-turned stage and red and green laser lights flashed.  Some years the fog comes from the singers’ breath and the musicians have had to play with frozen fingers, but this year we enjoyed a balmy 34 degrees. For 15 minutes we rocked-and-rolled Minnesota style. Then the band waved goodbye, the freight doors shut and the train chugged out of town.  

Volunteers gathered up the food and money donations and cleared away the hot chocolate and cookies. Slowly the crowd dispersed, the streets emptied and the dark, quiet of a December night returned.

Until the next train rolls through!