because i know i can't stay out of this blue hell

sideblog for ap-trash-compactor like my taste in posts? hmu on main :)

[rat-king-they-them]

[beammeupplease]

Yellow shirt/Dora Maar

Picasso

[cackling-conundrum]

“I met death, and death wanted me to live”

[the-lethargic-werewolf]

[sorrrowfull]

[margi-again]

[timetraveltasting]

ROMAN GAME HEN WITH HAZELNUT SAUCE (1st c. AD)

After making a couple of simpler Tasting History recipes, I finally had the time and motivation (I am in between jobs) to make a more complex recipe: Roman Game Hen with Hazelnut Sauce. This recipe comes once again from De Re Coquinaria of Apicius, an ancient Roman collection of recipes from the 1st century AD. Max made this recipe because he wanted to make a recipe using the same ingredients that would have been available to Alexander the Great. Unfortunately, not many recipes survive directly from Alexander's time and place in history, and as a result, a fancy Roman roast recipe is perhaps best to demonstrate Alexander's love for feasting. He was known for throwing lavish feasts, and as he conquered more and more land, he began to incorporate some of the feasting customs of the conquered lands into his own feasts. He was also known for his love of drinking, and accordingly, this recipe's sauce has a red wine base. I must forewarn that this recipe completely conquered me, much like Anatolia, Syria, Phoenicia, Egypt, Mesopotamia, Greater Iran, Afghanistan, and much of India were conquered by Alexander the Great. Perhaps fitting - learn from my mistakes! See Max’s video on how to make this dish here or see the ingredients and process at the end of this post, sourced from his website.

My experience making it:

I halved the recipe for this one, since Max made two hens and I knew that would be way too much for us. One is enough. I opted to use hazelnuts instead of almonds, saffron instead of safflower, fish sauce instead of garum, and long pepper instead of black pepper. I didn't have any dried mint or calamint on hand, so I used the equivalent amounts adjusted for the fresh mint I had. The red wine I used was a Cabernet Sauvignon from France, and the honey was linden tree honey. As you'll find out later, my major mistake that compromised this dish was buying a frozen hen called a "Suppenhuhn" here in Germany. I'll explain why that ruined my dish further down.

I thawed the frozen chicken earlier in the day, so it would be ready to cook for dinner. An hour or so before we wanted to eat, I began preparing the other ingredients. Firstly, I preheated the oven and measured out the hazelnuts, then I spread the hazelnuts out on a baking tray to roast. While they roasted, I chopped and portioned out all of my other ingredients. When the nuts were toasty, I took them out of the oven and began crushing them with a mortar and pestle (in batches, since mine is quite small). This took a while and caused a light bruise to form in the palm of my crushing hand, but they did smell like Nutella! Yum. Next, I added all the other ingredients except the calamint (or for me, mint) and celery leaves to a sauce pan, mixing and simmering for five minutes. At this point, I realized I had forgotten to add the ground hazelnuts to the sauce, so I quickly poured them in and let the sauce simmer for an extra minute or two. I then took the sauce off the heat and mixed in the mint and celery leaves.

Now came time to prepare the hen. I adjusted the temperature of the oven, then removed the hen from it's packaging - fully thawed! I put the bird breast-side up in a deep enamel baking pan, brushed it with olive oil, stabbed a few slits in it with a knife, and then poured the thick, nutty sauce (which was still pretty chunky) onto the bird, making sure to cover it as best as possible. There was no sauce left after I covered the bird, so I couldn't reserve any to use as a dipping sauce afterwards. I put the bird in the oven and let it roast for half an hour before checking its temperature. For some reason, the temperature was only about half what I expected it to be, so I decided to leave it in the oven for another ten minutes or so. When I took it out again, the internal temperature of the bird was still about ten degrees under what is safe to eat, so I put it back in the oven even though the hazelnut sauce crust on the bird was already reaching an awfully dark colour. Five minutes later, I removed the chicken once again to check the temperature to find out some of the hazelnuts on the crust had blackened. Uh oh. Luckily, the internal temperature had finally reached 165 degrees Fahrenheit (74 Celsius) - safe to eat! Amidst the baking, I prepared some broccoli and fried potatoes to accompany the chicken, so I plated those up and presented the slightly-charred bird on the table. It looked a little overcooked due to the charring, but I was confident the chicken inside should be cooked exactly right thanks to the meat thermometer.

My experience tasting it:

As always, I let my husband do the honours of carving the bird. I came to regret this! Using the carving knife, he tried his best to make the usual central incision: it was near impossible to cut through. He's a pretty strong guy, and has never had to fight with a roast in order to cut it to pieces before, but this bird seemed like it was made of pure bone or something! He changed tactics and tried to cut off just a leg. The skin alone was thicker than usual, almost as if there was cartilage casing the entire chicken. I fetched the scissors to see if that would cut through it. It did help, but he was pulling and sawing, and he eventually had to shout a few expletives. I felt terrible by this point, having spent money on several ingredients and several hours of my time only to create a disaster of a bird. Overcome with frustration, I shed a few tears. After a long-fought battle, my husband had finally gotten one measly leg off the damned bird, and we both tried a shred of the rubbery chicken. While it was cooked through, it was flavourless and dense, like chewing rubber.

By this point, my husband had to hold me back from throwing the whole bird out - it was truly a lost cause. I mean, we couldn't even cut it. I half-heartedly tried the sauce, and this was the only somewhat redeeming aspect of the roast. Because it had been in the oven so long, it had mostly dried up, and what was left were chunks of hazelnuts infused with the flavours and sediment of the sauce - quite delicious, in fact. The red wine and herbs had that typical, rich Roman flavour, very savoury and strong. If the chicken had been a normal roast chicken, the sauce would have tasted lovely on it. I decided to read up online about the German "Suppenhuhn" to see what it was. I had trusted that a chicken is a chicken is a chicken, and all would taste roughly the same when roasted - that was clearly naive. To quote Google, a Suppenhuhn is a "12-15 month old laying hen. Their meat is very flavourful, but must be cooked for at least 1 hour to make it tender." So, we had tried to roast an older hen that had a higher amount of fat, and that was why it was so difficult to cut into. So, I class this as a failed attempt, and because of how emotional it made me when it all went wrong and how many hours and ingredients were wasted, I will probably not try this recipe again. I know it's not the recipe's fault, it probably tastes quite nice when it goes well, but I don't know if I have the patience for this one. Either way, I learned some lessons: don't buy a Suppenhuhn unless you're making soup, and don't cry over old hen. If you end up making this dish (successfully or unsuccessfully!), if you liked it, or if you changed anything from the original recipe, do let me know!

Links to harder-to-find ingredients:

Long Pepper

Garum

Roman Game Hen with Hazelnut Sauce original recipe (1st c.)

Sourced from De Re Coquinaria of Apicius (1st c.).

Aliter Ius in Avibus, Another Sauce for Birds: Pepper, parsley, lovage, dried mint, safflower, pour in wine, add toasted hazelnuts or almonds, a little honey with wine and vinegar, season with garum. Add oil to this in a pot, heat it, stir in green celery and calamint. Make incisions in the birds and pour the sauce over them.

Modern Recipe

Based on the recipe from De Re Coquinaria of Apicius (1st c.) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Ingredients:

2 cups (250 g) hazelnuts or almonds

1 tsp ground long pepper or black pepper

2 tsp minced fresh parsley

2 tsp dried or fresh lovage

1 1/2 tsp dried mint

A pinch of safflower threads, or saffron threads

1 1/2 cups (350 ml) dry red wine

2 tbsp honey

2 tbsp red wine vinegar

2 tbsp olive oil

2 tbsp garum or fish sauce

2 tsp minced celery leaves

1 tsp minced calamint, or catmint or spearmint

Whatever fowl you like, I used 2 game hens

Olive oil, for brushing the birds

Method:

First prepare to roast the hazelnuts or almonds by preheating the oven to 350°F (175°C). Spread the nuts onto a baking pan and bake for about 12 to 15 minutes, moving the nuts around once or twice during the cook time. You can stir them or gently shake the pan. You’ll know they’re ready when you can smell the toasty nutty aroma.

Using a mortar and pestle or a food processor, grind the nuts into a coarse powder.

In a saucepan, stir together the ground nuts and all of the other ingredients except for the celery leaves and calamint.

Bring the sauce to a simmer over medium heat, and simmer for 5 minutes.

Remove the pan from the heat and stir in the celery leaves and calamint.

You can now serve the sauce forth as-is with cooked poultry, but I cooked my game hens with the sauce for some extra flavor. To do this, first preheat the oven to 400°F (205°C).

Arrange your poultry breast-side up in a baking dish. Brush them with olive oil. Pierce the breast of the birds several times with a knife, then pour the sauce over them, reserving some of the sauce for serving if you wish. The ground nuts will form a layer on the birds that will become a lovely crust.

Roast for 35 to 45 minutes for two game hens like I used, but your time may vary depending on what bird you use. Whatever you choose, cook until the internal temperature in the thickest part of the breast and the innermost part of the thigh reaches 165°F (74°C), then serve it forth with reserved sauce if you wish.

[timetraveltasting]

PINEAPPLE TART FILLING (1736)

Having achieved a goal I had been working towards for months, namely, taking my B1-level German test, I thought it would be nice to celebrate midweek with a sweet and simplified Tasting History recipe: a Pineapple Tart (well, just the filling) from 1736. Due to the fatigue of taking a two-day long test in another language, I didn't have it in me to also make the crust, so I followed Max's recommendation and just made the filling portion of this recipe, which comes from the 6th edition of The Country Housewife and Lady’s Director by R. Bradley. Europeans did not come across pineapples until the early 16th century, but they soon become a coveted fruit. For hundreds of years after, the pineapple served as a status symbol for European royalty and nobility. Just one pineapple could cost about $10,000 in today’s money, and pineapples were depicted in architecture, tableware, paintings, clothing, and accessories. Many people knew what pineapples looked like, but few had actually tasted one. Some people would even rent pineapples to display in their homes as finery for a special occasion, and since the pineapples were only rented and must be returned, the renters did not even get to taste them. Nowadays, we can count ourselves lucky that we have easy access to these sweet, tropical fruits even an ocean away. In fact, my supermarket even has a machine that will de-stem, peel, and chop the pineapple according to your specifications in just one minute - what absolute luxury! Pineapples being among my favourite fruits, I just had to try this recipe, even in a crustless version. See Max’s video on how to make this dish here or see the ingredients and process at the end of this post, sourced from his website.

My experience making it:

As I mentioned, I decided to make only the filling for this recipe, as it makes it a whole lot easier, and I was running a bit low on energy. To see the crusted tart version of this recipe, definitely watch Max's video. In line with the original recipe, I used a Rainwater Madeira wine. I had never had Madeira wine before, so I did taste a little bit of it on its own first. It reminded me of port (it was fairly sweet), but with a bit of a sherry aftertaste. Quite delectable!

Beginning with Step 12 of Max's recipe (to skip the preparing of the crust), I used the fun pineapple-chopping machine at my supermarket to make the first few steps easier on myself. I returned home with a container full of a fresh pineapple chopped into chunks. Easy peasy! In a bowl, I added the Madeira wine and whisked in a cup of sugar. It seemed like an awful lot of sugar and as a result, I was unsure it was going to properly combine with the wine, but the more I whisked, the more uniform the mixture looked. I put the chunked pineapple into a large frying pan and drizzled the wine and sugar mixture overtop of the pineapple. Setting the stove on medium heat (since my stove tends to run hot), I fried the pineapples in their sugary bath for 30 minutes. Nearing the end, the mixture was frothing and bubbling up a lot, which I took to mean that it was nearly ready. The pineapple chunks had softened a lot, and I was worried for their structural integrity. I let the pan and contents cool for a few minutes. Max says you can serve this hot or cold, and I wanted to try it both ways, so I decided to serve myself a portion hot in a tiny coupe glass with whipped cream on top (as he suggests), and I poured the rest into a container to put in the fridge. This way, my husband and I could have a cold version for dessert later. Upon serving up my hot pineapple filling, I was originally a bit worried that the syrup part of the filling was too thin. But after checking the refrigerated filling after 5 minutes or so, I noticed that the syrup really thickened as it got colder. The hot pineapple I was about to eat had cooled enough that I wouldn't burn my tongue, so I swirled some whipped cream on top and dug in with my tiny spoon!

My experience tasting it:

My first bite, with a bit of filling and a bit of whipped cream, was positively terrific! The hot and cold combo worked really nicely, and the mixture of textures was also lovely. As someone who doesn't normally like pineapple in any of its 'hot' preparations like deep-fried or on a pizza, it was a surprise to me that I didn't mind it being hot in this recipe. I commend the Madeira wine and copious amounts of sugar for pitching in on that front. You could really taste the Madeira wine - it lended a complex, slightly savoury taste which I could only describe as 'fancy'. This tasted like a dessert that would be served at a fine dining restaurant (in flavour, not in presentation!). I do think that if you don't make the crust, it is essential to add the whipped cream for this dessert, as otherwise, the sugar would most definitely overwhelm your tastebuds. And that's coming from me, a self-described sweet-tooth! After thoroughly enjoying the hot version of this pineapple tart filling, it came back for a chilled encore later that evening. For dessert, I served myself and my husband a cup each of the pineapple filling topped again with whipped cream. I'm not sure if it was only because it was over 30 degrees Celsius, our first really summery day, but the chilled version of this recipe was even better than the warm version. The flavour of the Madeira wine absolutely shone alongside the acidity of the pineapple and the sweetness of the syrup, and the whipped cream brought an extra lightness to an otherwise heavy dessert. I still think I could only eat one portion in a sitting due to how sweet it is, but in all other respects, this dish was really fantastic. My husband and I both loved it, and agreed to make it again in the future. I will perhaps try it at some point with the originally-intended crust. I completely see why the pineapple was so prized in Europe for so long, especially considering the great distances they must travel to get here. If you end up making this recipe, if you liked it, or if you changed anything from the original recipe, do let me know!

Pineapple Tart original recipe (1736)

Sourced from The Country Housewife and Lady’s Director, 6th edition by R. Bradley (1736) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

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

Modern Recipe

Based on the recipe from The Country Housewife and Lady’s Director, 6th edition by R. Bradley (1736) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Ingredients:

Crust

1/2 cup (113 g) butter, cut into small pieces

1 3/4 cups (225 g) flour

Generous 1/3 cup (40 g) powdered sugar

1 tablespoon brandy

1 tablespoon Malmsey or other semi sweet dessert wine

1/4 cup (60 ml) milk

Filling

1 small pineapple

1 cup (200 g) sugar

1/2 cup (120 Malmsey or other semi sweet dessert wine

Method:

For the crust: Whisk the flour and powdered sugar together in a large bowl.

Rub the butter into the flour mixture with your fingers until it’s well incorporated and has a sandy texture.

Add the brandy, wine, and about half of the milk and work the mixture with your hands until it begins to form a dough. If the mixture is too dry, add more milk a little at a time until it comes together. You may not need all of the milk.

Turn the dough out onto a work surface and knead it a few times until there are no more bits of flour visible.

Flatten the dough out into a disc about 1 inch (2.5 cm) thick, wrap it up, and refrigerate it for at least 1 hour.

Preheat the oven to 425°F (220°C).

After the dough has chilled and rested for at least 1 hour, place it on a lightly floured work surface. Press the dough disc all over with a rolling pin until it softens up enough to roll out. Roll the dough out to 1/8 inch (3 mm) thick.

You can make one 9 inch tart or six 4 inch ones. Line your preferred tart tin(s) with the dough, making sure to press dough gently into the bottom and sides. Dock the bottom of the tart(s) all over with a fork.

Blind bake the dough by lining it with parchment and filling them with baking weights, dry beans, or dry rice. Crumpling the parchment up before using it can help it reach into the corners. Place the tins on a baking sheet.

Bake for 15 minutes, then carefully remove the parchment and baking beans. Return to the oven for 5 minutes or until the bottom of the tart(s) looks dry and the crust has lightly browned. Let the tart crust cool and remove from the tart pan(s). Place the crust(s) on a baking sheet.

For the filling: Preheat the oven to 350°F (175°C).

Slice the top and bottom off of the pineapple, then cut off the prickly skin. Use a paring knife to carefully cut out any remaining prickly bits.

Slice the pineapple into 1/2 inch (1 cm) slices and remove the core. A small round cookie cutter is helpful for core removal. If you’re making smaller tarts, then cut the pineapple rings into pieces, about sixths or eighths. If you’re making a large tart, you can leave them whole. Place the pineapple in a large pan.

In a bowl, whisk together the wine and sugar until the sugar is mostly dissolved. Pour this mixture over the pineapple.

Set the pan over medium high heat and bring it to a simmer. Let it simmer until the pineapple has become quite soft and the syrup has thickened, about 25 to 30 minutes. Take the pan off the heat and let the pineapple cool for a few minutes.

To assemble: Spoon the pineapple into your tart(s), filling most of the way. Pour some of the syrup over the pineapple. You may want to simmer the syrup by itself for a little while longer if it’s not nice and thick.

Bake the tart(s) for 20 minutes or until the syrup is bubbling.

Serve the tart(s) forth hot or cold, with a little cream drizzled on top if you wish. If you let cool to room temperature, the syrup thickens up and it will be less messy to eat.

[timetraveltasting]

PAPAL CONCLAVE BABY BACK RIBS (1570)

Having much more time on my hands than I expected this weekend, I felt it was the perfect time to spend it making a Tasting History dish that was eaten at the 1549 papal conclave in the Vatican: Papal Conclave Baby Back Ribs. Bartolomeo Scappi, the personal chef of Pope Pius IV and known as one of the first 'celebrity chefs', cooked baby back ribs for the cardinals deliberating over who would become the next pope in 1549. Scappi later wrote down the recipe for his ribs in his 1570 cookbook, Opera dell’arte del cucinare, known today as the Opera di Bartolomeo Scappi. This cookbook is unique for the time period, as Scappi not only describes the preparation of dishes, but also depicts illustrations showing steps for preparing and transporting the food. The food served to the papal conclave cardinals varies greatly depending on time period, as you could guess. In general however, the dishes served to the cardinals would be tested for poison, inspected for secret messages, put in special containers, and delivered to the cardinals using a turntable called Ruota del Conclave. For the conclave of 1549, the cardinals were not deliberating in the Sistine Chapel specifically, but in the Pauline Chapel. The Sistine Chapel was actually used as their dormitory, and each cardinal would have a curtained off wooden cell there where they would eat and sleep separately. Despite all of these measures however, the conclave of 1549 is known as one of the more controversial, as pretty much all of the rules of secrecy had been broken and the deliberations were therefore almost entirely known by the public. At least they had good food, though! I've never made ribs before, and what better way to try making them than with a recipe fit for a pope. See Max’s video on how to make this dish here or see the ingredients and process at the end of this post, sourced from his website.

My experience making it:

I had originally intended to halve this recipe, purchasing only 500g of baby back ribs instead of 1kg, but I noticed that mine didn't look too much smaller than Max's, so I decided to follow the rest of the recipe as written. I didn't find any saba to use for my defrutum, so I reduced some grape juice down to 1/3, as Max suggests. Unforunately, my measuring was a little off, so I ended up with one less tablespoon than needed for the sauce. To compensate for this in an attempt to keep the ratio of ingredients for the sauce balanced, I also reduced to the amount of red wine vinegar to 1 teaspoon instead of 1 tablespoon. I think it helped!

The night before I wanted to serve the ribs, I prepared them so they could marinate in the fridge overnight. I pulled the silverskin off the back of the ribs using the method Max describes: first cutting with a knife, then pulling it all the way off with a paper towel. To my surprise, this worked quite well! I mixed the salt and 1 teaspoon of ground coriander seed together, then rubbed it on both sides of the ribs. Following this, I prepared the marinade by chopping 3 cloves of garlic (mine were pretty big cloves, but when it comes to garlic, the more the merrier, in my opinion!) and mixing it with another teaspoon of ground coriander seed, a teaspoon of red wine vinegar, and a tablespoon of the reduced grape juice. It didn't completely combine, but I pushed forward anyways and brushed it over the front and back of the ribs until they were covered. I did all of this over a large piece of aluminum foil, which I then wrapped around the meat tightly so the juices would seep into the meat as it sat in the fridge overnight.

The next day, I preheated the oven, peeled and chopped the onions into quarters, then brought the tinfoil package of ribs out of the fridge. Unwrapping it, I placed the onion quarters in a row under the concave part of the ribs, then wrapped the package up again. I don't have a wire baking rack, so I just placed the package on a baking tray and put it in the oven. I left it in there for two and a half hours before deciding to check it with a meat thermometer (I wanted to make sure it hit a safe temperature for eating). Online it said the internal temperature should reach 190 degrees Fahrenheit when ready, so I aimed for that. The first time I checked it, it was still around 170 degrees, so I popped it back in the oven for another half hour. The next time I checked it, at the three-hour mark, the temperature was 187 degrees, so I put it back in for another 5 minutes. I figured that was close enough, because I did want to pop the ribs uncovered under the broiler to get a crisp on it, and I figured this would push it to the right temperature in the end. While I put the ribs under the broiler at 250 degrees Celsius, I made the sauce. I chopped the last clove of garlic, let that cook in some hot oil in a saucepan, added the last teaspoon of ground coriander seed, and kept stirring until it smelled nice. Then, I added the rest of the reduced grape juice and the teaspoon of red wine vinegar and simmered for a couple minutes. Max was right - it did not really thicken at all. As it simmered, I took the ribs out from under the broiler, and they looked like they had finally gotten a nice crisp on them (before they had looked fairly gelatinous). I cut them in two parts, drizzled about half the sauce on top, and surrounded the ribs with the roasted onions on a plate. I served them forth feeling quite proud of myself - they really looked like ribs you might see in a restaurant! Although I will admit, they didn't smell quite as good as real barbecue.

My experience tasting it:

My husband and I dug in immediately, leaving our manners behind and pulling the ribs apart with our fingers after a more than three-hour wait to eat. Ribs are supposed to be messy, and these were just a little bit. Because the sauce was thinner than your average barbecue sauce, they left less residue behind. The meat came off the bone well, as we tore in, but did not quite 'fall off the bone'. We didn't care though, they tasted really, really wonderful. I can't say I've tasted a sauce quite like it: while garlic was a forward flavour, the salt and ground coriander were the main flavour, with just enough sweetness from the reduced grape juice and just enough acidity from the red wine vinegar. I was really happy I adjusted the amount of red wine vinegar to keep the ratio constant with the amount of reduced grape juice I had, because otherwise the main flavour of the sauce would be vinegar! The rub, marinade, and sauce had really worked together perfectly to bring a wonderful taste to the ribs, and the ribs were also still pretty tender. I was so impressed I didn't mess those up, since I sometimes have problems cooking meats properly. The roasted onion also tasted fantastic with the sauce, so we dipped those into the remaining sauce. We finished the papal conclave ribs in record time, wishing we had more but thankful we didn't, since we were, in fact, full. Even though this recipe takes a long time to make and requires some overnight waiting, I will definitely make them again, perhaps for friends or family when they come for a visit. They are impressive visually, not to mention flavour-wise, and the sauce is wonderfully unique - something special. It's no surprise Scappi's food was well-loved by the cardinals of the papal conclave, and I can totally see why some conclaves lasted up to three years in those early days. I would also want more of that delicious conclave food! If you end up making this dish, if you liked it, or if you changed anything from the original recipe, do let me know!

Papal Conclave Baby Back Ribs original recipe (1570)

Sourced from the Opera di Bartolomeo Scappi (1570) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Different ways to cook the back ribs of a domestic pig If the pig is young, the ribs can be roasted on the spit with the rind, or without, and with onions split in the pan, which are cooked with the fat that drips from the meat as it cooks…and before it is put on the spit, it is sprinkled with salt and ground coriander seed. You could also let the ribs stand in a marinade of vinegar, grape must syrup, garlic cloves and coriander, and then cook it on the spit in the above way, serving it hot with a sauce on top made of the same seasoning…

Links to Harder-To-Find Ingredients:

Saba

Modern Recipe

Based on the recipe from the Opera di Bartolomeo Scappi (1570) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Ingredients:

Ribs

1 rack, about 2 lbs (1 kg) baby back ribs

1 tablespoon salt

1 teaspoon ground coriander

2-3 small onions, I used white

Marinade

3 cloves garlic

1 teaspoon ground coriander

1 teaspoon red wine vinegar

1 tablespoon sapa/saba*

Sauce

1 tablespoon olive oil

1 clove garlic

1 teaspoon ground coriander

1 tablespoon red wine vinegar

3 to 4 tablespoons sapa/saba*

*Saba, or sapa, is grape must that has been reduced down to a syrup. It can be expensive, so you can reduce some grape juice instead to about 1/3 of your starting amount. It won't be as complex as saba, but it will work just fine.

Method:

To prepare the ribs: If your ribs still have the silver skin on the back, you can remove it if you’d like. This isn’t necessary, but it makes for a more pleasant texture in the end. To remove the silver skin, carefully pry it up with a sharp knife (often easier said than done), then you should be able to peel it off. A paper towel is helpful for getting a better grip on the silver skin.

Sprinkle the salt evenly over both sides of the ribs and rub it in, then do the same with the ground coriander.

For the marinade: Crush the garlic, then whisk it together with the ground coriander, red wine vinegar, and sapa.

Set the ribs on a large piece of aluminum foil. Brush the marinade evenly over both sides of the ribs, using all of the marinade. Wrap the ribs up tightly in the foil and place them in the fridge to marinate overnight.

To cook the ribs: Preheat the oven to 275°F (135°C). Place a wire rack on a baking sheet.

Peel and chop the onions into quarters. Unwrap the marinated ribs and place the onion quarters underneath the ribs.

Rewrap the ribs tightly and place them on the wire rack and baking sheet, and bake for 2 1/2 to 3 hours.

When the meat is falling off the bone, they’re done. For extra authenticity, you can open up the foil and place the ribs under the broiler for 2 to 3 minutes to darken them and better emulate Scappi’s open fires.

To make the sauce: Heat the olive oil in a pan over medium heat. Crush the garlic clove and add it to the pan along with the ground coriander. Cook, stirring occasionally, for a few minutes, until the garlic is fragrant. Stir in the red wine vinegar and the sapa and bring it to a simmer, then simmer for 2 minutes. The sauce will be fairly thin, much thinner than a modern barbecue sauce.

To serve: Pour the sauce over the ribs, carve them as you like, and serve them forth with the onions.

[timetraveltasting]

ST. COLUMBA'S SALMON (6th c., 15th c.)

Despite most of my time being taken up by watching various Euro Cup games (since Germany is hosting, the atmosphere in my neighbourhood is electric!), I did find some time this weekend to make my next Tasting History dish, St. Columba's Salmon. This recipe is inspired by Saint Columba, who fled Ireland in the 6th century (after some literary drama) to settle on Iona, an island off the coast of Scotland. He established an abbey there, performing miracles and prophesying the deaths of people and animals in the vicinity. Seafood would have been a mainstay for Saint Columba, and because we don't have any recipes from St. Columba's life and times, this salmon dish is made up of recipes from later on in the Middle Ages which include the ingredients that would have been available in Columba’s time on Iona, the only imports being pepper and wine. I chose to make this recipe partly in honour of all the amazing Scottish football fans who have made our Euro Cup viewings memorable in the best of ways here in Germany, and also because salmon is a favourite dish of mine. See Max’s video on how to make it here or see the ingredients and process at the end of this post, sourced from his website.

My experience making it:

I made a couple changes to the modern recipe below. The big one: I pretty much disregarded the recipe for making the salmon because, to me, the idea of boiling salmon in wine is a disrespect to both the salmon and the wine. So, I pan-fried the salmon instead with a small amount of dill, as dill is my favourite way to season it. For the wine in the sauce, I used a German dry riesling, and for the bread, I used a classic French baguette.

Despite only following the sauce part of the recipe, it still took awhile to make, mostly because of the amount of chopping and pounding with the mortar and pestle for the herbs. I don't think I got quite as smooth of a paste as Max did, but fairly close. The bread soaked up the vinegar almost too well. When I added the herb paste and soaked bread bits into the white wine, I quickly realized the amount of white wine called for seemed way too much - even after mixing, the sauce seemed terribly thin. As a result, I added more soaked bread, but it was still too thin. I eventually achieved the consistency of Max's sauce by putting the mixture through a sieve, then adding back in a small amount of the liquid. The sauce finally looked like it was supposed to, so after pan-frying the salmon and adding a side of peas and leftover baguette with butter, I served it forth!

My experience tasting it:

I first tried the sauce by itself, partly in order to see how much I should put on the salmon. Honestly, the sauce tasted mostly of vinegar, with only a slight flavour of herbs at the end. So, I only put a little bit of the herb sauce on the salmon in order to not overpower the flavour of the salmon. My first bite of the sauce on the salmon was also a little too vinegary for my liking. The texture and flavour of the salmon was, as always, delicious, but the sourness of the sauce really spoiled a lot of the flavour. I think the herb notes at the end were quite delicious with the salmon, though, so if I were to make this sauce again, I would probably soak the bread in water instead of white wine vinegar. The sauce's texture was also a little bit more like a dressing than a sauce, so I could see it working well on something other than salmon. My husband and I agreed that we will not make this recipe again. For the amount of work and time it takes to make the sauce, the result overpowered the salmon and seemed like a waste of good parsley, good wine, and good French baguette. I was unpleasantly surprised regarding this, since Max seemed to really like this dish and said he would consider making St. Columba's Salmon as a modern recipe today. However, for us, it was a flop. Maybe I went wrong somewhere in preparing it; maybe by putting the sauce through a sieve, too much wine was removed, leaving only the vinegar taste behind. Oh well. If you end up making it, if you liked it, or if you changed anything from the original recipe, do let me know!

St. Columba's Salmon original recipes (15th c.)

Sourced from Registrum Coquinae, c. 1430, and Liber Cure Cocorum, c. 1430, respectively.

If you want to simmer salmon, add wine and parsley, and it will be good. For verde sawce Take parsley, thyme an ounce, and grind, Take white bread grated by kind Mix all up with vinegar or wine, Season it with powder of pepper fine.

Modern Recipe

Based on Registrum Coquinae (c. 1430), Liber Cure Cocorum (c. 1430), and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Ingredients:

Salmon:

1 750 ml bottle of white wine

2 pounds (1 kg) wild salmon

A handful of torn parsley leaves

Water

Salt and pepper

Sauce

A large handful of flat leaf parsley

2 tablespoons fresh thyme

1 slice of bread with no crust

1/2 teaspoon pepper

A few splashes of white wine vinegar

Method:

For the salmon:

Reserve 1/2 cup (120 ml) of the wine for the sauce and pour the rest into a large pot.

Add the parsley and then enough water so that the liquid will cover the salmon.

Bring the liquid to a boil, then reduce the heat and let the temperature drop to about 175°F (80°C). A candy thermometer is helpful for this.

Add the salmon to the pot and let it cook undisturbed for 10 minutes.

For the sauce:

Chop the parsley as finely as possible. Grind the parsley and thyme in a mortar and pestle until it becomes a paste.

Soak the bread in the vinegar, then add a bit to the herbs. You’re not going to need much bread. Grind the bread with the herbs until it’s nice and smooth, then transfer it to a bowl and add in the 1/2 cup of reserved wine to make a sauce.

Add the pepper and set it aside. If you want a thicker sauce, you can grind up more of the bread and add it in.

To serve:

After 10 minutes, take the salmon out of the poaching liquid and let it cool. You can eat it warm, but Saint Columba probably would have eaten it at room temperature or even cold.

Sprinkle the salmon with salt and pepper, pour the sauce over the fish, and serve it forth.

[timetraveltasting]

BOKENADE (c. 1430)

This week has been colder than usual, and what better way to warm up than with a piping hot Tasting History dish: the medieval Bokenade. This meat stew is found in Harleian Manuscript 279, a manuscript of recipes from around 1430 A.D., and is located under the section for "winter potages". When reading the text in this manuscript, it is easy to detect the French influence in the language, and many of the recipes are just the kind of hearty meals that would have been served in medieval taverns. Like me, you may have heard rumours of certain restaurants in the world having perpetual dishes, perhaps a soup, stew, or curry that has been cooking without interruption for hundreds of years. Who's to say whether these dishes have really cooked without interruption, or if that is hyperbolic advertising, but either way, perpetual stews may have been quite common in medieval taverns. As stew was ladled out into the bowls of the hungry patrons, more ingredients would be added in so that the stew kept on stewing. Typically this is good for flavour, consistency of taste across many bowls, and keeping your menu simple and delicious. One rumour of such a stew is one in southern France, where, apparently, a perpetual stew was served from the 15th century (around when this recipe was written) all the way up until WWII, when they couldn’t get the right ingredients. I leave it to you to judge the veracity of these claims. One thing is for certain, the Bokenade I make here will only become a perpetual stew in my house if it tastes absolutely heavenly! See Max’s video on how to make this dish here or see the ingredients and process at the end of this post, sourced from his website.

My experience making it:

According to standard practice at this point, I halved the recipe. For my meat, I found veal shoulder at my local Turkish butcher, bones intact. I opted to use beef broth from bouillon instead of water, since I had heard that veal makes a lighter tasting stew than beef, and I wanted lots of flavour! I bought some dried hyssop online since I couldn't find it in stores, and found verjuice at my local Turkish grocer. One addition I insisted on was to put some chopped carrots in the Bokenade - for the sake of nutrition, and because I could see medieval taverns having done the same with whichever vegetable was in season.

I poured about 1 litre of water into a large pot, heated it, and dissolved the beef bouillon. I then added the entire veal shoulder whole, adding just a tiny bit more water afterwards to cover the top of it. I simmered it for an hour, skimming the scum off the top as it cooked. Meanwhile, I chopped and measured out all the herbs and spices, and promptly made my first mistake, which was adding all of them together into a bowl (except the saffron and salt). Little did I realize, the ginger was supposed to be added in an entirely different and later step, and the mace and clove were meant to be added after the herbs. However, once in a bowl, I couldn't take those powdered elements out, so I had to take it in stride and continue. After an hour of the meat cooking, it still wasn't "falling off the bone", so I cooked it about 15 minutes longer. It still was firmly attached to the bone. I became impatient and removed the meat anyways, figuring I could just chop it off the bone. For some reason the veal smelled kind of bad when I took it out and diced it. I wasn't sure if this was the normal smell of veal being boiled, or if something was actually off about it, since I had never cooked with veal before. Regardless, I continued on, disposing of the bones and dicing the meat into bite size pieces. I strained the broth, then added the veal back into the broth to continue its long simmer, this time for two hours.

I added my bowl of herbs and spices, stirred, then let it simmer with the lid on. I checked on it periodically and about halfway through the simmer added a cup of water, since the liquid was getting low. About 1 hour in, I added the chopped carrots to the pot. After 2 hours, I tried a piece of veal, and it was indeed very tender - ready! So, for the last step, I took a half cup of broth out, let it cool for a few minutes while I whisked the egg yolks, then slowly added the broth to the egg yolks, stirring all the while. I then added the salt and saffron, whisking it in (the ginger I had already mistakenly added to the broth earlier), then poured this mixture into the main pot, also stirring as I went. Lastly, I stirred in the verjuice, and left the pot on the stove for another minute or two before ladling the stew out into our bowls. I quickly toasted a baguette to serve alongside the stew, put a bit of sea salt butter from Brittany (my all-time favourite) alongside, and served the Bokenade forth! Although it looked more like a soup than a stew, it did look and smell quite warm and hearty.

My experience tasting it:

The initial spoonful, laden with broth, herbs, and veal, was warm and hearty indeed! The taste was overall well-balanced; I could not pick out any one spice or herb, they just seemed to all work together to create a nice medley of savoury goodness. However, there was one other ingredient that did make itself quite known (and surprisingly, it wasn't the veal, despite my worries): the verjuice! I had never had verjuice before, and I was quite worried it would take over the dish, as vinegar has known to have done in past medieval and Roman Tasting History dishes I've made. This time, I wouldn't say it took over, but that its acidity or sourness did make itself known, and sourness is not a flavour profile I expect often in a stew or soup. And I call it a soup here, because the consistency was most definitely that of soup. I realize that the egg yolks were meant to be added as a way to thicken the Bokenade, but I just don't think they were successful in doing this. This could also be because I added extra water as the broth was simmering, however. Mine and Max's finished dishes looked quite different as a result. Luckily, this recipe tastes good both ways, according to each of us respectively. My favourite part of the Bokenade was actually the veal, despite my earlier doubts. It was perfectly tender and had just a light beef-like taste. It held the flavours of the broth very well, also. Similarly, the baguette held the flavours of the Bokenade well when dipped into the broth. My husband and I happily finished our bowls. While we agreed the Bokenade had a little too much sourness for our liking, this could be easily fixed by adding a little less verjuice. Despite enjoying the dish, I don't think I'll make it again, as it is not so delicious that it makes it worth the long cook time, in my opinion. I suppose for a medieval tavern, the long cook time is the whole point, and not a drawback, if they want their Bokenade to be a perpetual stew. If you end up making this dish, if you liked it, or if you changed anything from the original recipe, do let me know!

Bokenade original recipe (c. 1430)

Sourced from Harleian Manuscript 279 (c. 1430).

Vele, Kede, or Henne in bokenade Take Vele, Kyde, or Henne, an boyle hem in fayre Water, or ellys in freysshe brothe, and smyte hem in pecys, and pyke hem clene; an than draw the same brothe thorwe a straynoure, an caste there-to Percely, Swag, Ysope, Maces, Clowys, an let boyle tyl the flesshe be y-now; than sette it from the fyre, and alye it up with raw yolkys of eyroun, and caste ther-to pouder Gyngere, Veriows, Safroun, and Salt, and thanne serve it forth for a gode mete.

Modern Recipe

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

Ingredients:

3 to 4 lbs (1.5 kg) beef, goat, or chicken, with bones

Water or broth (or a combination), enough to cover the meat

Small handful of fresh parsley

A few leaves of fresh sage

A few sprigs of fresh hyssop, or about 1 teaspoon dried

1/2 teaspoon mace

1/8 teaspoon cloves

4 egg yolks

1/2 teaspoon ginger

A pinch of saffron, ground

1 teaspoon salt

1/2 cup (120 ml) verjuice*

*Verjuice is made from unripened grapes and has a vinegary, acidic taste mixed with some sweetness. If you can't find it, try using a mixture of equal parts grape juice and red wine vinegar.

Method:

Place the meat in a large pot and pour in enough water and/or broth to cover it. Bring it to a boil, then reduce to a simmer. Skim off any scum or foam that rises to the surface. Simmer for about 1 hour, or until the meat easily comes away from the bone.

Take the pot off the heat, remove the meat, and cut it into bite-sized pieces. Strain the broth.

Return the cut up meat and the broth to the pot.

Chop the parsley, sage, and hyssop very fine, then add them to the pot. Add the mace and cloves, and give it a stir. Bring the stew to a simmer. Cover the pot with the lid and let it simmer for anywhere from 1 to 2 hours depending on how tender you want the meat to get. Check the pot a few times and add more broth and/or water if it starts to get low.

After the meat is as tender as you like, take the pot off the heat. Let the broth cool for a few minutes while you whisk the eggs in a bowl, just enough so that they’re smooth. Take about 1/2 cup (120 ml) of the broth and add it to the yolks in a slow stream, whisking constantly. After the 1/2 cup of broth has been added, whisk in the ginger, saffron, and salt. Pour this mixture into the pot, then stir in the verjuice. (Add the yolks right before you want to serve it. If you reheat the stew, they’re likely to scramble a bit.)

Serve it forth. If you need to reheat your stew after adding the egg yolks, they may scramble a bit. The stew is still delicious, it’s just the texture that changes a little and it won’t be quite as thick.

[timetraveltasting]

TEMPLAR BOAR WITH CAMELINE SAUCE (14th c.)

This past Thursday, the Corpus Christi public holiday in my part of Germany, known here as Fronleichnam, gave me a little extra time to make another Tasting History dish: Templar Boar with Cameline Sauce. The diet, eating habits, and table manners of the Templars were governed by strict rules, including only eating meat three times a week (two meat meals on Sundays). This dish was one of those they would have eaten for one of their meat meals during the 14th century. The spices present in the sauce would have been accessible to them during the crusades, but Cameline Sauce did become a popular dish in much of medieval Europe eventually. This dish is based on two 14th century primary sources: Le Viandier de Taillevent by Guillaume Tirel and Le Ménagier de Paris, a treatise written by an older man (as yet unnamed) to teach his 15-year-old bride how to run his household and please him, in every way (...yikes). The sauce, Cameline, is named as such due to the rich brown colour, which looks like the wool of a camel, also known as cameline. I chose to make this recipe next because I haven't made boar before, and the rich, silky, brown colour of the sauce made it look really tasty. See Max’s video on how to make it here or see the ingredients and process at the end of this post, sourced from his website.

My experience making it:

I made a couple changes to the modern recipe below. I used boar goulash pieces instead of tenderloin, because it was the only form of boar I could find at my grocery store. The white wine I used (and drank with dinner) was a dry Riesling from the Mosel Valley in Germany. The red wine was a Bordeaux Merlot. I used saffron powder instead of threads, and I did opt to add the optional tablespoon of red wine vinegar. the white bread I used was a classic French baguette.

I also made a couple changes to the method. Because I used French baguette, which has quite small slices, I hollowed out about half the baguette (since baguettes are mostly crust). I also simmered the sauce for much longer than Max says to, because it wasn't quite the thickness I was looking for. Otherwise, I followed Max's recipe exactly, probably to the detriment of my boar. Because I had used goulash pieces instead of tenderloin, I probably should have adjusted how I cooked the boar to accommodate these smaller pieces. Unfortunately, I didn't, and as a result, I was left with very chewy, dry boar. Basically, the sauce was the saving grace of the boar! I served the boar and Cameline sauce with some green peas, garlic bread, and a glass of the dry Riesling wine.

My experience tasting it:

I already knew I had ruined the texture of the boar, but I hoped that the sauce would help. I warned my husband. Luckily, the Cameline sauce did a lot of heavy-lifting to bring some moisture back to the board. The sauce turned out wonderfully - a beautiful, silky brown. Flavour-wise, it reminded me of a jus, but more heavily-spiced. I was worried the Cameline sauce would end up tasting sweet due to the brown sugar and several spices that are more often used in baking, but in fact, the spices were well balanced by the taste of the wine and vinegar. The sauce also went really nicely with the peas, and I imagine would also have tasted good with potatoes or other red meats. My husband and I dipped the garlic bread in it as well, which was really tasty. It went alright with the dry boar, but I would like to use the sauce with another, more tenderly-cooked meat. We had leftover Cameline sauce, so we will probably try that again tonight. If you end up making it, if you liked it, or if you changed anything from the original recipe, do let me know!

Links to harder-to-find ingredients:

Saffron

Templar Boar with Cameline Sauce original recipes (14th c.)

Sourced from Le Viandier de Taillevent by Guillaume Tirel and Le Ménagier de Paris respectively.

“Sanglier: Fresh Wild Boar Venison. Cooked in wine and water and boiled again; eaten with Cameline Sauce.”

— Le Viandier de Taillevent, 14th century

“Cameline. Note that in Tournai, to make cameline they grind ginger, cinnamon, saffron, and half a nutmeg, moistened with wine then taken out of the mortar. Then grind in a mortar untoasted white breadcrumbs that have been soaked in cold water, moisten with wine and strain. Then boil everything and finish with brown sugar, and that makes winter cameline. In the summer, they do the same but it is not boiled at all. ”

— Le Ménagier de Paris, 14th century

Modern Recipe

Based on Le Viandier de Taillevent by Guillaume Tirel, Le Ménagier de Paris, and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Ingredients:

Boar tenderloin

Olive oil for searing

Equal parts wine and water for boiling

1 thick slice of white artisanal bread without crust

1 ¼ cups white wine

¼ cup red wine

1 tsp ginger

2 tsp cinnamon

½ tsp nutmeg

Pinch of saffron threads

2 tbsp brown sugar

Pinch of salt

1 tbsp red wine vinegar (optional)

Method:

De-crust the bread and break it into small pieces. Soak the bread in water for a few hours, then pour in the red wine for the sauce.

Heat olive oil in a pot then sear the boar on all sides.

Remove it from the pot and boil equal parts wine and water, then add the boar back in and boil, covered, for 10-15 minutes or until fully cooked. Then let it rest.

To make the sauce, mix the spices and white wine. Strain the bread/wine mixture from earlier into a saucepan, then press the bread through the strainer.

Add the spiced wine mixture and bring to a simmer. Let simmer for 15 minutes, or until half reduced, then add the sugar and salt, and if you want, a tablespoon of red wine vinegar. Simmer until thickened.

Slice the boar and pour the sauce over it. Optionally, serve with roasted chestnuts and wine.

[timetraveltasting]

MEDIEVAL APPLE PIE (1390)

In honour of Canadian Thanksgiving, which I am not in Canada to celebrate with family, I decided to make this recent Tasting History recipe for the first ever recorded Apple Pie from 1390. The pie recipe comes from The Forme of Cury, a quintessential medieval source on cooking which describes the many dishes prepared for King Richard II of England. Accordingly, many of the ingredients in this pie, and in many of the other recipes from The Forme of Cury were quite rare and expensive at the time, especially many of the spices. As with many historical recipes, this one leaves a lot of room for interpretation, as many of the steps, exact ingredients, and measurements were not recorded. The “good spices” in the recipe could mean basically any combination of spices deemed fit for an apple pie, and likely refers to a popular medieval spice mixture called poudre douce, whose exact contents varied from cook to cook. Spices included in this mixture could be cinnamon, nutmeg, mace, black pepper, long pepper, cardamom, ginger, galangal, and cloves. The crust for this pie is also in a coffin, which was meant to be a thick crust that could be used either as an edible crust or as a storage vessel for cooked foods to keep them. It was not always eaten. Regarding the apples themselves: most of the varieties we have today did not exist in medieval England, and conversely, most varieties they had in medieval England, we no longer have today, or they have changed so much to be unrecognizable. In order to continue growing a specific type of apple, you cannot just plant the seed and expect identical apples, but you must graft the apple seed onto an existing tree. Even though I know that these modern apples will probably taste different than the medieval ones, and my spice mix may be different than the original one used for King Richard II's apple pie, I still have a hankering for apple pie and I am thankful for this bare bones medieval recipe to make it! See Max’s video on how to make this dish here or see the ingredients and process at the end of this post, sourced from his website.

My experience making it:

Since I couldn't seem to find dried figs in my local supermarkets, I decided to do without them and just add a little more of the raisins and pears, and since I could only find saffron powder instead of saffron threads, I just used that. Having only about a half cup of lard left from another recipe, I substituted the other half cup with butter (adding a little extra to compensate for the butter's higher water content). Since I noticed that Max's pie looked very tall and heavy, and he even had some of the filling left over, I decided to halve the recipe for the filling and make the whole recipe for the pie crust. For the apple variety, I used Pink Lady apples. For my poudre douce, I stuck to the exact spices Max used and listed in the ingredients.

I began by measuring out my ingredients, mixing the saffron into the water (it turned very yellow!), and coring and chopping the pears and apples. I left the skin on. Since I don't have a large mortar and pestle or a one-handled rolling pin like Max, I decided to smash up my pear and apple cubes with a potato masher inside a large, flat-bottomed pot. This was really tough work, and I was not able to get the mixture into a consistent mush like Max did, but I imagined in medieval England they may have also had difficulties getting purée-level mush with the tools they had. I decided to stop mashing when the mush was looking fairly juicy, with only very small pieces of apple and pear left. Next, I poured in the saffron water and raisins, giving it a good stir. I mixed the spice mixture in with some sugar, then added the spices to the mush while mixing until it all looked consistent. It smelled absolutely heart-warming and lovely - very much of fall and winter baking! The pie filling also had a beautiful combination of colours: red from the apple skin, deep purple from the raisins, green from the pear skins, yellow juice from the saffron, and brown from the spices. A work of art!

Next for the pie crust: since I knew I usually take a long time to make baked goods, I decided to preheat the oven at this point instead of earlier. I put the water on to boil, then added the lard and butter to let it melt. Once it had all melted, I poured it into the large bowl of flour and mixed with a wooden spoon until it came together enough to use my hands. It was still pretty hot at this point, but not hot enough to burn me, so I was just careful to touch and kneed the dough in very quick bursts. I continued this on a table once all the crumbs had been incorporated, then I used a bench scraper (a wonderful gift from my dad) to separate the dough into 1/4 and 3/4. With the large ball of dough, I rolled it out a bit with the rolling pin and draped it over a 9-inch springform cake pan, pressing it in to mold to its shape. I found the dough kept drooping into the bottom, and I had to really press in the sides to make them tall enough. I quickly scooped in the pie filling, using all of it to weigh down the dough in the outer crease and filling it up most of the way. Quickly rolling out the smaller dough ball into a circle roughly the size of the cake pan, I draped it over and tried my best to pinch the corners together with the lower shell of dough containing the pie filling. This only partially worked; I found it very difficult to get the dough to stick to itself to close up the pie. It looked a bit untidy, but good enough! I cut a star/cross-shaped hole in the centre to let the steam escape, then quickly whisked up an egg and painted the top of the pie with it. I then baked it in the oven for 50 minutes, but since it didn't look quite brown enough on the top, I decided to leave it in another 5 minutes. At this point, I took it out, unsnapped the springform ring of the pan with my oven mitts on, then painted the outer part of the pie with the egg wash, sticking it back in the oven for 5 more minutes. When it came out, it was a beautiful golden colour, and I was happy to see it mostly held its shape! There was just a slight opening at the top of one side where I had clearly failed to press the dough together well enough. Overall I thought it looked a little primitive as far as pies go, but otherwise large and impressive - and it smelled wonderful to boot!

My experience tasting it:

My husband and I sat down to this impressive medieval apple pie late in the evening, both of us hungry after our respective work that day. When I sliced into it, I was fully expecting a watery mush to spill out and make a mess, as with my usual baking mishaps. Instead, the pie, including the filling, held it shape wonderfully! The cross-section was very pretty with its various autumn colours and textures. I know that Max says it is not necessary to eat the crust, as they might not have in medieval England, but I just had to know what my hard work tasted like: my first bite of crust and filling was marvelous! The crust, though a little thick, had only a very light savoury, buttery taste (perhaps my substitution had an effect) and it was still cooked through (a feat for me). The filling was definitely the star of the show, however. Its crumbly texture had a lightly zesty brightness and sweetness from the pears and apples, countered by the deep, moody spices. I like to call this spice mixture 'Christmas spices', because it is exactly the ones you would probably put into Glühwein (mulled wine) for that time of year. My husband and I enjoyed this pie immensely, and I will go as far as to say it is the best Tasting History dish I have made yet, by taste alone. I will definitely be keeping this recipe, making it again, and perhaps I will even experiment with different fruits. The Forme of Cury never fails to impress me with its dishes - King Richard II clearly had a talented set of cooks! If you end up making this dish, if you liked it, or if you changed anything from the original recipe, do let me know!

Medieval Apple Pie original recipe (1390)

Sourced from The Forme of Cury (1390) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

For to make Tartys in Applis Tak gode Applys and gode Spycis and Figys and reysons and Perys and wan they are wel ybrayed coloured with Safron well and do yt in a cofyn and yt forth to bake wel.

Modern Recipe

Based on The Forme of Cury (1390) and Max Miller’s version in his Tasting History video.

Ingredients:

Filling

8 to 10 threads of saffron

A few tablespoons water

3 lbs (1.3 kg ) apples, a mix of sweet and tart

1 lb (1/2 kg) pears

1/2 cup (80 g) raisins

1/2 cup (60 g) chopped dried figs

2 tablespoons sugar

1 1/2 teaspoons cinnamon*

1 teaspoon ginger*

1/2 teaspoon nutmeg*

1/2 teaspoon cardamom*

1/8 teaspoon cloves*

Crust

1 cup (235 ml) water

1 cup (225 g) suet or lard

4 cups (500 g) flour

1 teaspoon salt

1 egg for an egg wash, optional

*The spices you use are up to you. Feel free to change the quantities or swap out or add ones you like. Galangal, black or long pepper, and mace were also popular.

Method:

For the filling: Preheat the oven to 375°F (190°C).

Pour a few tablespoons of water over the saffron threads and let them soak while you prepare the fruit.

Core and roughly chop the apples and pears. There’s no need to peel them, but you can if you like.

Mash the apples and pears in a mortar and pestle (a large bowl and handle-less rolling pin also works well) or throw them in a food processor. Whichever way you choose, you want them to form a mush or paste.

Place the apple and pear mush into a bowl. Strain the saffron out of the water and mix the saffron water, raisins, and chopped figs into the fruit mush.

Mix together the sugar and spices, then mix this into the fruit.

For the crust: Bring the water to a gentle boil. Stir in the suet or lard and the salt and let the fat melt.

Place the flour in a large bowl. Once the fat has melted and the mixture is simmering, pour it into the flour and stir it together. Once it’s cool enough to handle with your hands, turn it out and knead it for a minute or two until it becomes nice and smooth.

You want to work with the dough while it’s still warm because it will become more difficult as it cools. Divide the dough into one larger piece that’s about 3/4 of the dough and a smaller piece that’s about 1/4 of the dough.

To assemble: Flatten the larger piece out into a large disc, then press that into the bottom and sides of an 9 inch (23 cm) cake pan or springform pan. This dough is very forgiving and you can mash it up the sides and patch any cracks that form, the only trick is to work with it while it’s warm.

Fill the pie with the filling, packing it down.

Roll the smaller piece of dough out into a 9 inch (23 cm) circle, then lay it on top of the pie and crimp the edges to seal. Cut a hole in the center of the top crust or pierce it a few times so that the steam can get out.

Beat the egg and brush it over the top of the pie if you’d like, but you can bake it as-is.

Bake for 45 to 50 minutes, or until you can see the filling bubbling through the hole or cuts in the top crust.

If you used a springform pan, you can remove the outer ring when the pie is almost done, brush it all over with more of the beaten egg, then return it to the oven for 5 more minutes to give it a nice browned color.

When the pie is done, let it cool completely before slicing and serving it forth.

[pmamtraveller]

Carl Larsson - Evas Dotter

[helgean]

The wraths riding through the fog by me. Inspired by the Wild Hunt and Celtic mythology.

Nearly every day of autumn began and ended with opaque veils of fog settling in the open fields and dripping from tree branches. Thus the season of Samhain proclaimed itself in mysterious whispers…

Available as prints and for licensing

[adalheidis]

A taste of your love to quench my thirst.

[rosieandthemoon]

Hans Memling, 1483