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Showing posts with label 18th Century. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 18th Century. Show all posts

Saturday, November 7, 2015

~ PUMPKIN CUSTARD "PIE" ~

A Republican tea in Philadelphia and a recipe for those new small fat edible pumpkins. 
 



Betsy heaved a sigh of relief and smoothed her party dress. In the center of the table sat the tea, steaming in a fine English china pot her mother had given her. The surrounding fare was substantial. The guests were obviously enjoying their repast. It was a full-scale affair, a long table covered with savories as well as sweets.

Some, Betsy had made herself, some she had brought in from famous Philadelphia bake shops. From her kitchen had come apple, beef and kidney and pigeon pies, conserves of pears and plums, and loaves of bread.

She knew that to the Philadelphians as well as to the rich southerners, her tea was a simple affair. No roast pig, no pheasant, no songbirds stuffed in pigeons stuffed in ducks stuffed in turkeys. Nor any French cook backstage drowning everything in sauce, such as Mr. Jefferson employed.

Betsy didn’t have money for such luxuries on the slender salary of her public servant husband. Even if she had had, her Dutch housewife’s upbringing wouldn’t have allowed her to ever feel easy with a French cook in the kitchen.

After a little time, she overheard the judgment of Philadelphia society upon the table of Mrs. Secretary of the Treasury.

“Pumpkin custard baked in the pumpkin. How quaint!”

“Yes. Good Lord. I haven’t been intimate with the dish in years.”

“Well, try some. It’s delicious. I’d quite forgotten how good it can be.”
 
A MASTER PASSION
The story of Alexander Hamilton & Elizabeth Schuyler
 

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Here's an 18th Century recipe for Mrs. Hamilton's Pumpkin Custard "Pie," which is made a little chancey without the intense heat of a wood-fired wall oven. My directions will probably be a little eye-ballish to some, but that's the way I learned to cook. I'm a pantser in the kitchen, too, which is why I'll never be a gourmet chef.
 
 Cut the lid from a small pumpkin, the 1-2 lb., such as Baby Bear, Small Sugar, Wee Be Little. Remove the seeds and strings and gently clean. You want meat to be left behind.
 
Place the pumpkin, a TBS of water inside, the top back on, in an oven proof pan, one with sides, like a pie pan, in case of spillage.
 
Roast in a 350 degree oven for 30 minutes.
 
While it's roasting, make a small batch of custard by your favorite recipe, perhaps something like:
 
3 whole eggs
1 cup whipping cream -- or, if you want the lower calorie option, 1 cup of evaporated milk 
1/4 cup brown sugar
1/2 tsp. molasses
dash nutmeg
1/2 tsp. cinnamon  
1/4 tsp. ginger
 
I'd jigger this recipe around in different ways, depending on the size of the pumpkin cavity. Use more or less spice to your taste. More Molasses would have been preferred by the 18th Century American diner.)
 
Beat the custard together.
 
After 30 minutes, check the pumpkin. (If you've got a couple of smaller pumpkins, this will cook faster, so watch it.) As the pumpkin just yields to a knife, remove the top--careful, it's hot--and gently add the custard--as much as the pumpkin/s will hold. You may place any leftover custard in small glass dishes and cook alongside the roasting pumpkin. 
 
Add another 10 minutes if you don't think it's sufficiently softened. Add the custard. Bake for another 45 minutes and then say a prayer to the oven goddess for the custard to set. Again, if not, just give it a few more minutes.
 
Serve the pumpkin whole at table, scraping some of the pulp to accompany each scoop of custard.
 
 
 
(Downsized from the 5-7 lb. pumpkin original and adapted from Jeff Smith's The Frugal Gourmet Cooks American, William Morrow & Co., 1984)

  
 

Thursday, June 19, 2014

ANGEL'S FLIGHT/the quilt



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Quilting had always given Angelica a feeling of strength and purpose. It was as if in the process of using scraps to create a whole cloth she was reborn, renewed. In the midst of this village of the damned, the familiar, beloved activity was like an anchor of purpose, of meaning.



It was all such a muddle. Beyond the immediate danger, there was Jack, his kisses and his passionate, insistent courting. No matter how she examined this development, and from whatever angle, there seemed to be no resolution. He was a Tory; she was a Patriot. To do this, to do that--or, more pointedly--not to do this or not to do that, seemed beyond her ability to reason.



"How is it, she muttered to herself, "that I could get into this mess, but not out?"



Her fingers, with minds of their own restlessly sorted through the heap of scraps and patches. What to do?



As she picked and sorted the pieces a vague shape began to form. A star! Rough, to be sure, but a star nonetheless. Here, a point in velvet, there, a center in the wool of an old cloak.



Ah! There was enough of the velvet to make the other points. Her fingers moved faster, coaxing out stray bits of burgundy velvet, arranging them around the small bottle green wool square.



Yes, she thought. It comes together, a piece at a time...









~~Juliet Waldron
 
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Thursday, May 29, 2014

NIGHTINGALE ~~ Excerpts










 
 
Klara sings at an afternoon salon filled with aristocrats, although she doesn't feel well. She is accompanied by Akos Almassy, a pianist and servant to one of the titled guests. She feels strangely drawn to him. 
 
 
Whenever there was pain in Klara's life, she ran to Music, let it carry her to a world of calm, grace and balance.
 
Music could heal any wound, dry any tear. Music was her tender Mother, the only one Klara had ever known.

She filled her lungs, felt the muscular pleasure of response in throat and diaphragm, heard the rich glory of her voice. As Almassy's strong fingers moved upon the black keys, his amber eyes stayed upon her. He was utterly focused on her every move, her every breath.

When the first song was done, Klara curtsied and smiled at the heart-felt applause. On the walls of this elegant reception room, ornamental details flowed up supporting columns and from these, onto the vaulted, painted ceilings, where angels and cherubs flew into clouds. She turned to include Akos in the applause, but she didn't quite dare to look into his eyes now that there was no music between them. Her heart raced, and not entirely from the exertion of song.

Perhaps if I translate this sensation into something recognizable, I can dismiss these queer, disturbing feelings...

Klara was accustomed to the games men played, either because they imagined it politic to feed her vanity, or for the very masculine reason that they had to feed their own. She had learned to flirt lightly, meaning nothing.

After all, who would dare to challenge Maximilian, the man who owned her, the man whose perverse desire had pierced her, a butterfly struggling on the jeweled pin of his passion?

~~~~Juliet Waldron

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