My favourite symbol of Georgian Christmas abundance has to be the Christmas Pie. Not to be confused with small minced pies of mostly dried fruit, this pie is a monster – a battlemented fantasy of plenty weighing as much as 15 stones. Stuffed with increasing sizes of game, from small birds to rabbits to geese and turkeys, it was built to feed famished crowds. And in times when Christmas could last twelve days or longer it was baked to last, thanks to an airtight layer of butter poured in through its spout-hole.
The earliest recipes reflect the medieval mix of meat, spice and fruit and give directions for artful pastry decorations of leaves, birds and animals. Some pies must have been of gargantuan size, as legend tells of Geoffrey of Monmouth encountering one and ‘sheltering within its capacious crust’. When the Puritans banned the Christmas Pie they didn’t mince their words, according to Pimlott’s The Englishman’s Christmas. It was denounced as ‘an invention of the scarlet whore of Babylon, an hodge podge of supersition, Popery, the Devil and all his works,’ recalled The Gentleman’s Magazine of 1733. By the late eighteenth century there was talk of its decline as sophisticated city dwellers disdained the old traditions. But in the countryside the annual ‘open house’ at country estates could still be found, with old and young gathering at groaning boards to feast and drink at their landlord’s expense. Like the gathering for Father Giles’s feast of 1800, the Christmas Pie was fat, generous and rustic, created for sharing at a long table and eating with gusto. In 1770 a pie had been baked in Newcastle that was said to be nearly nine feet in circumference and was ‘neatly fitted with a case and four small wheels to facilitate its use to every guest that inclines to partake of its contents at table.’ That sounds like a rather handy edible hostess trolley to me...
In An Appetite for Violets my cook heroine Biddy Leigh repeats a common saying of the day, that ‘Nothing is busier than English ovens at Christmas.’ In the book I recreate a Christmas feast for fifty people; a communal task undertaken on fiery spits, peppered with mishaps (scalding fat, fire and falls) and sweetened with traditions (kissing boughs and singing carols in rounds). The early drafts needed a ruthless diet before publication, so carried away did I become by a menu of lost delights such as Yule cakes, crucifix engraved cheeses and plum pottage.
By the Victorian era giant pies merited a feature in the newspapers, a sure sign that the old tradition was dying. The magnificent pie baked for a Royal Banquet at Windsor castle in 1857, was borne by four bewhiskered footmen and preceded by another medieval relic, the boar’s head on a platter. An accompanying illustration showed the larder at Windsor, replete with shelves of hanging game and white-coated male chefs.
Nowadays vast Christmas Pies seem only to be found in historic recreation, for instance at www.historicfood.com. No longer do we say, ‘He hath eaten many a Christmas Pie’ - presumably an early variant of ‘Who ate all the pies?’
In ending I’d like to offer some advice from seventeenth century poet George Wither’s Christmas Carol:
Without the door let sorrow lie,
And if for cold it hap to die,
We'll bury it in a Christmas pie,
And evermore be merry.
May all your sorrows be buried in good Christmas eating and have a very Merry Christmas!
Make a standing crust of 24 pounds of the finest flour, six pounds butter, half a pound rendered suet and raise in an oval with very thick walls and sturdy bottom. Bone each of a turkey, a goose, a fowl, a partridge and a pigeon and lay one inside the other along with mace, nutmeg, salt and pepper. Then have a hare ready stewed in joints along with its gravy, woodcocks, more game and whatsoever wild birds you can get. Lay them as close as you can get and put at least four pounds of butter in the pie. Make your lid pretty thick and lay on flowers or such Christmas shapes as you wish on the lid around a hole in the middle. Rub it all over with yolks of egg and bind it round with paper and lay the same over the top. It will take four hours baking in a bread oven. When it comes out melt two pounds of butter in the gravy that come from the hare and pour it hot in the pie through the hole.
From ‘An Appetite for Violets’ by Martine Bailey
(This blog article was first published on History Lives 2014)
It is the end of October, the fields are bare, the leaves have been blown from the trees, and the nights are growing longer. The darkness is coming. At this time of year we celebrate the end of summer and the cycle of death and rebirth. From as far back as anyone can remember, on one special night we gather together to share food and drink, play tricks and games. It is a time to connect with our ancestors, and honor the dead.
In my home county of Cheshire this gathering has long had a unique name – Souling or Soul-caking. ‘An Appetite for Violets’ begins on Souling Night, a time when mischief is rife and the world can turn upside down. It is 1774 and the household is baking to welcome a band of mummers with blackened faces and outlandish costumes who demand entry at the door and sing:
A soul, a soul, a soul-cake,
Please good missus, a soul cake…’
Later they perform a mumming play in return for food and drink. Just how ancient Cheshire Souling might be is suggested by the ritual of a horse’s head led by a man in a white sheet, a performance called ‘hodening’ thought to be an echo of the Norse god Odin. Other characters can include a Hero, Saint George or King George, a Blackamoor or Saladin, Kings, Fools, Devils, and a Doctor who magically brings the hero back to life in a way that echoes many rituals of death and renewal. The rhyming couplets of the play are passed on orally, so characters emerge like ‘Bellsie Bob’, a corruption of ‘Beelzebub’. But then none of it is serious - it’s about slapstick, taunting, and free-flowing beer.
So what are soul cakes and why are they handed out? Even in the fourteenth century the idea of Soul Cakes was ancient, as John Mirk wrote in Festial ‘wherefore in olden time good men and women would this day buy bread and deal (give) it for the souls that they loved, hoping with each loaf to get a soul out of purgatory’.
In pre-Reformation England these cakes were given to the poor as alms to try to free dead souls from Purgatory. Later, in one of those mixing ups of pagan and Christian traditions, the poor village Soulers conferred a blessing on rich households in return for food and drink - suggesting the rich had better pay up or risk a bad harvest, or worse.
Surviving recipes for Soul Cakes vary, but they are generally small, round, spicy and sweet. Sugar and spice and dried fruit were for centuries the mark of festival food, a welcome relief from bland everyday food. Recipes describe a ‘cross’ design that hints at two crossed bones rather than a crucifix. When I baked them as research for An Appetite for Violets they were quite delicious spiced biscuits. An ancient ‘serving suggestion’ from a pre-literate age was to lay the cakes ‘in a tall heap like the picture of the Shew Bread in the Bible’.
These days a few groups of Cheshire Soulers keep the ritual alive and next weekend I’ll be looking for a performance in local pubs. On Souling Night (or All Hallow’s Eve or Hallowe’en) it seems history does indeed live, in our instinct to walk the streets in outlandish costumes and eat and drink special foods, and bless or curse (trick or treat) our neighbours…
~ Historic Recipe To Make Soul Cakes ~
Work 4lb fresh butter with your hand to a cream. Beat in the same of loaf sugar pounded and sifted fine. Take two dozen egg yolks beaten and add by degrees. Then put in flour 8 lb with salt, allspice and mace as you wish. Add your currants 2 lb picked and dried well. Lay saffron as you have it in a churn of milk and lay next to the fire. Mix your dough with the warm milk strained and make flat rounds marking each with Crossed Bones in remembrance of Dead Souls. When done enough in a quick oven lay in a tall heap like the picture of the Shew Bread in the Bible. All who knock for entry and chant the rhyme may eat from the board to keep the blessings on the house.
A MODERN INTERPRETATION OF SOUL CAKES
8oz butter softened at room temperature
5oz caster sugar
2 egg yolks
12 oz plain flour
2 oz cornflour (this makes the cakes shorter)
A pinch of salt
2-3 teaspoons of spices as you have them: allspice, nutmeg, mace, cinnamon, ginger
1 teaspoon baking powder
Cream together the softened butter and sugar in a mixing bowl until pale and fluffy. Gradually add the yolks to the mixture.
Sift in the flour, cornflour, salt, spices and baking powder.
Add the currants and mix together with your hands to make a smooth dough. Refrigerate for 30 minutes.
Preheat the oven to 180/350/gas mark 4.
Roll the dough out on a floured surface to about ¼ inch and stamp out circles.
Mark with crosses with a sharp knife.
Bake on baking sheets for about 15 minutes until golden.
Remove and cool for a few minutes, then transfer to a wire rack to cool completely.
This week it is the ultimate test on the Great British Bake-Off – the grand final between three astonishing bakers, Richard, Luis and Nancy. The challenges have not been announced, but there is little doubt it will involve something very large and architectural. We may think the trend for man-size towers of croquembouche or gingerbread houses you could happily inhabit, are new phenomenon – but as ever, history is merely repeating itself.
In Britain a fashion for sculptural food can be traced back to Medieval Royal feasts and the use of sotelties moulded in the shapes of people, animals, and mythical creatures in wax, marzipan or sugar. These in-between courses showstoppers were accompanied by texts or verses that revealed their allegorical nature, for example an angel accompanied by a text: ‘Thanke all, god, of this feste’.
More surreal were the Italian food festivals of Renaissance Italy, often referred to as Cuccagna, a term related to ‘Cockayne’ or the mythical land of plenty. At their centre were extraordinary architectural fantasies constructed of cheeses and hams; in fact gigantic pavilions built of food. Provided by local nobles, the amusement lay in watching the poor and homeless destroy these edifices in a ravenous rampage - it seems the entertainment value of watching others eat is nothing new.
On a more modest scale, the eighteenth century saw the height of elegant sugar architecture. Classical temples, military monuments and ornate gardens were constructed to form the centrepieces of breathtaking banquets. The secret to constructing so many edible buildings was the use of carved moulds that allowed sugarpaste to be ‘mass-produced’ and then assembled. To conquer the inherent problems of food architecture – wobble and collapse – many decorations were not intended for consumption, strengthened by rice flour, plaster, starch and ground marble. Furthermore, to prevent slumping, buildings were often supported by wires and armatures.
By the nineteenth century such ostentatious trionfi di tavola (triumphs of the table) were deemed excessive. Urbain Dubois, chef de cuisine to Wilhelm I of Prussia, created sculptures that reflected the Kaisers two greatest passions: warfare and hunting. A sculpture depicting the pleasures of the hunt in the form of a boar’s head and miniature stags, made from fat, must be one of the most ghastly food sculptures ever made. More attractive were the huge Gothic sugar centrepieces, such as that recreated by food historian Ivan Day at www.historicfood.com
On a more modest scale, in my novel The Penny Heart, even the more aspirational Georgian households hankered after something architectural on their dining tables. The Wedgewood potteries, ever alert to customers’ aspirations, created a dessert mould in the form of a small turreted ‘Solomon’s Temple’ to be filled with flummery, similar to blancmange. Extremely wobbly and rather ridiculous, this seemed to me the perfect dish to illustrate my heroine Jane’s apprehensions at her wedding feast and her concerns about the dysfunctional family she is marrying into.
Looking ahead to the Bake-Off final, it does look as if Richard, master builder by trade and devotee of pencil and ruler, enters with a clear advantage. However, unlike the food sculptures of the past, I hope that ‘the proof of the pudding is in the eating’ and sheer ‘scrumminess’, as Mary would say, will win the day.
~ How to Make A Solomon’s Temple in Flummery ~
Take a quart of stiff flummery and divide into three parts. Make one a pretty pink colour with a little cochineal, bruised and steeped in brandy. Scrape an ounce of chocolate and mix with another part of flummery to make a stone colour. The third part must be white. Then fill your mould first with pink flummery for the tower and then white for the turrets. Fill the base with chocolate flummery and let it stand for one day. Then loosen it round with a pin and shake it out gently. When you set it out, stick a small sprig of flowers into each tower, which will strengthen it and also give it a genteel appearance.
Extracted from THE PENNY HEART by Martine Bailey, to be published by Hodder & Stoughton in 2015.
Martine Bailey’s debut historical novel, AN APPETITE FOR VIOLETS, is available now in trade paperback and as an eBook from Hodder & Stoughton. Find out more on the Hodder website here, by visiting Martine Bailey’s website and by following her on Twitter.
White chocolate is often derided as not being true chocolate, but I love it so much I chose it for my wedding cake. Firstly it looks so beautiful, like solid cream, and then the luxurious flavour complements delicious summer fruits so well. I also used this heavenly combination to win my title as UK Dessert Champion with this easy but delicious recipe.
WHITE CHOCOLATE RECIPE