Medieval eats

By Zach Hagadone
Reader Staff

Taste perhaps brings on the strongest evocation of memory, which, if you want to get all woo-woo, makes it the closest we can get to a mode of time travel. We all have tastes that return us to an earlier era; but, what if we were to sample the tastes of bygone centuries?

That’s the challenge posed by The Forme of Cury (a.k.a. The Method of Cooking), a compilation of more than 200 recipes from the “master-cooks” of the court of English King Richard II, circa 1390, then presented to Queen Elizabeth I in the 16th century and subsequently republished in the early- to mid-1700s by British antiquarian and scholar Samuel Pegge into our present day — whence came my copy, from the publishing house Forgotten Books, purchased on Amazon about a week ago.

In effect, it’s said to be the oldest extant cookbook in the English language, albeit in Middle English, which was really just “English” from about 1150 to 1470 C.E.

Zach’s medieval life crisis, er, I mean feast. Photo by Zach Hagadone.

Reader Publisher Ben Olson contends that I’m going through a midlife (or Medieval-life) crisis — to which I can’t wholly disagree — and that has so far manifested in me cooking an awful lot of weird things at home. This is what happens when you’re slouching into your mid-40s in a failed state and you picked that time to quit smoking (going on two months strong!).

I took things to another level the other day when I ordered The Forme of Cury, and figured “why not make food from the court of Richard II?”

Why not, indeed. Who wouldn’t want to travel back in time to taste the flavors of the 14th century? Well, probably most people, but I’m here to report: They knew how to eat back in those days.

Combing through the many pages of recipes — none of which contain measurements and all of which are written in Middle English — I settled on three dishes to prepare for my wife and kids, and later serve to my Reader colleagues on a recent Monday lunchtime (which included some excellent Hierophant brand off-dry mead, available at Winter Ridge for about $22 a bottle).

Below is what I made, accompanied with pronunciation/translation guidance from Reader Staff Writer Soncirey Mitchell, who is wholehearted in her support of my medieval culinary fixation. Reader readers may not know it, but Soncirey studied Middle English in college, and was so enthused when I mentioned I’d purchased The Forme of Cury that she took it on herself to produce a handwritten pronunciation guide to the recipes therein. And, I’m told, bought a copy for herself.

First course — egurdouce (/egərdusə/ ‘ay-gur-doosuh’)

From the text: “Take Conynges or Kydde and smyte hem on pecys rawe. and frye hem in white grece. take raysouns of Courance and fry hem take oynouns parboile hem and hewe hem small and fry hem. take rede wyne sugar with powdour of peper. of gynger of canel. salt. And cast þerto. and lat it seeþ with a gode quantite of white grece and serue it forth.”

Translation: Get some raw rabbit or lamb meat and cut it into small pieces, then fry the meat in lard. Throw in some dried currants. In a separate pot, boil some whole onions, then chop them into small pieces and fry those with the meat and currants. Then pour some sugary red wine on the whole thing and season with pepper, cinnamon and salt. Let the mixture fry (or “seeþ” — a.k.a. “seeth”) in more lard until it looks done. Then serve. 

How it turned out: In a word: delicious. I was unable to find rabbit at our local stores, so went with a full leg of lamb that I got at Super 1 (about $30). I also couldn’t secure any dried currants, so bought elderberries at Winter Ridge (in the bulk foods aisle). Also, I warmed  2 cups of cheap-ish Bordeaux and a ½ cup of sugar almost to a boil to make my “red wyne sugar.”

My wife and kids devoured this dish and found it to be complex. My wife compared it to Ethiopian flavors, with its seesaw of sweet and savory, which turns out to be a feature of medieval cooking. 

In the office, I served leftovers to Ben and Soncirey, with the former describing it as “rustic” and containing an “earthiness” with “an approachable sweetness.” Soncirey called it “Christmassy” and “well balanced,” and noted an apple cider tone due to the spices (no apple cider was used in the recipe). 

At home, I served this in a bread bowl — as the old timers would have — to soak up the various greases, of which there were plenty.

Second course — caboches in potage (/kabaʃɛs ɪn potaʒə/ ‘kah-bah-ges in po-tahg-uh’)

From the text: “Take Caboches and quarter hem and seeþ hem in gode broth with Oynouns y mynced and the whyte of Lekes y slyt and corue smale and do þer to safroun and force it with powdour douce.”

Translation: Quarter a head of cabbage and boil it in broth with minced onions and the white portion of leeks — the latter which you’ve cut into small pieces. Season with saffron and “powder doosah,” which is a mixture of spices with various ingredients, but generally regarded as containing flavors like ginger, cinnamon, nutmeg, sugar and sometimes cloves ground in a mortar and pestle.

How it turned out: I went off-piste a bit with the ingredients. I didn’t do cabbage, but made leeks and onions my base. For a “good broth” I used regular old vegetable stock, and boiled it with mushrooms, celery, watercress, parsley and thyme — all ingredients I found in other pottage recipes from such sources as the Society for Creative Anachronism. I did use saffron, which is stupidly expensive — about $15 for a tiny packet of about 75 individual strands. This was clearly a way for King Richard II to show off how rich he was. The “powdouer douce” is weirdly complex and, while I was nervous about adding it, leant a sweet/spicy undertone to what is essentially a veggie stew. Medieval people ate this almost every day, and I can see why. It’s a hearty, fortifying winner.

Third course — appulmoy (/æpəlmai/ ‘ap-uhl-mah-y’)

From the text: “Take Apples and seeþ hem in water, drawe hem thurgh a straynour. take almaunde mylke & hony and flour of Rys, safroun and powdour fort and salt. and seeþ it stondyng.

Translation: Boil whole apples in water, then dump them into a strainer. Mix with almond milk, honey and rice flour, add saffron and “powder fart” (I know, right?), then cook it until it’s thick.  

How it turned out: This is not “applesauce” as we post-post-modernites might know it. I used four Pink Lady apples from Super 1, cored and then boiled them until slightly mushy. Then I mashed them in a bowl, adding 1 ½ cup of unsweetened, regular almond milk; a generous layer of wildflower honey (available at Winter Ridge); and 1 cup of rice flour (also at Winter Ridge in the bulk foods aisle). Once I had my mash, I poured that back into the pot I used to boil the apples and brought up the heat again, adding the saffron (maybe 8 or 10 strands) and a liberal sprinkling of salt, stirring until it seemed “stondyng” enough. About 10 minutes. As with “powdour douce,” “powdour fort” is a go-to medieval spice mixture composed of the “harder” flavors, including cloves, ginger and pepper. I was super worried about this ruining the recipe, but one must trust in the wisdom of the past sometimes and it turned out being a toothsome and (admittedly weird) compote that I would probably not make again but still enjoyed.

As Soncirey said: “It makes my tongue feel strange.”

Final verdict

Medieval cooking has an undeserved bad, bland reputation. Look close enough at even these three recipes and you’ll see the outlines of what we’re all told we’re supposed to be eating. If nothing else, medieval cookery is an experiment in improvisational time travel.

Editing and translation — as well as mead — provided by Soncirey Mitchell.