"The Good and Necessary Salad

...To make a macedoine salad wash two or three small French carrots, and a young turnip, scrape the carrots, peel the turnip and cook them in different dishes.  Let the carrots cook for about thirty minutes and the turnip the same length of time.  When both are done cut them in small bits with a vegetable cutter, if you wish, though the carrot is just as ornamental when sliced in circles.  There should be about three tablespoonfuls of each of the sliced vegetables.  [Add] three tablespoonfuls of green peas cooked, and cut in little diamonds.  Season the vegetables with salt and pepper.  Pour two tablespoonfuls of sweet oil over them and toss them.  Then add three tablespoonfuls of good wine vinegar and toss again.  A little cooked asparagus and cauliflower is a pleasant addition to this dish.  Arrange the salad on a bed of bleached lettuce leaves and sprinkle a half-teaspoonful of chives minced as fine as possible over it."
--Good Housekeeping, August, 1894. p. 87.

My notes: 
—Use one large bunch green leaf lettuce.  
—For the carrot and turnip, read "cook" as "bake at 400 degrees."  They should be a bit tender but still have a slightly crisp "bite."
—Serves 2 if used as main course; serves 4 if used as a side.  
—A few chive blossoms make a pretty addition.

For more about Victorian food, check out these pages:

Milk and Soda—the Victorian "energy drink"

Our Icebox

Sarah's Sourdough Bread Recipe

Soda articles:
The American Drink (1897)

Evils of Encouraging the Ice Cream Soda Trade (1897)

How to Draw A Glass of Ice Cream Soda (1893)

Origin of Ice-Cream Soda Water (1892) 

Serving Ice Cream Soda (1901)

Soda Water (1896)    

Victorian Food    

Cyclists' drink of choice in the 1880s and '90s was milk mixed with soda water.  There's a lot of logic to this: Milk is full of vitamins, minerals and electrolytes that help the body recover after activity, but on its own it can be rather heavy and cloying to a parched throat.   Mixing it with seltzer thins it down enough to create a very refreshing drink.  The first time I tried milk and soda (mixed 50/50), I was immediately sold on the concept.  The natural sugars in the milk give the drink a light sweetness and the carbonation lends a tang without souring it.  Milk and soda is my favorite beverage these days, whether I've been riding or not.

            Sodas with milk or cream were extremely popular in the 1890s, and into the twentieth century.  When soda counters more or less vanished from the American landscape, sodas with actual fresh milk in them became an endangered species.  When most twenty-first century Americans hear the term cream soda, they think of a brown, vanilla-flavored soft drink which doesn't contain the slightest trace of anything from a cow.  In Canada the cream soda tastes the same and is equally devoid of dairy, but it's pink.  A few specialty companies in the U.S. still make niche-market sodas that contain milk or cream.  I also saw milk sodas when I lived in Japan, which always struck me as interesting since the Japanese really don't drink much milk compared to Americans.

            Ready-made milk and soda might be a slightly foreign concept in the U.S., but its two components are available in any grocery store and luckily the recipe is not exactly complicated:

1. Pour glass half-full of milk. 

2. Fill remainder of glass with seltzer water (i.e., soda.)

3. Enjoy!    

Milk and soda references in historic cycling literature:

"Drink on the way should be milk and soda..."—Erskine, F.J. "Lady Cycling," 1897. 

"I asked the proprietor of a little bar at the hill-top what the favorite drink of the bicycle riders was and he answered, "Soda and milk." " —Chandler, Alfred Dupont.  A Bicycle Tour in England and Wales. Boston: A. William & Co., 1881. p.22.  


"As for the soda and milk, I found that it had staying qualities, without the heaviness of bitter beer or ale.  Soda is sold everywhere in England in small bottles; and I remember how satisfactory was the mixture of this that a young gentleman from Dorsetshire prepared, as we were about to part after a swift fourteen-mile run side by side out of Chichester."—Chandler, Alfred Dupont.  A Bicycle Tour in England and Wales. Boston: A. William & Co., 1881. p. 23. 

***
  

(Please note: A more thorough discussion of iceboxes and our use of one appears in my book, This Victorian Life.)

            We bought our antique ice box when we first moved to Port Townsend five years ago and it was always our plan to use it for its intended purpose.  Concept and execution are two separate things, and admittedly it took us a while to buckle down to the idea.  When we bought our house there was a rather decrepit-seeming electric refrigerator in the kitchen; we reasoned that we would let the appliance die a natural death and then switch over to the ice box which was far more in keeping with our philosophies of historical living.  (Incidentally, the term ice box was rarely used in the nineteenth-century.  The special cabinet which now usually goes by that name was simply called a refrigerator.  "Ice box" existed as a phrase, but until the early twentieth-century it was the exception rather than the rule in common parlance.  When electric refrigerators started usurping the old name of refrigerator, ice box stepped up to fill the linguistic gap.  We do generally refer to our food storage cabinet as an ice box though, just to avoid a lengthy explanation to anyone outside our home.)

            As we settled into our Victorian home, we grew increasingly frustrated with the electric fridge's steadfast refusal to die.  After a few years of glaring at the anachronistic behemoth looming over our kitchen, we decided to stop waiting and make the switch over to the ice box regardless of the electric fridge's health. 

            Port Townsend had its own ice works in 1891[1], and most urban dwellers in America during the Victorian period had ice delivered right to their door.  Sadly this is no longer an option, so we had to work out a system where Gabriel buys block ice from one of the few stores in our region that still sells it, transports it home in a cooler, then I rush out and help him unload it before it melts.

            We started by moving over the condiments, since most of them probably could have sat on our cupboard shelves without any refrigeration at all and been relatively unaffected.  The vegetables came next, since they were also relatively shelf stable.  A week or so later we moved the eggs, cheese and butter.   Seeing no signs of food poisoning after another few weeks we finally moved over the liquid dairy products (milk and cream) and Gabriel's meats.  With that, we unplugged the electric refrigerator and awaited developments.  When we had been getting along just fine with the ice box alone, we sold the electric fridge.  Our milk is actually colder this way than when we were using an electric fridge because we put it (and the meat) right in the same compartment as the ice.

            Meltwater collects in a drip tray underneath the wooden cabinet as the ice diminishes, and I empty the tray twice a day.  We had been using our icebox regularly for about half a year when it occurred to me that the appliance would have truly interesting potential as a component in a detective story.  Gabriel and I do consulting for films and books, and one of our favorite projects so far has been an ongoing mystery series set in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, A Person Known to Me.  One morning after I emptied the drip tray I wrote to the series' directors with some insights into how an ice box could fit into their piece.  I pointed out that the water in the drip tray would give a detective an outside estimate for the amount of time that had passed since a vanished person had last been in their house and caring about mundane tasks.  If someone's ice compartment was full and they suddenly disappeared, the meltwater in the drip tray would overflow onto the floor sometime the next day.  (In the nineteenth-century some houses had drains through the floor directly from the icebox to the outer world, but this was fairly uncommon.)  If the ice was completely melted a good detective would probably check the temperature of the water in the drip tray to see how warm it had gotten, the same way he/she would check the temperature of coffee or tea in a mug left on the table to see how cold that had gotten.  

            An icebox could come into detective plots in another interesting way as well: Back when ice was delivered, icemen had an interesting role in the community because they made regular deliveries and (unlike the postman or milkman) could actually carry their product right into the house - not necessarily in every case, but certainly if it was a heavy delivery and the woman asked him to.  (Our house actually has a separate door directly into the kitchen for deliveries.)  Because icemen were muscular, knew all their women customers well and came into the house, there were lots of bawdy jokes about them.)  An iceman would be in a unique position to tell detectives if anything was changed or out of the ordinary in a particular kitchen - he would be somewhat familiar with his customer's kitchens, but would have a more neutral perspective than a member of the family.

            Because ice boxes and kitchens in general were solidly in women's sphere of technology, a lady detective would think of these things before a male detective did.  She would also probably think of interviewing the iceman before it occurred to the male detectives.  The iceman would be less suspicious of a lady detective too; since there were so many bawdy jokes about icemen and private detectives were often hired to dig up dirt in divorce / annulment cases, the iceman would probably be immediately on the defensive with a male detective.  

            The blocks of ice are large (the biggest we can get are 10 lb blocks, but they would have used even bigger ones when it was delivered by icemen.  Our ice compartment holds up to 80 lbs; some iceboxes were bigger, some smaller).  Every once in a while, there will be a loud CLUNK as the melting of a lower block causes an upper block to fall off of it and shift around.  It can be quite startling in an otherwise perfectly quiet house.  This morning before sun-up I was at my desk writing when I heard a loud BANG from the kitchen.  I've been reading lots of spooky stories lately and my first instantaneous thought was, "Ghost!" then after a split-second of reflection I realized that it was only the ice shifting in the icebox.

[1] "Port Townsend, Wash." North American Review Advertiser, New York, 1891, p. 18.

I've been baking all our bread for a few years now, and last summer I switched from white bread to sourdough because we prefer the flavor.  Admittedly, by Victorian standards this is a slight devolution; by our period of the 1880s and 90s sourdough had distinctly lower-class connotations.  White bread was the standard among the upper and middle classes; sourdough was seen as the bread of gold rush miners and country peasants.  For this precise reason though it had a certain romantic appeal, associations with adventures in search of riches and of pastoral idylls.  Alaska's Yukon miners took on the nickname Sourdough for themselves as a badge of pride, and the bread-style wasn't altogether eschewed by people in more civilized places.  In large metropolises in America, even middle and upper-class Victorians would eat sourdough occasionally as a novelty—much in the same way that a modern American of Bill Gates' income bracket might still enjoy a hot dog from time to time.  For Gabriel and myself I make sourdough loaves as our daily bread because (like I mentioned) we prefer the flavor.

We acquired our initial sourdough starter from a grocery store.  The same store from which we buy our ice was selling wild yeast spores in paper packets the size of postcards from a San Francisco company.  (Here's their website: http://goldrushproducts.com/about-us/)  After the first week of feeding the starter every day and carefully husbanding it it started to feel like a pet.  We began referring to it as The Beast, and the name stuck.  My first few attempts to bake bread (using the recipe that came with our starter, then other sourdough recipes from various modern sources) resulted in stony little loaves with the approximate chewing enjoyment of boot leather and very little sourdough tang.  This was clearly unsatisfactory, so I sat down and thought out the situation from a logical standpoint.

The modern recipes used very little starter but added crutches to the rising process like store-bought yeast and sugar.  Furthermore they called for multiple kneadings of the dough during the rising process.  Insufficient starter seemed like an obvious explanation for the bland taste and I reasoned there were two possibilities for why the loaves were so hard: Either there wasn't enough rising agent (i.e. starter) or too much of the air was being pushed out through overkneading as it was rising.  I reminded myself that since sourdough is traditionally the bread of gold-rush miners, peasants, and ancient accidents, it had to be pretty darn simple.  So I increased the amount of starter dramatically and only kneaded the dough once before forming it into a loaf and letting it rise.  It worked perfectly, and everyone always comments on its amazing texture.

Some sourdough cultures have been cultivated for years; I've kept ours alive for many months now and have cooked countless tasty loaves of bread with it.  I offer my recipe here for the reader's enjoyment:

 

Sourdough bread (Beast bread)

2 1/2—3 cups sourdough starter (Beast)  The amount of Beast used depends on how runny it is.

2 1/2 cups bread flour

1 Tablespoon salt

Mix. Knead until lively.  Form into a loaf (or a round), set on a buttered piece of waxed paper, and cut cross-hatches over the top.  Let rise until doubled (seven hours to overnight at 61 degrees Fahrenheit; less time at higher temperatures.)  Try to trim off any extra waxed paper before baking the bread—waxed paper not in direct contact with the loaf will brown and smoke a little in the oven.  (Don't worry: It won't catch fire, it just makes the air in the kitchen unpleasant for a while.  Open a window if it's an issue.)    Bake at 430 degrees F. for 20-25 minutes, or until the loaf sounds hollow when knocked on with a knuckle.   Turn out immediately onto a dry breadboard and remove the waxed paper.  Remember to feed The Beast (i.e., the original starter.)

 

Comments on The Beast

 

Like any pet, a Beast must be fed every day.  A hungry Beast is a sad Beast.  Here is how to feed it:

 

Beast feed

Equal parts bread flour and water. (1/2 cup each for a small batch, more for larger batches.)

Mix well, stir into Beast.  Your Beast is now a happy Beast.  Remember to feed the Beast every day.  

 

—The Beast abhors metal.  (Metal reacts badly with the vinegar produced by wild yeast as a by-product and does unpleasant things to the living yeast.)  Store it in glass, ceramic, or plastic.  Use only glass, ceramic, or plastic bowls for mixing Beast bread, and stir with a wooden spoon.  If baking Beast bread in a metal pan, remember to line it with waxed paper.  When making Beast bread, remember to butter the waxed paper unless you want to eat it later as an inseperable part of your bread (it doesn't taste very good.)


—The runniness of The Beast will depend on temperature and how much vinegar it has built up since the last time bread was baked.  (It digests the natural sugar in its daily flour/water feed and puts out vinegar as a by-product—thus creating the tangy flavor of sourdough.)  When making bread use enough Beast to absorb all the flour and create a dough that "cleans" your mixing bowl (i.e., doesn't leave huge sticky wads of itself behind—a few scraps are okay.)  Use less Beast when it's really runny (hot, humid conditions, or when it's been building up vinegar for a while), more Beast when it's fairly solid.  The "2 1/2 cups of Beast" figure in the recipe above applies when the Beast is about the same consistency as cake batter; use three cups when the texture is closer to oatmeal.  The exact proportions will vary from kitchen to kitchen because temperatures and humidity are different in every home.


—"Lively" bread dough has the same texture as well-muscled human flesh.

 
—The cross-hatchings on the top of the loaf are to break up surface tension.  This helps the loaf rise to its full potential.

My beast!  I keep it in a pottery bowl that belonged to my grandmother.  When not in use I keep it covered with a damp towel and invert another large ceramic bowl over top of it.  This creates a loose seal and regulates humidity.  If I spill Beast on the towel or it starts to smell like vinegar, I just change it out for a clean one.

Measuring out 2 1/2 cups of bread flour.  My tin measuring cups also belonged to my grandmother.  It's just the Beast itself that abhors metal; it's fine to use metal measuring cups for the flour and water.  My favorite flour brand is Gold Medal: A Victorian company whose name originated with a prize won in an international miller's competition in 1880.  (Their website: http://www.goldmedalflour.com/OurFlourStory/OurHeritage 

Adding The Beast!  I measure it with a half-pint glass jelly jar.  It was thick today so this was a 3 cup day for The Beast.

Adding 1 Tablespoon of salt.

Mixing the dough.

Notice The Beast's home on the left-hand side: The glazed brown pottery bowl is inverted over a damp towel on top of the ceramic bowl which holds The Beast.

Kneading.  
If you've never kneaded bread before, notice the rolling motion and the way the hand sweeps the dough up off the board instead of pressing it flat into the wood.  (Most of the pressure comes from the heel and flat of the hand; the fingers come into play when they sweep the dough upwards and keep it from sticking to the board.  Don't overthink things: Just practice, practice, practice and you'll get the hang of it.)  It takes practice, but ideally when bread dough is mixed in the right proportions and kneaded properly it should "clean" the board by the time you're finished and leave no scraps of flour behind.

Forming the dough into a loaf.

The loaf on a sheet of buttered waxed paper.  (If the waxed paper isn't well greased, the loaf will stick to it unmercifully.)

Cutting cross-hatchings into the loaf to break up surface tension as it rises.

Lowering the loaf (on the waxed paper) into a loaf pan.  For a round loaf I use a pie plate.

Mixing Beast Feed.  (1/2 cup bread flour + 1/2 cup water.)

Feeding The Beast.

After trimming the waxed paper.

The end result: Tasty bread!

I bake fresh bread for us every 2-3 days, and of course I feed The Beast daily.  After writing all this I'm glad I don't try to explain the process every single time: Believe me, it takes far longer to document than to just do it!  Thanks to constant practice, now I can get a fresh loaf ready for rising (and feed The Beast, to boot) in less than ten minutes.  After that it's just a matter of letting it rise and bake—then eating it!