“The following receipts are not a mere marrowless collection of shreds and patches, and cuttings and pastings, but a bona fide register of practical facts,–accumulated by a perseverance not to be subdued or evaporated by the igniferous terrors of a roasting fire in the dog-days,–in defiance of the odoriferous and calefacient repellents of roasting, boiling, frying, and broiling;–moreover, the author has submitted to a labour no preceding cookery-book-maker, perhaps, ever attempted to encounter, having eaten each receipt before he set it down in his book.”
–William Kitchiner, Introduction to The Cook’s Oracle.

Hey guyz what’s going on in this thread? Thank you for your kind comments on my previous post. I will tell you that I often post in a time warp. I worry about discussing things that I am still het up or uncertain about. I think it’s one part typical internet caution, but I am a pretty cautious person anyway. Sometimes I have trouble saying what I am thinking right away because my gears are grinding. I can certainly make snap decisions if forced but I would much rather say that I will sleep on it. And a lot of the time I dream about outcomes. I like to do this work while I am asleep.

My point is, she died the day I posted it, Sunday. Usually I like to tell you what’s happening so you know, and I’ve already processed it, but it was really fresh. So, even more so than usual, I was appreciative of your comments.

Hey, speaking of crazy, disorganized babbling, my winter mania has kicked in. I don’t know if it will last, but I am going with it. I am the only person I know who loses weight in the winter, and gains weight in the summer (MMMM fruit and cheese and wine and pie). Is it okay to go with something like this if it results in a positive outcome? I hope so. The pattern’s held for at least ten years now, but skipped last year for some reason–I suspect that working downtown exposed me to too much light, ha ha. I just have to be careful to get enough sleep. The nice thing is I have the energy to get a fuckton done. Such as…

Cleaning up after the cocaine bear visits!! Just kidding. I am purging my house of fleas. The fellow at the pet supply told me there was something about this summer that made it the worst for fleas ever. I bought a giant bag of diatomaceous earth and have been treating my whole house for the last couple of days. I am hoping one big push will get the fleas out. I was using the really quality stuff that you put on your pet’s neck and near the end, it seemed not to be working.

So Monday and yesterday I pulled apart the girls’ rooms–cleaned all bedding and stuffed animals, dusted the rooms, and now I am moving on to main rooms. I have “dusted” myself into my bedroom currently and when I get hungry I will have to vacuum my way out.

I have 27 more “official” Victorian recipes to cook, as in, they are printed out on the December calendar on the fridge. But I find myself scribbling more things onto it daily, so I reckon I will end up with about 40 more recipes by December 25th. I am trying to make that my absolute cut off date, with the week between Xmas and New Year’s totally clear. HA HA. I can feel the lie as it issues out of my fingers. I’m sure I will be tweaking stuff that week, in addition to closing shop for new articles at The Queen’s Scullery. I put a new banner up there yesterday, and I am kind of in love with it, though I am a total Photoshop flâneuse.

I am diving into the research portion of things and it is all getting very tangled. I am attempting to give as many recipes as possible their due credit. I have turned again to Katheryn Hughes’s biography of Isabella Beeton as a jumping-off point for where Beeton gaffled her recipes from. Hughes is causing me actual physical pain by scoffing at my beloved William Kitchiner, saying that Beeton never even credited him, which is patently false, AHEM: “Indian Curry Powder, founded on Dr. Kitchiner’s recipe.” Hughes claims he was not ever a medical doctor at all (okay, yes, his educational background in Scotland is rather hazy). Apparently his writing style, all full of IMPERATIVE EXCLAMS!!, something that may be familiar to readers of this screed and a habit that further endears Kitchiner to me, is unacceptable to Hughes:

Given Kitchiner’s off-putting emphases (there are few sentences that are not spattered with italics or capitals), it is grimly pleasurable to learn that he died at the age of forty-nine, having failed in his boast to demonstrate that good diet prolonged life beyond its usual span.

Fiddle faddle to you, Ms. Hughes. I believe his biographers’ hunch that he was poisoned.

There are further problems. Another of Beeton’s major sources stole HIS work from a French chef. It feels a little bizarre to be testing and tweaking every recipe I am including in the book–kind of the antithesis of what the Victorians were up to with their borrowing, modifying, and editing. There is one thing Hughes and I agree on. Beeton was not a woman who saw the business end of a kitchen knife or tammy too often. I look at recipes now and am like NOPE. This is not going to work at all.

Chicken Croquettes in a nice Béchamel.

Frying in duck fat.

I went to school conferences yesterday and the word was about what I expected. Strudel participates in the school-wide writer’s workshop program. For most kindergartners this means drawing pictures, but she is writing and insisting on reading things like Lemony Snicket. We argue about the literary merits of The Magic Treehouse series (barf).

It turns out she wrote a story about cooking with me and eating. “I LOVE EATING MY MOMS VICKTORYAN FUD.” There is a drawing of us sitting at the table, with flowers and plates. I am the same size as Strudel but I have pink hair. I really hope the girls, when they consider their childhoods, can forgive the bad parts in favor of the parts where we cooked together, and there was good hot food on the table, and the feeling of snug domesticity and beautiful surroundings that I always wanted as a kid.

So now you know what’s banging around in my head. Don’t we all feel better now? WE WILL NOW OPEN THE FLOOR FOR QUESTIONS.

The life aquatic with Franny Zissou.