Caraway Seed Cake From Jane Eyre

Poor Jane Eyre. Girl can’t get a break. First, her parents die of typhus. Then, her beloved uncle and guardian Mr. Reed dies, leaving her in the care of an aunt who despises her and encourages Jane’s abuse at the hands of her cousins. After a particularly distressing conflict with her cousin John, she is sent away to the Lowood School for girls, where she finds a new abuser in Mr. Brocklehurst, the school’s headmaster. Eventually, Jane befriends a fellow student, Helen Burns, and finds a supporter in her teacher, Miss Temple. 

In one of the first bright spots in the novel Miss Temple invites Helen and Jane for tea, and shows the young girls true kindness: 

“[...] she got up, unlocked a drawer, and taking from it a parcel wrapped in paper, disclosed presently to our eyes a good-sized seed-cake.

‘I meant to give each of you some of this to take with you,’ said she: ‘but as there is so little toast, you must have it now,’ and she proceeded to cut slices with a generous hand.

We feasted that evening as on nectar and ambrosia; and not the least delight of the entertainment was the smile of gratification with which our hostess regarded us, as we satisfied our famished appetites on the delicate fare she liberally supplied.”

I mean, at this point, this was probably the best afternoon of Jane’s life. Of course, (SPOILER ALERT) then Helen goes on to die of consumption in her arms. 

Seed cakes were quite popular in Britain well into the 19^th century and were usually flavored with caraway seeds—hence the name. You may know caraway seeds from their role in rye bread, but they actually work nicely in sweet breads too. According to Andrea Broomfield in her book Food and Cooking In Victorian England: A History, seed cakes originated in East Anglia in the 16^th Century where they were traditionally served during the harvest time. Caraway seeds were also thought to aid in digestion, so this cake was served after large meals. It became most popular during the Victorian age and was frequently served with tea. It was usually flavored with some kind of spirit, such as Madeira wine or brandy, was nicknamed a “keeping cake” because it didn’t spoil easily. 

I couldn’t find a recipe from the 1840s, so one from the infamous Mrs. Beeton will have to do. She was kind of like the Martha Stewart of her day. She came up with such revolutionary ideas as listing ingredients at the beginning of the recipe and telling readers how long they should cook something for:

A Very Good Seed-Cake: 1861 From Mrs. Beeton’s ‘Household Management’

 INGREDIENTS – 1 lb. of butter, 6 eggs, 3/4 lb. of sifted sugar, pounded mace and grated nutmeg to taste, 1 lb. of flour, 3/4 oz. of caraway seeds, 1 wineglassful of brandy.

Mode.—Beat the butter to a cream; dredge in the flour; add the sugar, mace, nutmeg, and caraway seeds, and mix these ingredients well together. Whisk the eggs, stir to them the brandy, and beat the cake again for 10 minutes. Put it into a tin lined with buttered paper, and bake it from 1–1/2 to 2 hours. This cake would be equally nice made with currants, and omitting the caraway seeds.

Time.—1–1/2 to 2 hours.

I decided to find a recipe that didn't include 6 eggs because I like my cholesterol level. This one from GoodToKnow.co.uk seemed like a great balance between classic ingredients and modern methods:

Caraway Seed Loaf Cake

Recipe

• 175g (6oz) butter, softened
• 175g (6oz) caster sugar
• 3 medium eggs
• 250g (8oz) self-raising flour
• 38g jar caraway seeds
• 2tbsp milk
• 1kg (2lb) loaf tin, buttered and lined with a strip of baking parchment

 Method

1. Tip all the ingredients into a bowl and beat until smooth. Spoon mixture into the loaf tin and level the surface.
2. Bake the cake in the centre of the oven 160°C (320°F, gas mark 3) for 45 mins-1 hr, or until the cake feels just firm to the touch in the centre, and a skewer comes out clean when inserted into cake.
3. Remove the cake from the oven and leave to cool in the tin for 10-15 mins.
4. Transfer it to a wire rack to cool completely.

The amount of eggs gives this cake a rather spongey texture, much different from the sweetbreads I'm used to, but it all works to create a nice, fluffy cake . However, I can see why wine or brandy was used to help preserve this cake because it seems to get a bit mushy from all the butter after a few days.

Now invite this guy over to tea and you'll be all set:

Literary Eats: Treacle Tarts from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll

Lewis Carroll was the pen name of Oxford don and mathematician Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. Though Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland wasn’t his first published work, it was by far his most popular. Children and adults alike were enchanted by Wonderland’s fanciful imagery, anthropomorphic animal characters, and nonsensical language. Though Dodgson’s literary legacy has been marred by debate concerning the true nature of his relationship with Alice Liddell, the youngest daughter of Henry Liddell, dean of Oxford’s Christchurch College, his work is arguably even more popular today thanks to the 1951 Disney cartoon and Tim Burton’s 2010 pseudo-gothic movie Alice in Wonderland. Aside from the arresting visuals provided in both the book and its many film versions, some of the most famous scenes are built around some very British traditions: The infamous Mad Hatter’s tea party, the depiction of the royal court, and a game of croquet. A number of traditional British foods are mentioned as well, but there is one that causes an uproar:

The King and Queen of Hearts were seated on their throne when they arrived, with a great crowd assembled about them--all sorts of little birds and beasts, as well as the whole pack of cards: the Knave was standing before them, in chains, with a soldier on each side to guard him; and near the King was the White Rabbit, with a trumpet in one hand, and a scroll of parchment in the other. In the very middle of the court was a table, with a large dish of tarts upon it: they looked so good, that it made Alice quite hungry to look at them--`I wish they'd get the trial done,' she thought, `and hand round the refreshments!' But there seemed to be no chance of this, so she began looking at everything about her, to pass away the time.

Later on the Duchess’ cook (and pepper aficionado) is being questioned about the tarts:

Alice guessed who it was, even before she got into the court, by the way the people near the door began sneezing all at once.

'Give your evidence,' said the King.

'Shan't,' said the cook.

The King looked anxiously at the White Rabbit, who said in a low voice, 'Your Majesty must cross-examine this witness.'

'Well, if I must, I must,' the King said, with a melancholy air, and, after folding his arms and frowning at the cook till his eyes were nearly out of sight, he said in a deep voice, 'What are tarts made of?'

'Pepper, mostly,' said the cook.

'Treacle,' said a sleepy voice behind her.

'Collar that Dormouse,' the Queen shrieked out. Behead that Dormouse! Turn that Dormouse out of court! Suppress him! Pinch him! Off with his whiskers!'

Treacle tart has long held a place in British literature and is even mentioned as Harry Potter's favorite dessert. It would seem that nothing could be more aptly named than the syrupy sweet treacle tart. It turns out that anything from pancake syrup to dark molasses are, in fact, referred to as treacle in the UK, but traditionally golden syrup is used for the tart. I turned to 19th century housekeeping Goddess Mrs. Beeton for a classic recipe:

Treacle Tart

Ingredients:

450g golden syrup

4 oz soft white crumbs

1 tsp lemon juice

8 oz plain flour

1/2 tsp salt

4 oz unsalted butter 

flour for rolling out


Directions:

1) Set the oven at 400ºF

2) To make the pastry, sift the flour and salt into a bowl, then rub in the butter until the mixture resembles fine breadcrumbs. Add enough cold water to make a stiff dough. Press the dough together with your fingertips.

3) Roll out the pastry on a lightly floured surface and use just over three-quarters of it to line a 20 cm / 8 inch pie plate. Poke with a fork several times over.

4) Melt the syrup in a saucepan. Stir in the breadcrumbs and lemon juice, and then pour the mixture into the prepared pastry. Bake for 30 minutes.

I can see why this would be a popular British dessert--it is ridiculously SWEET, and if there was one take away from my time spent in London, it was that the Brits love their sweets. When my mom came to visit me, she commented that this was why their teeth were so bad.

I served this with some vanilla ice cream, which is obviously historically inaccurate, but I needed something to balance out the sweetness. There are a lot of modern takes on this recipe that include cream, which probably make it more palatable to today's taste buds. I will say though, that this all butter crust is delicious. Some things just stand the test of time.

Literary Eats: Apple Dumplings from Emma by Jane Austen

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Jane Austen once wrote that of all her literary creations, Emma Woodhouse was the one most like herself.  Writing during England’s wild (at least for the British) Regency period, when King George III was too mad to rule and the Prince Regent was given the reigns, Austen infused her novels of life in the English countryside with humor, romance, and a keen look at the pressures of middle class women to marry for money. However, she is most remembered for creating Mr. Darcy, who usually assumes the form of a young Colin Firth in most imaginations. Well, at least in mine. Anyways, there is no Mr. Darcy in Emma. But, there is a Mr. Knightly, who is sort of like an older, less stuck up version of Mr. Darcy. Emma Woodhouse is rich, and unlike many of Austen’s other heroines, she doesn’t feel pressured to get married. Therefore, she spends most of her time trying to get other people married, with mixed results.

As with all Austen novels, the eccentric supporting characters are often more memorable (and well-developed) than the main players, and the world of Emma Woodhouse is no exception, from her hypochondriac father, to her well-meaning but dull best friend Harriet Smith.

It is through Miss Bates, the chatterbox spinster daughter of Mrs. Bates and aunt to the beautiful and mysterious Jane Fairfax, that we learn of not one but two apple dishes: Baked apples and apple dumplings. These are mentioned during the course of a mostly one-sided conversation commenced by Miss Bates while Emma is out shopping. Somehow the conversation (or rather, monologue) jumps from a rivet for Miss Bates’ glasses to apples:

[…] At one time Patty came to say she thought the kitchen chimney wanted sweeping. Oh, said I, Patty do not come with your bad news to me. Here is the rivet of your mistress's spectacles out. Then the baked apples came home, Mrs. Wallis sent them by her boy; they are extremely civil and obliging to us, the Wallises, always—I have heard some people say that Mrs. Wallis can be uncivil and give a very rude answer, but we have never known any thing but the greatest attention from them. And it cannot be for the value of our custom now, for what is our consumption of bread, you know? Only three of us.—besides dear Jane at present—and she really eats nothing—makes such a shocking breakfast, you would be quite frightened if you saw it. I dare not let my mother know how little she eats—so I say one thing and then I say another, and it passes off. But about the middle of the day she gets hungry, and there is nothing she likes so well as these baked apples, and they are extremely wholesome, for I took the opportunity the other day of asking Mr. Perry; I happened to meet him in the street. Not that I had any doubt before— I have so often heard Mr. Woodhouse recommend a baked apple. I believe it is the only way that Mr. Woodhouse thinks the fruit thoroughly wholesome. We have apple-dumplings, however, very often. Patty makes an excellent apple-dumpling. Well, Mrs. Weston, you have prevailed, I hope, and these ladies will oblige us."

Keep in mind that there’s a whole other paragraph I didn’t subject you to...

Anyways, it is unsurprising that Mr. Woodhouse, a man who seems to live almost exclusively on the diet of a fussy toddler, would believe that only a baked apple is a wholesome apple. However, I am more interested in Miss Bates’ apple dumplings. There’s just something so delicious about the word ‘dumpling’---perhaps because it invokes visions of something delicious wrapped in dough and fried, or in this case, boiled. Yes, apple dumplings are essentially cored and peeled Granny Smiths wrapped in pastry and then boiled. Oh and there’s sugar. Lots of it. 

In Hannah Glasse’s The Art of Cookery Made Plain and Easy first published in 1747, her recipe for apple dumplings requires them to be boiled for upwards of an hour, depending on the size:

“Make a good puff pastry, pare some large apples, cut them in quarters, and take out the cores very nicely; take a piece of the crust, and roll it round, enough for one apple; if they are big, they will not look pretty, so roll the crust round each apple, and make them round like a ball with a little flour in your hand; Have a pot of water boiling. Take a clean cloth, dip it in the water, and shake flour over it; tie each dumpling by itself, and put them in the water boiling, which keep boiling all the time; and if your crust is light and good, and the apples not too large, half an hour will boil them; but if the apples be large, they will take an hour’s boiling. When they are enough, take them up, and lay them in a dish; through fine sugar all over them, and send them to table. Have good fresh butter melted in a cup, and fine beaten sugar in a saucer.”

I was incredibly skeptical about this. I mean come on, boiled apples? How good could that possibly be? But, for the sake of this blog, I gave it a shot. The result? Surprising deliciousness! I used frozen puff pastry as a short cut. I then peeled, cored, and halved the apples. Next, I wrapped the halves in the puff pastry and tied them up in cheese cloth to keep them secure. I boiled the apples until soft, then tossed the dumplings in butter, sugar and cinnamon. They were like little doughy apple-filled pillows, though not as photogenic as baked apple dumplings. You win this round, Miss Bates.

Literary Eats: Pastry with Quince and Dates from Romeo and Juliet

My first brush with the Bard came during ninth grade English class, where Romeo and Juliet was the lone bright spot in a seemingly endless year that revolved around mind numbingly boring lessons on grammar recited in my teacher’s comically monotone voice. (Think Ben Stein in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off). If there was ever a class that sucked the life out of English, it was this one. Therefore, when we started reading the play, I was so starved for something even resembling literature that I devoured it.  Later, when I began working on my book project, I immediately thought of this play.

The prospect of researching food from this era was daunting in and of itself. My own working knowledge of English Renaissance fare was limited at best and mostly relied on images of an enormous King Henry VII gnawing on a turkey leg while seated at a banquet table overflowing with similar roast fowl. In fact, a variety of meats, fish, fowl, fruits, and vegetables were available, though the era’s taste in seasonings may seem rather heavy and sweet for today’s palate. The medieval Crusaders had brought back different spices from the Middle East, which were then incorporated into European cooking. Spices were considered valuable and a sign of wealth, so many recipes often included some combination of cloves, cinnamon, mace, nutmeg, and ginger even in roast meat dishes. 

In Shakespeare’s day imported sugar became a popular ingredient as well, though it was out of reach for all but the very wealthy—which led to the resulting blackened teeth becoming another status symbol. Wine or ale was the standard beverage for all since water wasn’t safe to drink. Of course, the richer you were, the better you ate and the wealthy Capulets and Montegues certainly occupied the highest level of Verona’s society.

When I went back to the original text, I didn’t find much to work with. Shakespeare may have provided us with some of the greatest lines in the English language, but he didn’t get too caught up on describing table settings.  The lovers themselves don’t really mention food. Most of their lines are devoted to talking about how much they love each other and how they hate their families (otherwise known as standard teenager talk). But, luckily, Juliet’s clueless parents are preparing a feast for her wedding to Paris. Let’s take a look:

SCENE IV. Hall in Capulet's house.

Enter LADY CAPULET and NURSE

LADY CAPULET
Hold, take these keys, and fetch more spices, nurse.

NURSE
They call for dates and quinces in the pastry.

Enter CAPULET
Come, stir, stir, stir! The second cock hath crow’d

The curfew-bell hath rung, ‘tis three o’clock:

Look to the baked meats, good Angelica:

Spare not for the cost.

NURSE

Go, you cot-quean, go,
Get you to bed; faith, You'll be sick to-morrow
For this night's watching.

CAPULET
No, not a whit: what! I have watch'd ere now
All night for lesser cause, and ne'er been sick.

Aside from learning that The Nurse’s name is Angelica and that Capulet can still party with the best of them, we learn of a pastry that needs dates and quinces. Of course, since this is Shakespeare there is symbolism in nearly everything, but especially something like Paris and Juliet’s wedding cake.  Traditionally, quinces were a symbol of love and fertility and were quite popular during Shakespeare’s day, so their place in the pastry for Juliet and Paris’ wedding feast is obvious.  However, it’s going to take a lot more than fruit to make that union work. At the end of the scene Capulet sends the Nurse to waken Juliet, but little do they know, Juliet has already ingested the elixir that gives her the appearance of death, thus setting in motion a tragic series of events.

 In the 16th Century there were several popular ways to prepare quinces: preserved, made into marmalade, boiled in wine, or made into a paste. A Book of Cookrye: Very necessary for all such as delight therin  gathered by A.W. and published in London in 1596 offers several different quince recipes:

 

 Tarte of Quinces with covers.

When your Quinces be very tender and colde, mince with two or three Warden amongst them and season them with sugar, sinamon and ginger, and so the paste being very fine, lay a cover upon them.

Tartes of Quinces without covers.

Straine your Quinces with some wine, when they be boiled tender, and an apple with them, or two or three Wardens, straine them and season them with Sugar, Sinamon and Ginger, and so make tarte without a cover.

How to bake Quinces.

Take half a pound of Sugar, and a dozen of Quinces and pare them, take half an ounce of Sinamon and Ginger, take fine flower, sweet butter, and Egges, and make your paste, then put in all your stuffe and close it up.

The references to ‘ paste’ in these recipes means pastry crust. Apparently adding a recipe for said ‘paste’ was redundant, or one of those ‘assumed’ things that ‘everyone’ should already know—unless you’re from the 21^st century, duh!-- and thus, goes unmentioned.

However, Francine Segan’s delightful cookbook Shakespeare’s Table she has a great updated recipe for what she calls Renaissance Dough that can be used for puffe-paste:

2 cups sifted loosely-packed pastry flour (8 oz)

½ tsp salt

1 large egg, beaten, cold

½ C butter, cut into small cubes, cold

½ ice-cold water

Mix the flour, water, the salt, and egg together on a cold surface until crumbly. Flatten the dough with a rolling pin and place one quarter of the butter cubes on the dough. (Keep the remaining butter refrigerated until ready to use.) Roll the butter into the dough, fold the dough over, and roll again. Repeat the process 3 more times until all the butter is incorporated. Cover the dough in plastic wrap and refrigerate for at least an hour.

I decided to make an amalgamation of the recipes and use the Renaissance dough for the crust.

Quinces look like a cross between an apple and a pear and are considerably fragrant. Once quite popular, they aren’t commercially grown and thus can be hard to find. I was lucky enough to find some at Belltown Orchard in South Glastonbury, CT, but grocery stores sometimes stock quince when in season, usually from October til December, and at a high mark up. Most recipes call for them to be poached or baked, since quince are too tart to eat raw, and this is no exception. When cooked, quince can take on a lovely rosy color due to a high level of tannins. 

A word of caution: be careful when coring your quince, as they are quite hard. I escaped without any cuts, but I definitely had to use some muscle just to get through the fruit. A small melon baller would work wonders. At first, this recipe’s ingredients and preparation reminded me of a traditional apple pie, but the delicate, almost floral taste of the ruby-colored quince and the accompanying sweetness of the dates makes for a decidedly different take on that most ‘American’ of desserts.

  

Pastry with Dates and Quince

Make Renaissance Dough according to above instructions.

After refrigerating, roll out dough and press into a pie pan or tart shell.

I found that it was essential to keep the dough as cold as possible because otherwise it took on a chewy texture the day after baking.

For Filling:

4 medium quinces
½ C white Italian dessert wine, such as Muscat

½ C water
1 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 cup sugar
1/4 teaspoon cloves

¼ tspn rosewater

½ C chopped dates

Peel quinces and cut in half. Remove cores. Fill saucepan with wine, water, rosewater,  and set to boil. Add quinces and cloves and simmer for about an hour or until soft. Check by sticking a knife through the quince. If it goes through easily, it’s done. If not, keep simmering. Depending on the size of your quince, it can take up to two or three hours, so be patient.

Drain quince and mix in dates, sugar, spices, and rosewater. Transfer mixture to pie shell and cover with vented top crust.

Bake at 350 for about an hour. Cool and serve.



Pyrex Glass Pie Plate, 9" (Google Affiliate Ad) 

Literary Eats: Captain Hook's Rich, Damp Cake

As a child, Peter Pan was one of my favorite books. It incorporated so many things I loved back then: Victorian England, a far off mystical land, being able to fly, hot lost boys (hey, it wasn't creepy at the time)--for awhile I even believed Peter Pan was real. But unlike the boy who never grew up, I did, eventually, and became interested in different, adult things: Modern London, Bali, the Fiat 500, and hot British men (helloooo Henry Cavill). One thing that has always stayed with me though was the description of a cake Captain Hook wanted to use to kill the Lost Boys:

Smee had been waiting for it. “Unrip your plan, captain,” he cried eagerly.

“To return to the ship,” Hook replied slowly through his teeth, “and cook a large rich cake of a jolly thickness with green sugar on it […] We will leave the cake on the shore of the mermaids’ lagoon. These boys are always swimming about there, playing with the mermaids. They will find the cake and they will gobble it up, because, having no mother, they don’t know how dangerous ‘tis to eat rich damp cake.”

Maybe it was because I was a chubby kid who loved food or perhaps it was simply a slow point in the story, but either way this cake captured my attention: What exactly was meant by a rich, damp cake and how could I eat one?

Now that I'm older the question has changed: How can I make one?

I did a little research regarding Victorian cake recipes and came across an online version of The Book of Household Management by Isabella Beeton, who was kind of like the Martha Stewart of her day. She came up with such revolutionary ideas as listing ingredients at the beginning of the recipe and telling readers how long they should cook something for. I also enjoyed her "General Observations" on each section, which briefly outlines the historical roots of certain ingredients and gives some helpful hints. There are a variety of cake recipes, some of which include her own opinions.

For instance, there is a recipe for A Nice Useful Cake, as well as Common Cake, which is 'suitable for sending to children at school'. Sunderland Gingerbread Nuts is "An excellent recipe", while distinctions are made between "Common" versions and "Very Good" versions of cakes. Most of the recipes described as being 'rich' contain lots of eggs, butter, and either brandy or sherry, so I deduced that such a cake must contain these things. The use of spirits would also contribute to this dampness. But, what of the green sugar? Mrs. Beeton has a recipe for sugar icing that "can be colored with strawberry or currant-juice, or with prepared cochineal." And notes that "All iced cakes should be kept in a very dry place."Well, surely the Mermaids Lagoon is anything but very dry. I guess Captain Hook knew what he was doing after all.

Rather than subject you to a Victorian cake recipe, I've modified a recipe for Sherry Wine Cake to suit our needs here today. I made it last Thanksgiving and, despite accidentally subbing vanilla pudding for vanilla pudding mix, it resulted in the richest and yes, dampest cake I've ever made. I also used a bundt cake pan, because it's just so darn easy, but I'm guessing Captain Hook didn't have one of those aboard the Jolly Roger:

Captain Hook's Rich, Damp Cake

1 box yellow cake mix

2 snack cups of Jell-O Vanilla pudding (Or Snack Pack, if you're gross)

1 c. oil

3/4 c. sherry wine

5 eggs

Preheat oven to 350

Mix all the ingredients together. Bake in a buttered-and-floured bundt pan for about 50 minutes, until the proverbial tester comes out clean.

If you feel like going all Victorian, here's the link to Mrs. Beeton's sugar icing.

Sugared Green Glaze:

1 cup powdered (confectioner's) sugar

1/2 cup sherry, or less

a couple drops of green food coloring

Once the cake is done baking, remove from oven but do NOT remove from the bundt pan. Then using a fork poke holes all over the top (or, rather bottom) of the cake. Then pour about half of the glaze over the holes and let it sit for a few minutes until it absorbs into the cake. Unmold the the cake onto a cooling rack or plate and repeat

Let it sit for another couple of minutes, just so the icing doesn't all run out. Then, unmold onto a rack with a piece of wax paper underneath to catch any drips. Then repeat the poking and glazing process again until you run out. Once the cake has cooled add another, thicker layer of glaze using more confectioner's sugar and less sherry. I'm in favor of using a bit less glaze simply because I don't like things super sweet and the cake itself is so darn good, but I'd recommend sticking to the recipe the first time and then adjusting it according to your preference afterwards. Either way, it's still delish.

Here's how it looks sans green food coloring:

You can hardly make out the glaze because I didn't have time to let it cool, but by God it's on there!

No one could eat more than a slice, but all agreed it was the moistest cake we'd ever had. It keeps pretty well too, probably because of the booze and protective layer of sugar.

I'm still not sure how Captain Hook intended to kill the lost boys with this cake, unless it was through alcohol poisoning or diabetes. Either way, the image of him toiling away in the kitchen makes me LOL and also reminds me of this.