Like some kind of beef-based electricity, Bovril puts BEEF into you.
If anyone can tell me what “The Body-building power of Bovril has been proved by independent scientific investigation to be 10 to 20 times the amount taken,” I would be grateful.
I loved it a few years ago when the Google Van came round at Halloween and, for a while, the picture of our house on Google Earth showed a grinning pumpkin in the window. Actually, along those lines, in our previous house I was sure I could see a little boy peeping out of our bedroom window on the Google picture (this was pre-children), but when I look at the picture now I can’t see it anymore. Sadly, the pumpkin picture has now been replaced, but it’s still Halloween in spirit everyday in our house. A few years ago, I realised I had overplayed it a bit with my 3 year old son when he woke up, rushed downstairs, excitedly peered out of the window, and was bitterly disappointed that there were no walking skeletons, lurking vampires and flying witches to be seen. The bucket of sweets cheered him up later, though.
The origins of Halloween are a bit murky, but it’s been a popular holiday for at least a few hundred years.
Yesterday I talked about the tradition of “Mischief Night” – in Liverpool it’s the night before Halloween, but in other places it’s the night before Bonfire Night. But Halloween itself was also a day of trickery – and there’s still “trick or treat” of course.
In 1856 this article talks of how “People, young and old, play strange pranks on the evening of the day preceding the first of November.” Strange pranks which can “fill the houses of obnoxious individuals with volumes of smoke” and “disturb the equanimity of octogenarians.” Try saying that after a Bloody Mary.
I’d never heard of “Cracknut Night” before. It was another old name for Halloween at one time, “in allusion to the practice of cracking nuts in the fire on that occasion.”. I love the traditional “youth of today” moan here. The youngsters of 1902 weren’t bothered about your traditions, granddad, they had their “progressive whist and Ping-Pong.” Anyway, the reports of the death of Halloween turned out to be greatly exaggerated.
Some delicious-sounding Halloween treats from 1930. To celebrate properly, you need Midnight Cake, Ghost biscuits, treacle apples and chestnuts. Midnight cake is a cake baked with treacle to make it darkly coloured, and iced as a clock pointing at midnight. Ghost biscuits are two biscuits jammed together and decorated with a spooky chocolate face and a skull and crossbones. I like the Irish mashed potato tradition – filled with thimbles, threepennybits and buttons, like the coin in a Christmas pudding. Then you need to have a treasure hunt for charms, and when they’re all found, hold hands in a circle at midnight and read out your fortune without laughing.
“Time was when this day was the greatest social festival of the Scottish year.” Now the author bemoans the fading away of Halloween in an age where “our civilisation is urban and complicated,” and the rural ways of another age have gone by the wayside. I wonder what he’d say to a Halloween that is arguably bigger than ever, although probably not in a way he’d recognise?
Mischief Night – like trick or treating, except with just the tricks. What’s not to like, if you’re a cheeky 13-year-old?
In Liverpool it mainly seems to involve eggs being thrown, especially at taxis for some reason. A taxi driver told me once that the contents of the egg damage the paintwork of the vehicle as they dry and so you have to wash them off straightaway, which makes October 30th a massive pain in the arse if that’s your job. It’s a bit of a gamble being on a bus too – a surprisingly loud banging sound on the window, then relief that it’s just an egg. Still, it’s better than when a gang of reprobates get hold of some stink bombs, lie in wait at bus stops, then chuck them in through the doors as they close and the bus moves off. It would be funny if you weren’t then stuck on a bus that smells of a million eggs. Although it does inspire some kind of “blitz spirit” among the bus passengers, who will suddenly feel OK about talking to each other.
The exact date of Mischief Night apparently differs depending on where you are in the world. Growing up in the south of the UK, I’d never heard of it until I moved to Liverpool, where Mischief Night is 30th October and is otherwise known as “Mizzy Night”. 30th October seems to be pretty standard in a lot of the US too. However, in the UK it originally was held the day before May Day, but after the Industrial Revolution holidays linked to the countryside dwindled in importance and Mischief Night moved to 4th November in most places, particularly taking hold in Yorkshire, where apparently it was particularly important to those 13-year-olds, participating in it being as a kind of rite of passage. Tasker Dunham, is this true? In Germany, it’s still held in May.
Through all the different dates, one thing is consistent. It’s the day before a notable even on the calendar – before May Day, April Fools Day, Halloween, or Bonfire Night.
Anyway, I’m sitting here hoping my house isn’t in for an egging tonight, and looking at some of the mischief seen in days gone by.
Mischief Night as it was in 1917, reported in the Burnley News. In Lancashire it used to be the night before April Fools Day, it says here. The author recounts the “wild pranks” he used to participate in as a young lad. “On this night, the boys used to take a kind of liberty or licence to do all kinds of silly mischief, upsetting rain tubs, tying doors fast and then knocking at the door, putting a sod over the chimney of some low cottage, so that the inmates were smoked out, and things of a similar character.”
There are some proffered explanations as to why Mischief Night even exists, and the differences even over the one county of Lancashire. In Southport it was held on 4th November, and was thought to reference the mischief of Guy Fawkes. In Goosnargh and Chippinge it was on May Day Eve, and came from “the mischief done by young men and women tearing off the branches of trees, and pulling up the new springing flowers to lay at each others doors to please or irritate each other according to the symbolic meaning conveyed.”
The most peculiar thing I have read is the rather elaborate tradition of Barton Moss in Salford, reported in a letter to “The Manchester City News” in 1885. “At Barton Moss a custom prevails, on the 4th of November, of scouring the neighbourhood in search of stray cats and dogs, and when a good supply is collected, the villagers assemble at midnight at the north-east corner of the Moss, and stretch a line between two trees. Each cat is then tied tail to tail with a dog, and the pair are then thrown over the line, where they are allowed to fight until first blood is drawn, when they are released, and another pair is thrown over in their place. This union of cat and dog is held to be symbolical of the infamous union of the Radcliffe family and Guy Faux. These “Mischiefs” as they are called, are generally attended by the young people of both sexes, even the fair daughters of the good families in the district not objecting to accompanying their gallant lovers to see the poor victims of the sport tortured. When the line is cut down parkin is distributed by the town crier, after which one solitary sky rocket is fired, and then all go home.”
Well, I don’t think covering a house in toilet paper beats that.
Here we are in Yorkshire in 1936, and the familiar cry of the fun being “carried a good deal too far.” Glass bottles being thrown, libraries having their lights turned out and washing pulled down from the lines. “Cannot something be done to moderate this so-called “mischief night” to which we must be the victims annually?” asks the writer of this letter? Apparently not.
A 13-year-old girl in Lincolnshire was arrested for “pushing over a brick pillar” in 1945. Her defence that she “just leaned on the pillar” before it fell over not being believed. I’m going to say that whatever this pillar was, it wasn’t very secure.
Hornsey in 1948, and there was trouble with 50 boys destroying seats on the Promenade. This was on Bonfire Night though, so they were a bit late.
Mischief Night still a problem in Yorkshire in 1953. Chief Constable Barnett warned the potential miscreants not to get up to criminal activity – “There seems to be a feeling among young people that they are at liberty to interfere with private and public property, and that there will be no repercussions. I shall be glad of the support of all adults members of the public in dispelling this erroneous idea.”
No luck though. As you can see from this screenshot of the Liverpool Echo in 2011, this tradition is not going anywhere, yet.
Craven A cork-tipped Virginia cigarettes – not only does their cork tip prevent “wet end”, but “you’ll not know what real cigarette enjoyment is” without them.
“You should smoke them because they’re made specially to prevent sore throats.”Â
I presume this means that the cork-tipped filter makes them less harsh to smoke than non-tipped cigarettes. But remember, always check with your doctor before you embark on a cigarette-based sore-throat-cure course.
Well, this is interesting.
I’m a sucker for a historical mystery, and the Jack the Ripper case is an enduring and gruesome loose end from a fascinating period in history. The news here that the director Bruce Robinson has thrown his deerstalker in the ring is welcome, not only because I love him as the director of one of my favourite films, Withnail and I, but also because his conclusions are intensely interesting to me. The article is to promote his new book They All Love Jack, which is now on my to-read list. It just arrived a few days ago in fact, a massive 800-pager that I can’t wait to get stuck into.
Bruce says, “I honestly think I’ve nailed the horrible fucker.” The nailee is, in his opinion, Michael Maybrick, a celebrated Victorian songwriter better known under his songwriting alias of Stephen Adams. They All Love Jack, the title of Robinson’s book, is also the title of one of Maybrick’s songs. He concludes the police knew he was the Ripper, but he was shielded by the umbrella of Freemasonry.
Interesting stuff, but this is where it gets more interesting still. Michael’s brother, the Liverpudlian cotton broker James Maybrick, has been on the list of Ripper suspects ever since the incriminating “Diary” which bore his name was released in 1992. The Diary is an unresolved piece of the puzzle – it was written in a Victorian scrapbook with what appears to be, after extensive testing, actual Victorian ink. It apparently described details of the murders only known to the police at the time. But it is also said to be more in line with 20th century writing styles, and one of the owners of the diary subsequently confessed to writing it, although he later withdrew that statement. It has been generally dismissed as a hoax in the years since, but no-one has conclusively proved that.
And then there’s the strange case of another piece of evidence related to the family, the Maybrick watch. Following the publication of the Diary, a man in Wallasey came forward with an engraved pocket watch, which suddenly looked very interesting. The watch was a genuine Victorian artefact, made in 1847-48. On the inside cover were scratched the words “J.Maybrick”, “I am Jack” and the initials of the five definitely agreed Ripper victims. It’s too incriminating to feel like it could be real – but analysis has discovered that the scratches really were made decades earlier. At least, it was definitely not created purely on the appearance of the Diary.
And so James Maybrick’s shadowy figure has remained in the line up of likely suspects. The evidence pointing towards him hasn’t been disproved, despite the fact that both the Diary and the watch give the appearance of being fake, but without any of their components actually being fake. Now, I don’t know what Bruce Robinson concludes, but if it was Michael Maybrick, then the possibility that he faked them to put his brother in the frame after his death is very interesting indeed. The idea that the real Ripper actually made them, but as a fraud, is certainly a tantalising one.
Living in Liverpool as I do, of course the Liverpool connection is the most interesting line of research to me and I have been interested in the Maybrick family for some time. The reason I am excited about the switch from James to Michael Maybrick is because of some curious piece of family history I half-came across some time ago. I used to work with a man whose girlfriend was a descendant of the family. He told me they had a family diary or some other written documents which he had read, and which had convinced him of Maybrick’s guilt. I was dying to see what the evidence was myself, but I never did, as I had the impression that this was something that the family didn’t want to advertise. I did ask if anyone else had ever seen it, and he said no, they hadn’t. Now, what confused me was that this was a decade after the “hoax” Maybrick diary had been published and it didn’t really make sense that he was referring to that. But what else could it be? And so the possibility that there is a different suspect, in the same family, is a very interesting one.
However, my post today isn’t covering the Ripper murders, but another death connected with the whole saga. The murder of James Maybrick himself, in 1889, ostensibly by his wife, Florence. She was American, 23 years younger than her husband, a popular member of Liverpool society, and a noted beauty of her day. Her trial was one of the most sensational and controversial of the Victorian era.
James Maybrick was absolutely not a Ripper suspect at the time of his murder, at least as far as it is known. His death was not newsworthy on those terms – it was widely written about because his brother was a famous composer, his wife was a beautiful younger woman, and because it was a classic whodunnit scenario of death by poisoning. If Robinson is right, though, maybe his brother was the real killer. There’s everything in there that one of those modern-day murder mystery entertainments could wish for, in other words.
We know Florence was beautiful by the fact that this was noted in newspaper reports of her arrest, subsequent imprisonment, and eventual release. Of course, there’s all the associated implications hiding between the lines – a beautiful but untrustworthy woman, a temptress, a gold-digger, a beautiful face which masks a psychopathic intent. It occurred to me that I couldn’t imagine reporting of this nature nowadays – and then I remembered the circus around Amanda Knox, “Foxy Knoxy”, and how the more things change, they more they stay the same.
This is the way Florence Maybrick’s case, otherwise known as “The Aigburth Poisoning Case”, was reported.
Florence and James Maybrick lived in Battlecrease House, Riversdale Road, Aigburth, Liverpool. The house is still there. Here’s what it looks like now, from Google Earth.
James Maybrick died at Battlecrease on 11th May 1889 after suddenly being taken ill two weeks earlier. His brother, Michael Maybrick, thought the circumstances of his illness and death were suspicious and an inquest was held in a hotel nearby. This concluded that he was most probably killed by arsenic poisoning. Rumours abounded as to who the killer may have been, with his wife’s name at the forefront of suspicion. On 20th May 1889 she was charged with his murder, the trial due to be held at Liverpool Crown Court.
All was not well with the marriage, evidently – Maybrick had multiple mistresses and Florence was also having an affair with another Liverpool cotton broker named Alfred Brierley. Alfred is presumably the person mentioned at the bottom of the following article – “The name of a third party has been freely mentioned in connection with Mr Maybrick’s mysterious death”.
There was “grave evidence” against Florence – revolving around the fact that she had been seen to be soaking fly-papers in water in her bedroom, an old method of extracting the arsenic contained within. She had also, apparently, poured James’ medicine from one bottle to another larger one, her stated reason being that the sediment in the medicine could not be properly shaken up in the smaller bottle.
She was charged and “exhibited no emotion” although she was looking “very haggard”. A rather negative spin on potentially being in shock – and shades of the way Amanda Knox’s behaviour was reported as well.
I’m a big fan of the invalid cookery of days gone by, beef tea being the mainstay of how the Victorians fed their sick. Here, beef tea destined for James to drink was said to have contained arsenic.
Rumours abounded regarding “the other man”, that Florence was involved with.
Despite being haggard on her arrest, Mrs Maybrick was otherwise “pretty and accomplished”, and of good breeding.
The motive was established – a scandal of some kind. Florence and James had argued after the Aintree Races in April and Florence was heard to say “Such a scandal; it will be all over town tomorrow.” James replied “Florry, Florry, I never thought it would come to this.” What the scandal was, exactly, was not determined.
An interesting snippet here – James was said to have become sick “from an overdose of the medicine the doctor in London had ordered.” James had, in fact, been staying with his brother Michael in London at this point.
Michael confirmed on 30th May that James had been to visit him five weeks earlier. At this point, James had been dead for three weeks, and had been ill for two weeks before that. The time frame points to Michael just as much as Florence. The London medicine was quite definitely in the frame here – and Michael may well have had access to that himself.
On being telegraphed that his brother was sick, Michael Maybrick came to Liverpool straight away. He flagged up his suspicions of poisoning very quickly indeed. In fact, he was the one to tell the doctors that he considered his brother to be poisoned, rather than the other way around.
The “smoking gun” of the trial, alongside those soaking fly-papers, was Florence’s letter to her lover, where she describes her husband as “sick unto death”. The doctors stated at her trial that, at this point, they had not described James’ condition as being inevitably fatal. Florence writes to Alfred that he can “relieve his mind of all fear of discovery now or in the future.” The rest of the letter convinces me that she means discovery of the affair, rather than anything murderous.
However, the circumstances surrounding how her maid got hold of the letter are suspicious – she was allegedly given the letter to post, but it dropped in some mud. She took out the letter, meaning to put it into a clean envelope – but instead she read it, and handed it over to Michael. She couldn’t explain why the letter showed no signs of damage from the wet mud.
More evidence – a bottle labelled “poison” and a handkerchief with Florence’s initials on were found in a travelling case. More “Scooby Doo” style obvious murderer clues, bringing to my mind the Diary and that watch. The maid seems very taken with Michael, and hands everything over to him again.
A very important point arose in the trial – James Maybrick was already known to take medicine which contained arsenic. This muddies the fly-paper-water a bit.
I’m imagining Death from Monty Python’s “The Meaning of Life” pointing a long, bony finger – “The BEEF TEA!”
“Was it possible that the lady, small in figure, neatly attired in deep mourning, her fair and well-rounded face – that is the lower half of it, for the upper part was hidden behind a thick veil – showing in pale relief against the sombre hue of her attire, could be guilty of the crime laid to her charge?”
It was noted that Michael Maybrick was very harshly accusatory of Florence throughout the trial. The letter is considered to be the essential piece of evidence, along with explaining how the arsenic got in James’ liver. I don’t think the letter refers to a poisoning myself, and it was known that James had taken arsenic anyway.
After lengthy proceedings, Florence was convicted of murder and sentenced to death.
Quite spooky seeing the two big news stories of the time connected here – Bonfire Night in 1889 had many instances of two very topical Guys that year – Jack the Ripper, and Mrs Maybrick. There was no sense at the time that actually these stories may be connected.
After the trial, Michael Maybrick went to ground for a few months. He reappeared in January 1890, singing his own composition “They All Love Jack”.
And he was in the public eye again in 1891, challenging James’ life insurance policy in court. He and his brother argued that the sum of £2000 should be paid out to them and the will in Florence’s favour be overturned. They were unsuccessful.
However, there was much support for Florence and a feeling that she was the victim of a miscarriage of justice, with the manner of how the judge had conducted her trial being questioned. Again, I’m reminded of Amanda Knox – a trial where, in the initial stages, she was viewed unsympathetically and with the implication that she was already guilty. Then, following conviction, a building sense that she may have been mistreated due to the lack of definite evidence and a questionable trial.
A re-examination of her case reduced her sentence to life imprisonment. In looking at the trial, an important piece of evidence was discovered – Florence had given her maid a prescription to be taken to the local chemist. The chemist refused to make it because it contained a poisonous drug and there was no doctor’s signature on it. Whether the prescription came from James himself, or Florence (or Michael?) is not known. It was also stated that James had in fact died from 21 “irritant poisons” and it had not been a downward spiral into fatal ill-health – he may have initially had gastro-enteritis, which was then exacerbated by harsh medicines, rather than being struck down by poison on day one.
Florence was definitely considered to be mistreated by many – there were numerous petitions submitted to the Home Office. One in Birmingham alone gathered an incredible 45,000 signatures, with an enthusiastic public meeting held as well.
In 1892, news arose of a purported “death-bed confession” from a man who said he had conspired to put Mrs Maybrick in the frame.
The Home Office initially refused to release her in 1894, despite the incriminating new evidence. A friend had come forward to say that James had admitted to being “an arsenic-eater” and that he “found it difficult to supply his needs in Liverpool.” Maybrick had also said to him that he “could take with impunity enough arsenic to kill any ordinary man.” An “arsenical face wash” of Mrs Maybrick’s had also been found, the prescription for which had presumed to be lost. The Victorians used arsenic in too many things.
Surprise was expressed that the Home Office had passed over such evidence with no comment. It reeked of corruption.
There were many letters written to newspapers arguing her innocence. “In my opinion there was no medical evidence that would hang a dog,” says this commentator.
Florence’s sentence was eventually commuted, and she was released in 1904. She was reported to still be an attractive woman on her release. In fact, she was “more beautiful than she was even on the day of her arrest…”
This is her after her release. She looks utterly haunted.
An aside. A specialist in mental health, Dr Forbes Winslow, died in 1913. This article at the time informs us of two points – “He took an especially active search for “Jack the Ripper” and always declared that he knew who the “Ripper” was but that the police refused to act on his information. He also took a leading part in the agitation for the release of Mrs Maybrick.” Admittedly, both were news stories at much the same time, but I still find this juxtaposition very strange indeed, particularly if he did indeed know who the Ripper was. Police refusing to act on information ties in with Bruce Robinson’s Masonic cover-up too.
Excitingly, Dr Winslow thought the world was going mad, quite literally. The numbers of lunatics were spiralling upwards, and he predicted that “one person in every four in 2159 would be mad.” I wonder why he specified the year 2159?
Michael Maybrick died two months after Dr Forbes Winslow, in 1913. He had disappeared from London society not long after the trial, got married and moved to the Isle of Wight. He apparently had become the guardian of Florence and James’ two children.
He became Mayor of Ryde on the Isle of Wight four times. I love the story above Maybrick’s news in this article. Count Zeppelin was about to make a trial trip on his new airship.
Florence died on 23rd October 1941 at the age of 80. 74 years ago exactly today.
She had been living in America since her release from prison. A further mystery was that 30 years after her trial (so around 1919) she was left the enormous sum of £150,000 – “the legacy came from a near relative of a man whose name was frequently mentioned in the trial and that at first Mrs Maybrick refused to touch the money because of its source. Subsequently she was said to have withdrawn her opposition after reading a sealed letter from the testator in which he explained the reasons for the legacy.” She partly used the money to try to clear her name, but she refused to live in the Cheshire mansion that was also left to her in the will, as the area held too many bad memories for her. The man whose name was mentioned in the trial – well, that’s most probably Alfred Brierley, I suppose.
Wikipedia says that after she was sent to prison, she never saw her children again. But this obituary says that she had been reconciled with them – although I suppose this doesn’t mean she actually saw them. I hope that she did though. I can’t imagine a sadder phrase than “never seeing your children again”. Although her son James had a tragic end himself. While working as a mining engineer at a Canadian goldmine, he apparently died after drinking cyanide, thinking it was water.
Are there still gurning competitions? I don’t recall seeing a toothless man pull his lower jaw over his nose recently.
Here, straight from 1936, is a veteran gurner in action, offering advice on how to perfect these two faces. Mr John Richard Richards pleasingly has a comedy name to go with his face (and reminiscent of Rik Mayall’s “Richard Richard” in Bottom).
The first one doesn’t look too difficult. Apart from the crossed eyes, which I can’t manage. The mouth, though, is pretty much what my two-year-old daughter does when she’s puckering up for a kiss. The effect is achieved by “swivelling the eyes and then applying extreme suction to the cheeks until they meet in the region of the glottis. Automatically, a rabbit lip effect is produced. As a means of applying a stranglehold on a fast-disappearing bull’s eye, this face has great practical value.”
Face two is classic gurning in action. “THIS ONE IS HARDER”, says the sub header. You should ideally be performing this by having a convenient fly on the end of your nose. “Swallow the top lip and push it hard against the tip of the nose. This brings the fly into clearer focus and does not impose so great a strain on the eyes.”
I think it’s a rare person, or a person reading at work, who will not attempt either of these faces while reading this.
Mr Richards first used his gurning powers to entertain the miners during the 1926 strike in the “Merry Imps” concert party. His talents also lay in bird impressions, and I am in awe of the fact that he had three different sets of false teeth made, “to achieve the more delicate phases of bird song“. He was a pub landlord and I bet he was a good one.
Who among us can say with confidence that their liver is freely pouring out two pints of liquid bile into their bowels daily? For those in doubt (and living in 1950), there’s Carters Little Liver Pills. The very next year, Carter had to drop the “liver” from their name in the US as the Federal Trade Commission found that while they were an “irritative laxative” (with one of their ingredients described as “drastic”), they actually had “no medicinal effect on the liver”. I think you can still get Carters Little Pills in the US, but in the UK, Dulcolax is the modern version.
The mention of being “without Calomel” is reassuring. Despite the appealing-sounding name (which could derive from the Greek words for “beautiful” and “honey” due to its sweet taste), Calomel is actually mercury chloride. In the first half of the twentieth century it was used as a laxative, a disinfectant, a remedy for syphilis, and (anxiety-inducingly) as a teething powder for babies.
As you can imagine from a mercury compound, it was toxic. In the teething babies it could cause a type of mercury poisoning called “pink disease” which was painful and caused pink discolouration of the hands and feet. The mortality rate for pink disease was a horrifying 1 in 10. After discovery of the toxidity of the compound, it wasn’t used in teething powders after 1954.
WAKE UP YOUR LIVER BILE
Without Calomel – and you’ll jump out of your bed in the morning full of vim and vigour.
The liver should pour out two pints of liquid bile into your bowels daily. If this bile is not flowing freely, your food doesn’t digest. You get headaches and feel rotten. You get constipated. Your whole system is poisoned and you feel sour, slack and the world looks black.
Laxatives help a little, but a mere bowel movement doesn’t get at the cause. It takes those good old Carters Little Liver Pills to get those two pints of bile flowing freely and make you feel “up and up”. Harmless, gentle, yet amazing in making bile flow freely. Ask for Carters Little Liver Pills. Stubbornly refuse anything else. 1/7 and 3/10. Also new 3 1/2d. sizes.
An advert from 1898 for “Dr Tibbles Maltated Bread” that sounds like it should be announced by the town crier, or else the Beatles should have written it into a song, Mr Kite-style.
“Be it known unto all men that the celebrated DR TIBBLES of VI-COCOA FAME is now introducing MALTATED BREAD, MALTATED BANANA BISCUITS, MALTATED BANANA FOOD and numerous Household Remedies, including Brain Feeder, Cough Balsam, Child’s Restorer, &c”
“Dr Tibbles” – he was probably one of those made-up doctor names used to add some weight to branded products. But this is what I’m imagining….
Bircher muesli – an old recipe that has been recently revived, trendified and is probably now available in a independent coffee shop near you. However, it has been modernised a little. The original cream and sugar have largely given way to yogurt and more fruit, but there are a huge amount of different recipes out there now.
It’s one of those nineteenth-century health recipes, served in sanitoriums and spas – like those invented by Dr Kellogg, and Hydropathic Pudding. It was invented by Dr Maximilian Bircher-Benner who considered it to be mainly of use in order to get patients to eat raw apples, believing that raw food contained a high level of energy from solar light. He invented muesli in general, not just adapting it to produce this version – muesli meaning “little mush”, which is a very apt name for this recipe.
It was presented in this 1928 newspaper as “a new breakfast dish” – although Dr Bircher-Benner apparently invented it at the end of the nineteenth century, it was only in the 1920s that it became popularised. This recipe is the authentic version, consisting of oats soaked in water overnight, grated apple, lemon zest and juice, brown sugar, cream or condensed milk, and chopped nuts.
I made the recipe exactly as specified. There is the option to use cream or condensed milk and I went with the condensed milk version as:
1) that was what Dr Bircher originally used,
2) the recipes on my blog are all about the retro, and this definitely adds that element to it,
and 3) frankly any excuse to eat that divine nectar.
It calls for grated nuts to be sprinkled over as a finishing touch, and I toasted some almond flakes for this purpose.
My verdict – “little mush” is very apt for the look of it, brightened only by the grated red skin of the Pink Lady apple I used. Not particularly inspiring appearance-wise. But the taste! Oh, easily the most delicious breakfast I have had in a long time. The fresh juiciness of the grated apple with the soothing oats, the crunch of the toasted almonds, and the sharp lemon and sweet condensed milk deliciously combining to make the overall taste almost like pudding. I had previously only tried Bircher muesli in those pre-made pots you get with a Boots Meal Deal, which are a not unpleasant but blandly sweet slop. This was….well, not like that.
For more information on the infinite variety of Bircher’s muesli, have a look at Felicity Cloake’s recipe from her fascinating “How to cook the perfect…” series, to which I am a devotee. She tries a range of different recipes, old and new, in order to come up with her own, “perfect”, version. Her verdict on using condensed milk is that it makes the dish “jarringly sweet”, which I didn’t find to be the case, although in my recipe there is only one dessert-spoon of the stuff between four portions, a little less than a teaspoon each, which I think was an amount which worked well. She ditches the brown sugar for the same reason, and I’m sure it could happily be jettisoned, especially if you soaked the oats in apple juice rather than water. My main disagreement with Felicity is that she considers the lemon to be unnecessary if you’re not using the condensed milk – the sharpness not needed if the sweetness is not there. While I’m sure her recipe is perfectly lovely itself, it was the lemon zesty-ness that elevated this dish into the realm of the delicious for me, and stayed with me long after the bowl had been scraped clean.
Bircher Muesli, 1928-style
For four people
Three-quarter teacup of rolled oats, soaked overnight, the cup being filled up with water.
Four medium-sized apples.
Grated rind of one lemon and half the juice.
One dessert spoon brown sugar
One dessert spoon thick cream (or condensed milk)
Grated nuts
Grate the whole of the apples, leaving out only the stalk and the pips. Add the lemon juice and grated rind. Pour off any superfluous water, and add the soaked rolled oats. Lastly, add the sugar and cream, and mix all well together. Grated nuts may be sprinkled over it if wanted – or taken with it at table. This may be made with bananas or other fruit in place of the apples.
A salutory piece of advice to husbands from General Booth, leader of the Salvation Army, in 1908. It is in line with their attitude to women in general, which was cheeringly based on equality, even at that time. William Booth wrote a book “Messages to Soldiers” also in 1908, which stated:
“I insist on the equality of women with men. Every officer and soldier should insist upon the truth that woman is as important, as valuable, as capable and as necessary to the progress and happiness of the world as man. Unfortunately a large number of people of every tribe, class and nationality think otherwise. They still believe woman is inferior to man.”
ADVICE TO HUSBANDS
GENERAL BOOTH AND MARRIAGE
In every Salvation Army place of worship yesterday a “Final Message on Woman”, by General Booth, was read out, the General’s instruction being that it should be “read straight through without comment.”
“A higher estimate and a more generous treatment of woman as a wife is needed,” he wrote, and he gave the following advice to husbands:-
“Let him make her realise that he regards her as a being of equal value with himself.
“Let him use all reasonable effort for her support and maintain her as generously as his income will allow.
“Let him have all reasonable care for her health.
“Every husband should love his wife. Without love for her, he ought not to have married her; and if love be there, let him see that he cultivates it.”