You may have heard about this week’s light-hearted thing – the concept of mince on toast, alleged by an American site, Eater.com, to be a quintessential British comfort food classic, here – Mince on toast.
It’s not, obviously, although it is a New Zealand thing, apparently.
I mean, it sounds OK, especially with some melted cheese, and anything on toast is pretty British to be honest. As is anything to do with mince. But a classic it’s not, or even an actual meal you planned to make, rather than improvised on the spot in a way that you wouldn’t tell anyone else about. We’ve only just got over Delia’s tinned mince too. Still, though, it sounds old-fashioned and a bit wartime and frugal, so maybe it’s inadvertently just the thing for post-Brexit Britain to adopt. And, luckily, here we are, already provided with a recipe fresh from the good old days.
It’s a recipe for invalids – my favourite genre of historical recipe, as the reader of this blog will know.
Obviously, obviously, no invalid recipe section is complete without at least one nauseating dish. May I present Liver Soup:
And just to make this extra topical, given the new Doctor Who announcement tomorrow (Ben Willbond, Ben Willbond, Ben Willbond), there’s fish with custard too:
And here’s the mince on toast we all know and love. Doesn’t sound too bad, if you don’t actually mince the steak, and replace the toast with a nice baguette like the unrepentant Remoaner that I am.
Of course, the obvious serving suggestion is to surround it with boiled rice. Of course.
Sitting here, waiting fairly impatiently for the new series of Doctor Who to start next Saturday (it’s been so long), it seems like a good time to blow the dust from this vintage book. I imagine fellow Doctor Who fans would be as keen as me to have a look inside.
I’m sorry to say goodbye to the immense talent of Peter Capaldi, who feels so new to me still – yet the Zoe Ball-hosted special announcement programme seems like an awful long time ago now. And so we’re in the speculative hinterland of who the next Doctor may be. It’s decided now, of course, and it would be marvellous if somehow the surprise remained unspoilered until the regeneration, but that’s never going to happen. My choice, for what’s it’s worth – Ben Willbond all day long or, frankly, any single one of the Horrible Histories/Yonderland troupe. I’m sure any reader of this blog will be unsurprised to learn I am a massive Horrible Histories fan.
Anyway, on a grey December day in Manchester I found one of my best ever vintage book finds – the Doctor Who Travels in Space Painting Book. A colouring book dating from 1966 and William Hartnell days, wrapped in a plastic bag stuck down with sellotape which had obviously not been removed for decades. I had to buy it just to open that seal and have a peep.
Thanks to that plastic bag it was in fabulous condition for a 50 year old colouring book, the cover still vivid, and only one page coloured in. So here it’s is, and it’s not just pictures, it’s a story.
The robot destruction scene isn’t very “New Who”, is it?
I love that it was published in Manchester too – unlike the Doctor, it never travelled far.
19th November 1927, Hastings and St Leonard's Observer
I’m a bit of a sucker for those items of clothing that cunningly combine two items together to look like you’re more smartly dressed than you actually are. I think it started with Graeme Garden’s one piece suit in the Goodies, where I think he pretty much invented the onesie.
Recently, I tried to buy the Top Shop top that Clara Oswald wore to Face the Raven in Doctor Who. It had sadly sold out by the time the episode went out, but I discovered that Top Shop called it a “hybrid top”, a top designed to look like a shirt under a jumper. I was pleased to see that it was actually a unmentioned costume department in-joke, seeing as the over-arching hook for the series was the puzzle over what something called the “hybrid” was actually referring to.
Clara Oswald’s hybrid top
So here’s the earliest example I’ve seen, although I’m sure the invention-crazy Victorians were all over this too. From 1927, the gaiter and shoe in one. A kind of welly designed to look like a ladies court shoe and stocking. Predictably, I want them.
19th November 1927, Hastings and St Leonard’s Observer
Dr Denis of Brittany is reported in the 1863 Birmingham Journal as having been working on discovering “the secret of the component atoms of the human frame” for fourteen years and was on the brink of success – “Nothing is wanting but the breath of life to animate the statue“.
The breath of life was to be supplied by an electric battery and, once animated, the “homunculus” (love that word) was to be available to answer questions about itself, “whether concerning his health or the state of its poor feet.” I’d like to think Dr Denis had basically invented a Victorian Teddy Ruxpin. Except he evidently didn’t do too good a job on his feet.
Sceptical? Well, “Many wise men who deem that the sight of an example is necessary before denial or irony should be permitted, have been induced to visit the doctor in his retreat, in order to behold with their own eyes what they were called upon to combat with their tongues. All have returned fully convinced of the good faith under which the doctor has been acting; many with awe-stricken wonder at what has already been accomplished…”
Over studying had driven him to a “state of lunacy”, so he was the archetypal mad scientist. And I’m guessing he didn’t succeed as I can’t find any other reference to this Dr Denis anywhere else. Plus there’s the fact the animated homunculuses didn’t play much part in 19th century history. It’s crying out to be a Doctor Who episode though….
I’ve had a lot of fun since I started this blog. I’ve had the excuse to read more and also add to my old book collection. I’ve discovered the joys of the Ebay ephemera section and now have old letters, receipts from 1913, bits of Liverpool history, old pages from children’s books that I’ve framed for the baby’s room and strange old Happy Family cards. And the ephemera led me to discovering about Victorian stereoscopes and stereographic photographs, the collecting of which could very likely become a new hobby of mine. I’ve had two excellent guest blog posts (and I’m keen for more, if anyone’s got any interesting old stuff they want to write about out there).
But surely the greatest thing that’s happened so far is finding out about The Jon Pertwee Recipe Book. Not that I found it, it’s more that it found me. A blog post about a celebrity cookbook from 1986, that crucially contained some Worzel Gummidge recipes, alerted the Pertosphere to my presence – here. The Pertosphere also being known as this forum dedicated to the study of this (definitely canon) book.
And so I obviously needed my own copy. When it comes to locating specific out of print books, I’ve never been more grateful for the existence of the internet. I mean, imagine, in those mid 1990s days before I had even sent an email, I was busy doing…..er, well, all those things I used to do before the internet. Playing the card game Pit, watching Steve Coogan’s Live ‘n’ Lewd video on repeat, going out and playing pool while drinking terrible and terribly cheap drinks, all that kind of thing. Just imagine trying to locate a copy of an old book from 1973 when you aren’t really sure what it’s called anyway, just by going to charity shops and hoping.
Because that’s one of the best things about The Jon Pertwee Recipe Book. It’s not called The Jon Pertwee Recipe Book. And it doesn’t mention Jon Pertwee once within its pages, either. What it does have is this picture on the back cover, of BBC TV’s Doctor Who:
And it’s actually called Baking your Cake and Eating it, a budget cookbook from the Co-op, with recipes sent in by members of the public.
The most striking recipe is this, Banana Doolittle. Which has been attempted, impressively, by a member of the aforementioned forum, with interesting results. And this isn’t even the only 1970s recipe I have that crosses the pork/banana nexus. It was a strange decade. I like to think it’s something even too outré for Heston Blumenthal.
Baking your Cake and Eating it, 1973
But there’s also such delights as the Pensioner’s Casserole (I think I can smell the cabbage all the way from 1973):
Baking your Cake and Eating it, 1973
Mock Roast (basically meatloaf):
Baking your Cake and Eating it, 1973
And Cheese Whispers, an impressive cocktail savoury made with instant mash. Well, it says it’s impressive. I haven’t made it.
Baking your Cake and Eating it, 1973
I’ve still got all the coupons in the middle too – I could have saved 2p if they hadn’t expired in 1974.
Baking your Cake and Eating it, 1973
I’ve made one of the rather more seasonal recipes. Last weekend it was Stir-Up Sunday, time to get the Christmas Pudding on the go. Here’s another, rather quicker, variation – Christmas Bunloaves by Mrs Margaret Edwards of Everton, Liverpool. Her family have been making it for at least 80 years, so that’s back to the 1890s, and it means it also fulfils my remit of making vintage recipes. I’d made a big pot of scouse for dinner, so surely this local delicacy will be perfect to follow.
Christmas Bunloaves (From Mrs Margaret Edwards, Everton, Liverpool who says the recipe has been handed down in her family for over eighty years)
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2 lb plain flour
1 lb soft brown sugar
1/2 lb white sugar
2 tsp baking powder
4 tsp mixed spice
2 tsp ground nutmeg
1 tsp ground ginger
1/2 lb lard
1/2 lb margarine
1/2 lb raisins (stoned and chopped)
1/2 lb sultanas
1 lb currants
2 oz chopped glacé cherries
2 oz candied peel
1/2 pint milk (or slightly more)
5 eggs
1/2 tsp almond essence
Lemon juice
1. Mix dry ingredients together, rub in fat, add fruit and candied peel.
2. Beat up eggs in milk, add essence and a few drops lemon juice.
3. Mix all together until moist but not too stiff.
4. Line two large loaf tins, pour mixture in and cover well with greaseproof paper. To give a shiny top, pat a little milk gently over the top before covering.
5. Bake at Mark 3 (325 degrees F, 160 degrees C) for 3 hours. Will make two 3 1/2 lb loaves.
——————————————————————————————–
I only made half portions – I think Mrs Edwards might have been cooking for a big old Liverpool Catholic family at Christmas and I don’t have a mixing bowl up to the job.
For 1970s authenticity, I used Stork.
Stork and lard. Look at all those lumps of fat.
Add the spices. OK, I’ve misread the instructions and added the spices too late. It’s fine, though.
Baking your Cake and Eating it, 1973
And into the Kitchen Machine it goes. Hawkwind’s Silver Machine is usually the tune in my head when I use this – not only does it scan, but….it’s also silver! BBC TV’s Doctor Who is helping out here. The spices being rubbed into the fat and flour start to smell pretty amazing now.
Being a Christmas recipe, a ton of dried fruit is in order. Currants, sultanas AND raisins are called for, of which currants are deemed most important.
The fruit, with candied peel and a meagre amount of glacé cherries.
Stir up the milk, eggs, almond essence and lemon juice, mix it in and dollop in your loaf tin. I don’t think this part is very budget-y, I had to buy a bottle of almond essence for just 1/4 teaspoons-worth. Still.
Then clumsily brush some milk on top for a shiny top, and decorate with the aforementioned currant, raisin and sultana, if you’re being fancy. Make sure to cover with the greaseproof paper because this baby is going in the oven for three whole hours and you don’t want a burnt top. This is the heaviest thing I’ve ever baked.
And here it is, a lovely shiny-topped fruity loaf.
Serving suggestion – get every Pertwee-related item in your house and arrange it around the Bunloaf. It turns out that about half my possessions are Pertwee-based.
Worzel serving suggestion – a cup o’ tea and a slice o’ cake.
Verdict – this is definitely a vintage recipe, it tastes very much like it’s from 1890. Like tea round your nan’s house. Slightly dry – better with a little slick of butter, and even better toasted first. The budget nature of the cookbook has possibly scrimped on glacé cherries, I’d add about 4 times as many next time. And a bit of booze wouldn’t go amiss. But – good! Very Christmassy and traditional.
Golopshus – well, this is a word that can be used to describe itself. It’s rather a golupshus word from Norwich meaning splendid, delicious and luscious.
It reminds me more than anything else of the unique wordysmith talents of Professor Stanley Unwin. Here he is describing Patrick Troughton’s era of Doctor Who. Deep joy.
This must surely be the most heartbreaking tourist guide there is.
London for Everyman by William Kent was a guide to the sights of London, first published in 1933. By the 1944 edition, the Capital was forever altered by the Blitz, and pages of amendments were necessary to detail what no longer existed, what had been closed for the forseeable future, and what had been moved for safety.
London for Everyman, William Kent, 1944 edition
This edition belonged to one Private E. O. Leichman, number W/280854, who must have bought it for a look around London, while he was on leave.
Oh yes! Last Saturday’s Doctor Who, Robot of Sherwood, was so entirely up my street that I think I actually live there.
Robin Hood, Ben Miller, Peter Capaldi’s vibrantly grumpy Doctor, robots for the robot-obsessed small boy in my house, Clara continuing as my style icon with a magnificent red gown, (and getting a good part to play this week). All that and the use of slang…well, that was just the cherry on the cake for me.
Gallimaufry here means a type of jumbled stew of all kind of things chucked in the pot. It’s not quite the Doctor’s cheese sandwiches in cling film that Ben Miller’s Sheriff of Nottingham referred to in the episode, but at the time I was struck by its similarity to Gallifrey and how it sounded like something that Time Lords should eat. So I was overjoyed that someone else had found that word and also thought it suitably Timey Lordy.
Of course, that someone is Mr Mark Gatiss, writer of this episode, and frankly if anyone is also likely to own the Victorian Slang Dictionary, it’s him.
The Slang Dictionary, 1865
It’s followed by Gallipot, meaning apothecary (and also the pot where the ointments were kept), which isn’t a million miles away from “Doctor” either.
Oh, and there was also a mention of one of my favourite “head” insults – I’ve covered Cupboard-head, Chuckle-head, Buffle-head and Culver-head already, but here we had Pudding-head, still an excellent word to be used wherever possible today, I would say. Maybe this episode will bring it back to life? I hope so.
A quick aside. If you’re a fan of Doctor Who (like what I am), old books have recently become a bit more exciting, thanks to Madame Vastra, Jenny and Strax – aka the Paternoster Gang.
This is because a lot of Victorian (and later) publications were printed in Paternoster Row, which was a centre of publishing up until the Second World War, when it was destroyed in the Blitz.
The Paternoster Gang lived at No. 13 so (in a very real sense) the publishers of the Mother’s Companion were next-door-but one at No. 9.
Mothers Companion, 1891
The Mother’s Companion knew what it was doing with this article – “Hints to Wives” by an anonymous husband. This is a “helpful critique” of wives and their activities, and reminds me rather of the famous Victorian phrase “Children should be seen and not heard”, except applied to women. In short, this is Victorian clickbait that probably inspired a fury of correspondence.
I’m imagining the lady readership of this magazine having a little water cooler moment with this article (equivalent – teapot moment?). Perhaps trying to guess the identity of the author, who vowed never to tell anyone that he had written it. I find this quite cheering – at least he knows he’ll be for it if his wife finds out.
Reading this with slightly amused scorn as I was, I became uncomfortably aware of how little some things have changed though. Basically – men don’t want to go shopping and aren’t too interested in domestic minutiae? Well, plus ca change….
(Please excuse the n-word here, it’s rather an occupational hazard with some of these publications)
Hints to Wives, Mothers Companion, 1891
A gently elegant riposte came in a later issue. Frankly, as far as I’m concerned, it’s game, set and match to her as soon as she makes the point that women’s lives were “imperilled” by having children. So stop moaning and bloody well hold the baby for a bit, eh?
