Intro to Historical Recipe Development
Or, at least this is how I do it
My children have started the fall semester and my brain is slowly charging back to its full capacity, so—in the spirit of the back-to-school season—I thought it would be neat to share some insight on the lessons and labor involved in my historical recipe development practice using a recipe commissioned this past summer.
Step 1: The Recipe Ask
A few months ago, the delightful souls over at mixed feelings asked me to develop a cake fit for a kingly feast for their first issue of The Medievalist. Specifically, they asked if I was interested in making “a medieval-style cake (feasting like a medieval lord, one might say).” And I’ll be honest, it took every ounce of restraint in my academically-trained brain to not push up my glasses and reply with the most obnoxious “well, actuallyyyyyy.”
The medieval era, also known as the Middle Ages, spans about 1000 years or 10-11 centuries depending upon which historian you’re talking to. Contemporarily, we often use the term medieval to refer to cultural norms and events that happened across an evolving European landscape, but we often leave out the numerous (and equally important) other cultures, nations, and societies that existed at the same time. Basically, and by no fault of our own, most of us have a very imperial and Eurocentric default when it comes to the concept of medieval. The editors and contributors of The Medievalist did a fantastic job unpacking all of this, but for now we’ll focus on my little food scholar brain that had a total meltdown wondering: Which medieval lord do they mean? And from whence did he lordeth? And in what century?! Do they know how many cake options there were over 1000 years!? Do I even have enough gold leaf for this?!!
Once I calmed down and realized that none of my overbearing former history professors were going to run me through with some suspiciously period-accurate weapon, I came to see this as a very exciting opportunity to mess with the often absurd superiority of historical accuracy while flexing my skills with recipe adaptation. And, I love any excuse to whip out my stash of gold leaf.
In general, I ask the following about a recipe if it isn’t already clear:
Any ingredients I should avoid or aim to include. Where are readers typically sourcing their groceries?
Similarly, are there any tools/methods I should avoid or aim to use. What kind of culinary literacy should we expect from readers?
Ideal yield or size of finished recipe.
Should there be serving or pairing instructions?
Is there a house style guide I should follow?
How historically accurate should the recipe remain? How much historical context should exist in the headnotes (or larger copy related to the recipe) and how much should be folded into the recipe itself via ingredient and method choices.
Sometimes I don’t get immediate answers to my questions, so we return to this stage again after the next step.
Step 2: The Recipe Research
Before I even step foot into the kitchen, I do research. This step isn’t unique to historical recipes, as other developers use similar practices to craft recipes for contemporary cookbooks and other publications. The crucial difference here is that I am often adapting a recipe that doesn’t exist at all or is starting in a form that would be completely unrecognizable to a modern reader. What’s more, I might be dealing with ingredients that no longer exist or can’t really be sourced even in the most well-stocked niche grocery store or methods that aren’t easily replicated in modern kitchens. Sometimes the recipe calls for ingredient combinations that aren’t really the norm in typical modern flavor profiles (looking at you ambergris!).
Thankfully, my training in the fields of literature, gastronomy, American studies, and history combined with my experience in historical archives containing works anywhere from the early 11th to the 20th century help inform all these contextual nuances and allow me to make educated decisions on how to adapt. It helps that I was a cursive freak as a child and can now parse multiple eras of handwriting when dealing with historical culinary manuscripts. And while not strictly necessary, my abilities to speak Spanish, French, and some German help me decipher antiquated culinary techniques and references borrowed from different cultures. Basically, all my random interests and obsessions as a child have prepared me for this career and I’m really chuffed to be able to rub that in the faces of both my parents and that one grade school bully who always gave me shit for being a nerd.
Here’s my general research process:
Read through existing copy and context related to the recipe or recipe request, leave myself notes about immediate connections and possible paths forward.
Read through provided original recipe, if available. If original recipe is not provided, research and search for a primary source for appropriate recipe. Cross reference with similar historical recipes (usually at least 3-5 other recipes depending upon age/difficulty of recipe) to place it within context and ensure it isn’t a regional/cultural specialty that would require further development. These recipes come from a mix of primary and secondary sources both analog and digital including historical cookbooks and manuscripts, journals, archival materials, text books, academic surveys and monographs, community cookbooks, product packaging, letters and correspondence, and sometimes I call my 92-year-old aunt.
Transpose recipe to contemporary recipe framework. Until about the early 20th century, most historical recipes didn’t include solid ratios—a cup of this, 10 ounces of that—and were often scaled for a larger number of people or even for long-term storage. They also often didn’t include thorough instructions, if they had any instruction at all, as readers were expected to already have some base knowledge of the culinary subject in question. This part takes quite a bit of filling in the gaps and rewriting for contemporary readers who are more accustomed to step-by-step and explicit instructions.
Cross reference with similar contemporary recipes (usually at least 3-5 other recipes depending upon age/difficulty of recipe) to develop and outline of ingredient ratios and potential instructions. Additional research and time required for updating historical cooking methods, kitchen technologies, and ingredients (substitutes are often required due to issues of access, sociocultural norms, and the evolution of flavor preferences).
And then I head to the kitchen…
Step 3: The Recipe Testing
Actually, I go to the grocery store first. Well, sometimes two or three grocery stores depending again upon the ingredients.
Like other folks who work in food and especially those who work with recipes, I have a fairly equipped kitchen and utilize a lot of restaurant line techniques for efficiency and multitasking (so many quarter sheet pans, delis, and sharpies). There’s a corner of my little kitchen where I keep paper and pencils for notetaking. My Thermapen is always in reach along with my rulers (I have several), tweezers, and trusty scale (my spouse has recently taken to weighing out coffee grounds for his morning brew and we’ve had to have words about moving my scale). My counters are tiled (they’re on the reno wish list) and the absolute bane of my existence, so I keep a clip board nearby as well as two strong magnets on my range hood for holding recipes up at eye height.
Because I work with historical recipes and sometimes people want those historical recipes tested, yet kept in an original-as-possible state, I have lots of little tools that we don’t use as often in contemporary kitchens such as butter molds, a dedicated nutmeg grinder, a Dutch oven for open fire cooking, mortar and pestle, and not one but TWO butter churns. I also have a large amount of cast iron, but that’s because I’m a southerner and I have a hard time passing up on a skillet when I know I can rescue it.
Once I have all the tools and ingredients I need for a recipe, the process general goes like this:
Test recipe. Noting edits and necessary changes, especially in regards to ingredient swaps and ratios, and making sure the instructions are very clear to anyone who might read them.
After recipe is complete, make note of timings, yields, and any other details that might end up in a headnote or need to be passed on to the recipe requester.
Make changes in recipe. Test again as needed.
Step 4: The Recipe Rewrite
Now that I’m done in the kitchen, I head back to my desk to type up my edits and prepare any additional details to send along with the recipe. The bad-scholar in me likes to romanticize this portion of the process immensely. I daydream about what it must have been like to prep a stack of newly developed recipes some of the smaller edits marked by hand, the others typed up on my trusty typewriter and sent via snail mail to an editor and simply having to wait for a reply instead of the mind-numbing immediacy of e-mail and Dropbox. (I get that there’s pros here, too, but sometimes I, a millennial who has been yoked to an inbox my entire adult life, yearn for the deliberate respite promised by the analog.)
This is also were I also get to take a moment to explain myself, especially if I’m in charge of writing headnotes (that 1-5 sentence blurb at the top of a recipe, just below the title, that gives context, explains methods, or tells a dish’s origin story). For the Sweete + Spiced Honey Almande Feste Cake with Illuminated Marchepane that I developed for The Medievalist, this was the time to explain how I fit 1000 years of food history into a single recipe, why I picked certain ingredients over others, and my reasoning for incorporating an art style from the Middle Ages completely unrelated to baking for the decoration (because I wanted to!). I had sociocultural explanations for each of my historical or anachronistic choices, including the aforementioned gold leaf (medieval lords loved them some gilded food).
Step 5: The Recipe Back-and-Forth
After filing the recipe(s) and any related notes (and sometimes process or plated pictures) that’s about it. Sometimes there is back-and-forth about yields or ingredients or writing styles (everyone has an opinion: is it grated rind or zest!?), but most times the work is off to the next stage to be redesigned as part of a larger project, put through an official test kitchen test one final time, or ready to print!
I’m sure there are lots of little bits and pieces of my process that I’ve glossed over and other parts that could’ve used another footnote or two, but that’s all my beginning of the school-year brain can muster at the moment.
So next time you’re in need of a recipe developer with a penchant for historical and/or historicalish recipes, you know where to inquire. Please be so kind as to give me a heads up if you require anything gilded, I used up all my goldleaf on this cake (but it was totally worth it).
GIRL I LOVED BEING IN YOUR BRAIN!
This reminds me of the time I gilded a cow’s tongue for a conceptual picture/story on the tacos of Mexico City. (P.S. I have plenty of gold leaf left if you need it!)