Food is probably in everyone's top ten list when it comes to good things to think about, especially when you're hungry. So what better way to get further into your favorite novel than to consider what the characters might be eating? Willand, the young hero in my mythic history – The Language of Stones, was a lad from a village background with simple tastes. For him and the other people of the Vale, the staple diet was a late medieval pottage, or thick stew, that followed the seasons. In spring and summer there was the fresh bounty of all that a green and pleasant land could provide.
In the fall, mushrooms, autumn fruits, nuts and berries, would be laid up in storage along with the harvest of new grain. In the dark depths of winter came the celebration of the solstice when cured meats were eaten, along with trout from the stream and coneys from the warrens along with the odd hare or two. Meat was not in great abundance in the Vale, being eaten perhaps only two days in seven, but there was a pleasing variety -- ducks and geese, ham and beef, and of course mutton. Eggs and all sorts of dairy produce were available also. There is a scene in The Giants' Dance (volume two) where Will and Gwydion hide in the cheese store of a great house, though they have more on their minds than food. Drink, too, was nicely various, with each village inn brewing its own beer and ale, each household making its own country wines from whatever fermentable base was available, such as quinces and medlars and the berries collected from elder trees. There were beehives in the gardens of the Vale that gave honey from which mead was made. Occasionally an enterprising peddler would bring in a flask of something more exotic by the way of fire waters from the mountains of the North.
But the Language of Stones universe, being magical, has more than peas and pottage. As with the sumptuary laws, which banned common folk from wearing certain kinds of rich cloth, there were certain foods reserved for the gentry, the aristocracy and those of royal blood. For instance, no commoner could kill a royal swan, on pain of death, and the same applied to game in the royal deer chases. Steaks cut from the haunches of gryphons, fire-drakes and the like were rare delicacies that sometimes appeared at high table on feast days, but special magical butchery was required to preserve the eater from ill. The lore of plants was a complicated business and a wide knowledge of magical herbs was maintained by specialist wizards. Plants, or "worts", were the province of Gort, the "Wortmaster," and if his spells didn't always work properly he could use his stock of dried leaves to add flavor to his dishes.
Apart from the obvious difficulties with locating such animals as gryphons, this seems like an appealing way to eat and I keep thinking I should write a companion cookbook. One day...
Thanks for stopping by to share your food for thought, Rob!
You can find Rob and his books here:
Daniel Rabuzzi, the blog's author, emailed with all sorts of very flattering things to say about my Un-Still Life pieces, and asked if he could interview me. I blinked a few times and thought "Seriously? ME?" and then of course I said yes.
After you've read my interview, please take some time to peruse the rest of the blog, because its a treasure trove of really interesting art and creativity.
Thank you Daniel!
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In other news - I've been knitting a lot, and am juuuust about ready to stock my etsy knitting shop with some new goodies for the Fall and Winter. Small, affordable cable-y things.
Hope you're all enjoying September. Its one of my favorite months, as the season changes back to cooler weather, and the anticipation of the holidays begins. Sweaters! Knitted woolies! Fall colors! Crunchy leaves! Stew! Picturebook kitty characters wearing Fall colored woolie sweaters, walking through crunchy leaves and eating stew! (OK, that will be the next thing on my drawing board.)
There's a lot on my 'to-do' list, so I've better get to it. Bye for now ~
We were snowed in as usual. The cabin fever began to grow. There was barely room for all of us and the animals. Nothing could be left out in this cold.
The wind shrieked and howled while the snow buried our houses with us in them.
The digging started right away, of course. Those of us who were nearest the door were given shovels and plows whether we wanted them or not.
Granny sat by the wood stove. She was blind but she was knitting. There would be a long scarf for the children by the time we tunnelled to daylight.
Children howled and shrieked with joy as they buzzed through the crowded residence. Families and extended families with their neighbours and their extended families sheltered in the humble abode.
Gramps saw it once. One time, so they say, before he passed away, Gramps emerged from the snow tunnel the day before the winter snows descended again. He looked upon the homestead that day, without snow on it and never spoke another word.
Caribou jerky hung from the ceiling. Wood stoves kept the stew stewing.
We took it in shifts. We hoped, in our modest way, to make it out before the snows came again. We aimed to see what Gramps saw.
Farmyard beasts mated in the back, among the hanging furs. Birds sat in the rafters and dropped droppings as we dug for many days.
Once, it became lighter and we thought we had reached the end in record time. We were wrong, of course. A cave-in deprived many of consciousness. Lively Irish fiddle music replaced lively Scottish fiddle music which replaced lively French fiddle music. Then they reversed.
Stew and beer awaited those who participated in the digging. It wasn’t an occupation which promoted good health, but as our neighbour, Mr Clark said,
“Up, up and away! ”
Children were born, old ones passed along, the population’s size expanded and shrunk. The digging went on, but it was slow work.
We were sure to reach the end by the return of the snowstorms, but what then? Did we always have to do this? Is this what life was about?
It was in this frame of mind that I’d become separated from the main group. I don’t know how it happened.
I wandered through a shiny crystal tunnel. I was lost.
The temperature was all right but I had no food or water. A mysterious tugging kept me walking on without fear.
Then it was over as soon as it had begun. I emerged into a warm field full of sunshine and trees and grass and birds.
A small man dressed in green sat with his back up against a towering oak tree. He was fingering a flute, trying out different notes by covering different holes.
I sat down in front of him and watched.
His bushy grey eyebrows flickered as he stared at his fingers in concentration.
He blew a few notes, wrinkled his nose and placed the flute in an inside jacket pocket. From this he withdrew a deerstalker pipe and tobacco.
When he had lit up and enjoyed the smoke, he smiled and looked at me.
”Well now, how are you and the Canadians you know?”
I wasn’t sure what to say. I felt good right then, at that moment.
But how was I really? And the Canadians I knew?
This flashed through my mind in a nanosecond, but the little man’s eyes showed that he was waiting for me to catch up.
It seemed that he was reading my mind. I only had to think something and he would chuckle to himself. It made me examine every thought.
“Fine” I said.
“Fine? Fine?” he chuckled, drew a good draught on his pipe.
When I looked into his eyes I could only think of the digging. Stew, beer and digging.
It wasn’t a happy fate that awaited Canadians. The reality of it struck me in the face like a cold mackerel.
“Well, you seem to have caught me unawares, so I’ll grant you the wish you desire” said the little man dressed in green. He produced a wand and stood at the ready. H
Yesterday, I was flipping through my (very heavy) copy of The Oxford Companion to American Food and Drink, and I found…
…wait for it…
…wait for it…
an entry on BOOYAH! What is booyah? I’m glad you asked.
BOOYAH is a thick mixed stew that demonstrates how American ethnic food can include dishes that would be completely alien in recipe or usage to past generations. Groups of Belgian American Walloons settled around Door County (Green Bay), Wisconsin, in the 1850s, bringing with them a dish of clear bouillon served with rice. The hen of that had been boiled to obtain the bouillon made another meal the next day. Sometime in the 1930s, men took over the dish and turned it into a thick soup full of boned chicken meat and vegetables (and often served with saltines) at the annual Belgian American kermis harvest festival. The pots became larger, the men used a canoe paddle to stir the soup, and “booyah” became the name of the event as well as the central dish.
By the 1980s, booyah was served at church fund-raisers, at a midsummer ethnic festival for visitors, and on Green Bay Packer football weekends. Secret recipes and “booyah kings” have been added to make booyah male-bonding ritual like those surrounding barbecue, chili con carne, burgoo, and Brunswick stew – the latter two soup-stews being highly similar to booyah.
It is possible that booyah has features of other Belgian soups, such as hochepot. It often happens that American ethnic dishes begin to accumulate features of several old-country dishes. It also may be that booyah is not descended from Belgian bouillon at all. Around Saint Cloud, Minnesota, Polish Americans believe that “bouja” is an old Polish soup, and men make it as much as Belgian Americans do in Door County, Wisconsin, but flavored with pickling spices. An early published recipe (1940) describes “boolyaw” as a French Canadian dish from the hunting camps of Michigan. A more recent Wisconsin cookbook called it an old German recipe. The dish has gone from a thin soup made by women at home to a thick stew made by men for communal events. An Italian American might mistake booyah for minestrone, yet Belgian Americans in Wisconsin believe it is named for Godfrey of Bouillon, a leader of the First Crusade. The fruit tarts served for desert at booyah feasts are made by women as much as they were in Eastern Belgium in the early nineteenth century.
Mark H. Zanger, author of The American History Cookbook
I was on the road and weary, walking all the day.
Evening came with cold dark skies and I looked for some weeds within to lay.
No one had I seen to hitch a ride, the pain in my head grew and hunger deep inside.
I hauled up underneath a tree, amongst some savory weeds that looked ok to me.
To stem my hunger I grabbed a few, put water in my cup, a hunk of shoe and started my hobo stew.
As the sun was sinking my fire was warm and I was thinking.
This soup is mighty tasty with those funny weeds, why I should put more in, I’ll add some seeds.
Evening sun was yellow and almost dim when I heard “AHEM’ coming from a wee little fellow.
I jumped in surprise two feet high, he just stood there, backlit, his vehicle near by.
He said as I settled against the tree, ” you were looking tired and a ride I have for just a little fee “.
I stammered ” WWWhat might it be you could possibly want from me?
He smiled a funny crooked smile so wide with lips so thin and skin like desert dried hide.
“Why some of your tucker, I’ve come a long long way and I missed my supper.”
I looked at him and then my cup. I shoved over what was left and invited him to sup.
As he sipped like a gentleman of taste I watched for sign he might lay me to waste.
He did not though and only spoke of wondrous things while stuffing more weed into his poke.
He said to me it must be grand for you to have such food and all this land.
I said it was and looked around. No other living thing could be found.
He finished with a noisy slurp rubbed his round tummy and let out a burp.
The earth it shook and rumbled, the sound so strong in made me tumble.
I got back up as he laughed so loud it laid the grass so low it looked plowed.
He said ” Because you were so kind to share your fair, my ride and I will take you anywhere”
He spread his arms and looked to the skies, a twinkle in those deep purple eyes.
I asked if there was no limit, he said ” not for you my friend anywhere you wish and time can’t dim it.”
I pondered a bit . You don’t get a chance like this often so I searched my whit.
I looked out and pointed saying “Among those stars?”
He chuckled a little saying “yes I’ve been there but I’m not so sure take some care!”
I cried “YES YES out there’s the place, no more running this crazy race!”
We hugged shoulder to shoulder. He pointed the way and walked me over.
He stuffed me in a funny machine while he slipped to controls in between.
The engines fired with a shake, we bolted like the strike of a snake.
We flew through the universe his eye on his dial. I said I was tired and slept for a while.
When I awoke though it was with a bad omen you see for he had left me under that same old oak tree.
Now some say it’s wondrous and some say it was the weed but I say I slept soundly on old shoe and seed.
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Congratulations on the blog feature. It is very well deserved. And I love the knitting! Not a lost stitch in sight, and everything so even and perfect. I'm impressed with your talent! What else have you made?