p 320: “He held her a minute longer — there was another plum in the pie.”
p 344: “They had taken too much for granted that their life together required, as people in London said, a special ‘form’ — which was very well so long as the form was kept only for the outside world and was made no more of among themselves than the pretty mould of an iced pudding, or something of that sort, into which, to help yourself, you didn’t hesitate to break with the spoon.”
It had a yellowish crust all round it
“You see what we have,” said Coulter—”salt pork, rye-bread, and pudding. Let me help you. I got this pork of the Squire; some of his last year’s pork, which he let me have on account. It isn’t quite as sweet as this year’s would be ; but I find it hearty enough to work on, and that’s all I eat for. Only let the rheumatiz and other sicknesses keep clear of me, and I ask no flavors or favors from any. But you don’t eat of the pork!”
“I see,” said the wife, gently and gravely, “that the gentleman knows the difference between this year’s and last year’s pork. But perhaps he will like the pudding.”
I summoned up all my self-control, and smilingly assented to the proposition of the pudding, without by my looks casting any reflections upon the pork. But, to tell the truth, it was quite impossible for me (not being ravenous, but only a little hungry at that time) to eat of the latter. It had a yellowish crust all round it, and was rather rankish, I thought, to the taste.
—Melville, “Poor Man’s Pudding”
“Will not the string be very indigestible, Anna Maria?”
[Tom Kitten has climbed up the chimney and into the attic; meets rats.]
All in a minute she rushed upon Tom Kitten, and before he knew what was happening —
His coat was pulled off, and he was rolled up in a bundle, and tied with string in very hard knots.
Anna Maria did the tying. The old rat watched her and took snuff. When she had finished, they both sat staring at him with their mouths open.
“Anna Maria,” said the old man rat (whose name was Samuel Whiskers), — “Anna Maria, make me a kitten dumpling roly-poly pudding for my dinner.”
“It requires dough and a pat of butter, and a rolling-pin,” said Anna Maria, considering Tom Kitten with her head on one side.
“No,” said Samuel Whiskers, “make it properly, Anna Maria, with breadcrumbs.”
“Nonsense! Butter and dough,” replied Anna Maria.
[ … ] Presently the rats came back and set to work to make him into a dumpling. First they smeared him with butter, and then they rolled him in the dough.
“Will not the string be very indigestible, Anna Maria?” inquired Samuel Whiskers.
Anna Maria said she thought that it was of no consequence; but she wished that Tom Kitten would hold his head still, as it disarranged the pastry. She laid hold of his ears.
Tom Kitten bit and spat, and mewed and wriggled; and the rolling-pin went roly-
poly, roly; roly, poly, roly. The rats each held an end.
“His tail is sticking out! You did not fetch enough dough, Anna Maria.”
“I fetched as much as I could carry,” replied Anna Maria.
“I do not think” — said Samuel Whiskers, pausing to take a look at Tom Kitten — “I do not think it will be a good pudding. It smells sooty.”
— Beatrix Potter, “The Roly-Poly Pudding”
(later:
“We are discovered and interrupted, Anna Maria; let us collect our property, — and other people’s, — and depart at once.”
“I fear that we shall be obliged to leave this pudding.”
“But I am persuaded that the knots would have proved indigestible, whatever you may urge to the contrary.”)
Prolonged consumption
27 July 1774
[Six Gentlemen] dined and spent the afternoon with me at New College. I borrowed the Chequer Room of the Bursars for my company to dine in. We were very merry and pushed the bottle on briskly. I gave my Company for dinner, some green Pea Soup, a chine of Mutton, some New College Puddings, a goose, some Peas and a Codlin Tart with Cream. Madeira and Port Wine to drink after and at dinner some Strong Beer, Cyder, Ale and small Beer […] I gave my company only for supper cold mutton. After supper I gave them to drink some Arrac Punch with Jellies in it and some Port wine.
17 November 1774
…supped on roast hare, veal collops and woodcock, with port wine and punch to drink afterwards.
— Woodforde, Diary of a Country Parson (quoted in Oxford Food: An Anthology)
Flags of tripe, drums of brawn
[Slic = Slicer; Have = Have-at-all; Hear = Heare-say.]
Slic. Then listen. The design is by a dinner;
An easie way you’l say, I’l say a true;
Hunger may break stone walls, it ne’r hurts men.
Your cleanly feeder is your man of valour.
What makes the Peasant grovel in his muck,
Humbling his crooked soule, but that he eates
Bread just in colour like it? Courage ne’r
Vouchsaf’d to dwell a minute, where a sullen
Pair of brown loaves darken’d the durty Table;
Shadows of bread, not bread. You never knew
A solemn Son of Bagpudding and Pottage
Make a Commander; or a Tripe-eater
Become a Tyrant: he’s the Kingdoms arm
That can feed large, and choicely.
Have. If that be
The way, I’l eat my self into courage,
And will devour valour enough quickly.
Slic. ‘Tis not the casual eating of those meats,
That doth procure those Spirits, but the order,
And manner of the meal; the ranking of
The dishes, that does all; else he that hath
The greatest range would be the hardest man.
Those goodly Juments of the Guard would fight
(As they eat Beef) after six stone a day;
The Spit would nourish great Attempts: my Lord
Would lead a Troop, as well as now a Masque;
And force the Enemies sword with as much ease
As his Mistrisses Bodkin: Gallants would
Owe valour to their Ordinaries, and fight
After a crown a meal.
Have. I do conceive
The Art is all in all. If that you’l give
A bill of your directions, I’l account
My self oblig’d unto you for my safety.
Slic. Take it then thus. All must be Souldier-like;
No dish but must present Artilery.
Some military instrument in each.
Imprimis sixe or seven yards of Tripe
Display’d instead o’th’ Ensign.
Have. Why, you said,
Tripe-eaters ne’r made Tyrants.
Slic. Peace Sir, Learners
Must be attentive and beleeve. Do y’ think
Wee’l eat this? ‘tis but for formalitie;
Item a Coller of good large fat Brawn
Serv’d for a Drum, waited upon by two
Fair long black Puddings lying by for drumsticks;
Item a well grown Lamprey for a Fife;
Next some good curious Marchpanes made into
The form of Trumpets: Then in order shall
Follow the Officers. The Captain first
Shall be presented in a warlike Cock,
Swiming in whitebroth, as he’s wont in bloud;
The Sergeant Major he may bustle in
The shape of some large Turkey; For my self,
Who am Leiutenant, I’m content there be
A Bustard only; let the Corporall
Come sweating in a Breast of Mutton, stuff’d
With Pudding, or strut in some aged Carpe,
Either doth serve I think. As for Perdues
Some choice Sous’d-fish brought couchant in a dish
Among some fennell, or some other grasse,
Shews how they lie I’th’ field. The Souldier then
May be thus rank’d. The common one Chicken,
Duck, Rabbet, Pidgeon. For the more Gentile,
Snipe, Woodcock, Partridge, Pheasant, Quail will serve.
Hear. Bravelie contriv’d.
Slic. That weapons be not wanting
Wee’l have a dozen of bones well charg’d with marrow
For Ordnance, Muskets, Petronels, Petarrs;
Twelve yards of Sausage by insteed of Match;
And Caveari then prepar’d for wild-fire.
Hea. Rare Rogue! how I do love him now me thinks.
Slic. Next wee’l have true fat, eatable old Pikes;
Then a fresh Turbut brought in for a Buckler,
With a long Spitchcock for the sword adjoyn’d;
Wee’l bring the ancient weapons into play.
Have. Most rare by heaven.
Slic. Peaches, Apricocks,
And Malecotoons , with other choiser Plums
Will serve for large siz’d Bullets; then a dish
Or two of Pease for small ones. I could now
Tell you of Pepper in the stead of Powder,
But that ‘tis not in fashion ‘mongst us Gallants;
If this might all stand upon Drum heads, ‘twould
Work somewhat better.
Have. Wil’t so? then we’l have ‘em
From every ward i’th’ City.
Slic. No I’m loath
To put you to such charge: for once, a long
Table shall serve the turn; ‘tis no great matter.
The main thing’s still behind: we must have there
Some Fort to scale; a venison pastie doth it:
You may have other Pies instead of out works;
Some Sconces would not be amisse, I think.
When this is all prepar’d, and when we see
The Table look like a pitch’d Battel, then
Wee’l give the word, Fall too, slash, kill, and spoile;
Destruction, rapine, violence, spare none.
Hear. Thou hast forgotten Wine, Lieutenant, wine.
Slic. Then to avoid the grosse absurdity
Of a dry Battel, cause there must some bloud
Be spilt (on th’ enemies side I mean) you may
Have there a Rundlet of brisk Claret, and
As much of Aligant, the same quantitie
Of Tent would not be wanting, ‘tis a wine
Most like to bloud. Some shal bleed fainter colours,
As Sack, and White wine. Some that have the itch
(As there are Taylors still in every Army)
Shall run with Renish, that hath Brimstone in’t.
—William Cartwright, The Ordinary.
Préalablement lardé: case-butter-shot and bullet-cheese here; cannon-balls as military puddings here. (Still ranging, and further afield: Muldoon’s “Guns and Butter,” K. Amis’s “Pendydd” (“Love is like butter… . Nothing spreads thinner when you’re running short; / Natural? Well, yes and no. Better than guns”), and F J Bergmann’s “Guns, Butter” (also notable for ‘mountain oysters’).)
