Recreating an Early Roman Feast – Push for Pennsic 2004
Served at Push for Pennsic 2004 · SCA Event · Early Roman Style
Originally published: November 19, 2015 | Updated: June 3, 2026
Updated 6/3/2026: This feast hub has been refreshed to current Give It Forth standards with clearer menu organization, links to the recreated recipe posts, additional Roman meal context, practical feast-planning notes, dietary notes, FAQ, and FAQ structured data.
What was the Push for Pennsic Roman Feast? This was an Early Roman-style feast served at Push for Pennsic in 2004. It was designed for more than 100 diners and built around dishes that could be prepared ahead, transported, and served at room temperature under primitive site conditions.
About This Feast
Another blast from the past! This three-course feast was presented in the Roman style, allowing a diverse selection of savory and sweet items across all three courses. Designed to accommodate over 100 diners, the menu focused on dishes that could be made ahead and served at room temperature, with only a few heated on-site using a grill.
The feast site lacked a kitchen, with only a hose for water access, making this my third, possibly fourth, large-scale feast executed under primitive conditions. Because of that, the menu needed to be practical as well as historically inspired. Dishes had to travel well, hold safely, and make sense for service without a modern kitchen.
This is one of the reasons Roman food can be so useful for SCA and event cooking. Many Roman-inspired dishes are boldly flavored, served warm or at room temperature, and built from ingredients that can be prepared in advance: olives, cheese spreads, legumes, greens, sausages, breads, fruits, nuts, and honeyed or spiced sweets.
The Roman Meal Structure
A Roman-style meal is often described in three broad parts: the gustum, or appetizer course; the mensa prima, or main course; and the mensa secunda, or final course. This structure gave the feast a historical framework while still allowing the menu to be practical for a large modern event.
Gustum: The appetizer course. These were small dishes meant to awaken the appetite. Olives, egg dishes, salads, spreads, sausages, and light vegetables could all belong here.
Mensa Prima: The main course. This was the more substantial portion of the meal, often including meats, legumes, cooked vegetables, and richer sauces.
Mensa Secunda: The final course. This might include fresh fruit, dried fruit, nuts, cakes, sweets, and other small delicacies. Roman meals did not always separate sweet and savory flavors as sharply as modern diners do, so sweet elements could appear throughout the meal.
Many dishes in this feast reflect the rich culinary heritage of Rome, inspired by texts such as Apicius and other classical sources. Some historical accuracy was necessarily interpreted through available ingredients, modern safety expectations, and the realities of cooking for a large event, but the goal was to preserve the spirit, flavor, and structure of an ancient Roman meal.
🏛️ Feast planning note: This menu works especially well for events because many dishes can be made ahead and served cold or at room temperature. That makes it useful for outdoor events, camping, Pennsic-style conditions, and sites with limited kitchen access.
🍊 Oranges after the Portugal Fashion - Candied Renaissance Oranges (Sir Hugh Plat, 1609)
Originally published 1/18/2015 - Updated 9/10/2025 - Refreshed 5/27/2026
Imagine being served what appears to be a glossy orange at a Renaissance banquet, only to discover that it has been boiled, candied in sugar syrup, filled with marmalade, and sliced open like a jewel-bright hard-boiled egg. Sir Hugh Plat’s Delights for Ladies (1609) preserves exactly that kind of culinary theater in his recipe “To preserve Orenges after the Portugall fashion.”
This is not a simple orange preserve. It is edible display. Whole oranges are softened, sweetened, filled with a stiff orange marmalade made from their own pulp, returned to syrup, and then served in slices. Plat promises that the finished fruit “will cut like an hard egge,” which is one of those historical recipe instructions that sounds impossible until you see it happen on the plate.
I have served these at feast, and one of the best things about them was that people thought they were table decorations. They sat on the table looking so bright, polished, and ornamental that diners did not immediately realize they were meant to be eaten. The servers had to explain that yes, the oranges were part of the menu. That moment is exactly why this recipe matters. It shows how Renaissance sweets could blur the line between food, decoration, luxury, and conversation piece.
Best historical choice: use Seville or bitter oranges if you can find them. I first made this recipe with ordinary sweet oranges, which worked, but later a generous member of the historical food community sent me bitter oranges and helped refine the quantities. I wish I could remember whether it was Ken Albala or David Friedman, but I remain deeply grateful for the opportunity. The bitter orange version was, to my taste, far better: more balanced, less cloying, firmer in set, and much closer to what Plat seems to describe.
Whole oranges simmering in sugar syrup. Plat’s method creates both candied fruit and marmalade in one showpiece.
Why This Recipe Matters
Plat’s preserved oranges are a perfect example of early modern English banquet culture. By the late 16th and early 17th centuries, elite tables used sugar, preserved fruits, marchpane, comfits, and molded sweets to display wealth and skill. These foods were often served in a banquet course, not necessarily as the main meal, but as a refined display of delicacy, hospitality, and status.
The phrase “after the Portugall fashion” is especially interesting. Portugal was strongly associated with citrus, sugar, maritime trade, and fashionable imported luxuries. Sweet oranges were sometimes linked with Portuguese trade and cultivation, while bitter oranges remained especially useful in preserves and marmalades because of their peel, acidity, bitterness, and natural pectin. In a recipe like this, the name signals more than geography. It suggests refinement, foreign fashion, and an expensive style of sweetmaking.
It is also worth remembering that “marmalade” did not always mean the soft breakfast spread we know today. Early marmalades were often stiff fruit pastes, closer to quince paste or fruit cheese. Plat’s instruction that the oranges should slice “like a hard egg” makes much more sense when we imagine a firm, sliceable citrus paste tucked inside the candied peel.
Historical Recipe
To preſerue Orenges after the Portugall faſhion. Take Orenges & coare them on the ſide and lay them in water, then boile them in fair water til they be tender, ſhift them in the boyling to take away their bitterneſſe, then take ſugar and boyle it to the height of ſirup as much as will couer them, and ſo put your Orenges into it, and that will make them take ſugar. If you haue 24. Orenges, beate 8. of them till they come to a paſte with a pounde of fine ſugar, then fill euery one of the other Orenges with the ſame, and ſo boile them again in your ſirup: then there will be marmelade of orenges with your orenges, & it will cut like an hard egge.
- Sir Hugh Plat, Delights for Ladies (1609)
Modernized Transcription
To preserve oranges after the Portugal fashion: core each orange on the side and soak them in water. Boil them in clean water until they are tender, changing the water during boiling to reduce their bitterness. Then boil sugar to a syrup, enough to cover the oranges, and put the oranges into it so they take sugar. If you have 24 oranges, beat 8 of them to a paste with a pound of fine sugar, then fill each of the remaining oranges with that paste. Boil them again in the syrup. Then there will be marmalade of oranges within your oranges, and it will cut like a hard egg.
Bitter Oranges vs. Sweet Oranges
If you can find them, Seville oranges, also sold as bitter oranges, sour oranges, marmalade oranges, or sometimes naranja agria, are the best choice for this recipe. They are more bitter than supermarket navel or Valencia oranges, but that bitterness is exactly what makes the preserve work. The sharpness balances the sugar and gives the finished confection a much more complex flavor.
Bitter oranges also behave better in the kitchen. Their peel is well suited to candying, and their higher pectin helps the marmalade filling set firmly. Sweet oranges can certainly be used, and I include a sweet-orange adaptation below, but they tend to produce a softer, juicier filling unless the pulp is drained and cooked down.
Factor
Seville / Bitter Oranges
Sweet Oranges
Historical fit
Best choice
Modern adaptation
Flavor
Bittersweet, complex, aromatic
Milder and sweeter
Pectin
Higher, firmer set
Lower, softer filling
Best use
Historical recreation and feast display
Accessible home version
Where to look: Seville or sour oranges are often seasonal, usually appearing in winter. Try Latin American groceries, Mediterranean or Middle Eastern markets, specialty produce shops, or online citrus growers. If you see “marmalade oranges,” those are usually exactly what you want.
Humoral and Feast Notes
In early modern food theory, oranges were often understood as cooling and drying, with bitter or sour oranges especially valued for cutting richness and stimulating appetite. This makes them a sensible banquet sweet after heavy meats, sauces, and rich dishes. The sugar, while luxurious, was also treated as useful in preservation and digestion, not merely as indulgence.
For a feast table, these oranges work beautifully as an entremet, subtlety, or banquet-course confection. They can sit among marchpane, comfits, candied peels, preserved fruits, wafers, or hippocras. They are especially effective because they do not immediately announce themselves as food. They invite the diner to ask: “Is that decoration?” And then the feast begins to talk back.
Cold Roasted Crane (Chicken Adaptation) – Pollo Arrosto alla Maniera di Gru
Cold Roasted Crane, adapted with chicken: a period-style reconstruction for the Primo servitio posto in tavola from Domenico Romoli’s 1560 Carnivale banquet.
Originally prepared for the Carnivale Feast project. This dish belongs to the Primo servitio posto in tavola, the first service set upon the table in Domenico Romoli’s 1560 banquet plan. In the printed menu, the dish appears as grue arrosta fredda, or cold roasted crane. Since crane is neither practical nor appropriate for a modern kitchen, this version uses chicken while preserving the table logic, method, and service style of a large roasted bird served cool or cold as part of a Renaissance first course.
At first glance, “cold roasted crane” may sound like the sort of ingredient that sends modern cooks quietly backing away from the recipe. Yet that strangeness is part of its value. Crane was not everyday food. It belonged to the same world as swan, peacock, heron, capon, and other impressive birds that appeared on elite tables as signs of wealth, access, skill, and spectacle. A bird like crane was food, certainly, but it was also theater. It told the guests that this was not a household supper. This was a table laid for display.
For this reconstruction I used chicken, not because chicken is identical to crane, but because it allows the modern cook to reproduce the structure of the dish: a large bird, briefly boiled, roasted, cut into pieces, dressed with a saffron-colored onion and wine sauce, and served over softened bread. In that sense, the dish is not merely “roast chicken.” It is roast chicken wearing crane’s court clothes.
Why Crane?
Crane appears in medieval and Renaissance dining as one of the large birds associated with noble or courtly service. It was a prestige item, not a humble barnyard bird. Even where a full prescriptive Italian recipe has not been found in the sources I have available, the culinary treatment is not mysterious. Large birds were boiled, roasted, sauced, carved, and served according to the same family of techniques used for other game and domestic fowl.
This matters because historical cooking often requires us to distinguish between an exact ingredient and a period method. The crane is the prestigious ingredient. The method is the recoverable part: parboil, roast, sauce, cut, arrange, serve. Chicken cannot replicate the social status of crane, but it can preserve the practical and culinary logic of the dish.
How Was a Crane Carved?
One of the clearest reminders that crane belonged to formal table service comes not from an Italian recipe, but from an English carving manual. The Boke of Kervynge, printed by Wynkyn de Worde in 1508, gives specific instructions for carving crane:
“A crane syse the wynges fyrst & beware of the trumpe of his brest.”
In modern terms, the carver was instructed to take the wings first and to take care around the “trump” or central breast structure. This sort of instruction reminds us that large birds were not simply cut apart in the kitchen and carried out anonymously. They could be part of formal service, handled with specialized knowledge and presented in ways that showed refinement. The full text of The Boke of Kervynge may be read at Wikisource, and a digitized copy is also available through the Cambridge Digital Library.
Although this is an English source, not an Italian one, it is useful comparative evidence for late medieval and early Renaissance table culture. It shows that crane occupied a recognizable place among ceremonial birds, and that diners and servers understood it as something requiring proper handling.
The First Service: Cold Meat, Sharp Flavors, and Display
The Primo servitio posto in tavola was not a random scattering of dishes. It was a carefully arranged opening act, designed to delight the eye, stimulate the appetite, and set the tone for the feast to follow. Cold meats made sense in this setting. They could be prepared ahead, arranged attractively, and served alongside salads, relishes, preserved foods, sauces, and breads.
In this Carnivale first service, the cold roasted bird sits among bitter chicory salad, sweet-sour carrot salad, dressed citron, capers, cold pork testa, capon in sopromenti, and Bolognese sausages. The logic is beautifully balanced: bitter, sharp, rich, aromatic, salty, and sweet. The chicken provides a familiar savory center, while the onion, wine, saffron, and bread connect it to the more formal sauce-and-sop traditions of period dining.
That bread is important. To modern diners, sauce-soaked bread often reads as “soggy bread.” To a period diner, it could be part of the point. Bread was not just a side item. It absorbed broth, fat, wine, and spice. It became the edible foundation of the dish. In medieval and Renaissance cookery, sops were a well-established way to carry flavor and make sauce substantial.
Period-Style Reconstruction
I was unable to locate a prescriptive crane recipe in the 14th to 16th-century Italian culinary sources available to me. This reconstruction is therefore style-faithful rather than a direct transcription from Romoli. The method is based on period Italian culinary practice and service conventions for large birds: brief boiling, roasting, cutting into portions, simmering briefly in sauce, and arranging the meat with bread and sauce for service.
The source menu comes from Domenico Romoli’s La singolare dottrina, first printed in 1560. Digitized copies of Romoli’s work are available through Google Books and the Bayerische StaatsBibliothek.
📜 Period Italian, Style-Faithful Reconstruction
Italian
English Translation
Pollo arrosto alla maniera di gru
Togli un pollo grande ben mondo, et fallo bollire alquanto in una pignatta grande. Poi mettilo allo spiedo, et rostiscilo bene, ma non ripieno.
Togli una cipolla, et tagliala minuta, et friggila bene in sugna, et colorala con zafferano.
Abbi pane tagliato et alquanto tostato, et vino bono, et fa’ bollire il vino con la cipolla. Taglia il pollo a pezzi, et fallo bollire brevemente nel detto vino.
Nel brodo magro della salsa ammorbidisci il pane. In un tagliere grande ordina la salsa, le spezie et la carne con ordine, et alla fine metti sopra un poco del grasso della salsa, et servi.
Roast Chicken in the Manner of Crane
Take a large chicken, well cleaned, and boil it briefly in a large pot. Then put it on the spit and roast it well, but not stuffed.
Take an onion and cut it small, and fry it well in lard, coloring it with saffron.
Have bread sliced and lightly toasted, and good wine; boil the wine with the onion. Cut the chicken into pieces and boil it briefly in the said wine.
In the lean broth of the sauce soften the bread. On a large trencher arrange the sauce, spices, and meat in good order, and at the end put over some of the fat from the sauce, and serve.
Humoral and Dietary Context
From a period dietary perspective, this dish is more balanced than it first appears. Chicken was often treated as a gentler, more digestible meat than heavier red meats or strongly flavored game. Wine, onion, and saffron add warmth and aroma. The saffron also gives the sauce a golden color, making the dish visually richer and more appropriate for a feast table.
Served cold or cool, the roasted bird would not have felt as heavy as a hot roast brought straight from the fire. The wine and onion sauce stimulates the appetite, while the bread carries the liquid and fat. In the larger first service, this dish sits between richer meats and sharper accompaniments, helping explain why Romoli’s opening table feels so carefully composed rather than merely abundant.
At Our Table
This dish was good, but it was not the star of our table. I suspect that in period, a cold roasted crane would have been one of the prestige dishes of the service: visually impressive, formally carved, and understood as an elite bird. In our modern recreation, the chicken was pleasant and familiar, but it was overshadowed by the more exciting dishes around it. The capon in sopromenti was more interesting, and the Bolognese sausages were the dish people fought over.
The sops were the hardest sell. Sauce-soaked bread is not something most modern diners are used to eating, although I remember “gravy bread” as a treat when I was younger. For this feast, I used a rustic Italian loaf that I baked in the oven. Everyone tried the bread beneath the chicken, but the reaction was unanimous: to modern palates, it read as “just soggy bread.” This is useful information, not a failure. It shows one of the places where period texture expectations and modern preferences diverge sharply.
The onion sauce was also received as “just okay” at first. I prepared it simply, with onion, saffron, and wine, and did not add additional seasoning beyond the historical flavor base. Diners added their own salt and pepper and liked it better. I also reduced the sauce because it was initially too brothy to cling to the chicken, but the reduction made the flavor more intense. In the future, I might use a slightly different wine, season the sauce more confidently, or add a very small touch of sugar to soften the onion and wine. For my own portion, I used a mixture of lemon juice, water, and a small splash of white wine vinegar instead of the wine sauce.
That is one of the joys of recreating a feast rather than merely reading one. The menu may suggest that this dish should command attention, but the table decides for itself. In this case, the cold crane-style chicken served its role as a familiar anchor, but the surrounding dishes stole the applause.
A Renaissance Citrus Dish from the Carnivale First Service
Published: May 22, 2026
A modern Carnivale feast interpretation of fette di cedro condite con aceto rosato, adapted with blood oranges, rosewater, lemon juice, sugar, cinnamon, dates, and chocolate mint.
At first glance, fette di cedro condite con aceto rosato, zuccaro & cannella seems almost too simple to hold its own on a Renaissance feast table. Slices of citron. A little rose vinegar. Sugar. Cinnamon. Let it stand, then serve it in the first course.
And yet this small dish may be one of the quiet keys to understanding the whole opening service.
The Primo servitio posto in tavola, the first service placed on the table, was not shy. It included bitter salads, carrot salad, shredded prosciutto, cold testa, cold roast crane, capers, seasoned capons, and Bolognese sausages. In other words, it was rich, salty, fatty, spiced, and deeply meat-forward. A dish of perfumed citrus was not an afterthought. It was relief. It was contrast. It was brightness set deliberately among abundance.
The Carnivale Menu Context
Insalata di cicoria bianca, insalata di carote, prosciutto sfilato, testa di ruffolatto fredda, fette di cedro condite con aceto rosato, zuccaro & cannella, grue arrosta fredda, capperini, capponi salpamentati & salsiccioni bolognesi.
In English, this first service included white chicory salad, carrot salad, shredded prosciutto, cold testa, citron slices dressed with rose vinegar, sugar, and cinnamon, cold roast crane, capers, seasoned capons, and Bolognese sausages.
This is exactly where the citron belongs. It sits between the heavy and the sharp, the fatty and the fragrant. The service already contains several balancing elements: bitter chicory, sweet carrots, capers, rose vinegar, citrus, and lemon used elsewhere on the table. Renaissance menu design was not merely a parade of impressive dishes. It was culinary architecture. The cook built contrast into the meal so diners could keep eating, keep tasting, and keep being delighted.
That matters because a feast is not only a list of foods. It is pacing. A slice of perfumed citrus after pork, sausage, or cold capon wakes the mouth back up. It clears the palate without removing the sense of luxury. In this case, the citron dish acts almost like a bright little window cracked open in a room full of roasted, salted, and spiced meats.
Why Citrus Appeared on Renaissance Tables
Citrus fruits carried prestige in Renaissance food culture. They were tied to Mediterranean trade, elite gardens, medicinal use, and the pleasure of aroma as much as flavor. Modern cooks often think of citrus primarily as juice, but period cooks valued perfume, rind, bitterness, acidity, and visual drama.
Citron, or cedro, was especially prized. It is one of the older cultivated citrus fruits, with a thick aromatic rind and relatively little juice compared with modern oranges or lemons. It is not the same thing as the diced candied citron many people know from fruitcake, though that candied peel tradition comes from the same broad appreciation for citron’s fragrant rind.
On an elite table, citron brought more than flavor. It signaled access. It suggested refinement. It also offered a sensory contrast to rich meats, heavy sauces, and preserved foods. When dressed with rose vinegar, sugar, and cinnamon, citron became sweet, sharp, floral, and warm all at once.
What Is Rose Vinegar?
Rose vinegar is exactly the sort of ingredient that reminds us how differently historical cooks thought about flavor. It combines acidity with perfume. Rather than simply making a dish sour, it adds fragrance and elegance. In a period kitchen, roses belonged not only in gardens and perfumes, but also in syrups, waters, vinegars, conserves, and medicinal preparations.
In this recipe, rose vinegar gives the citron a floral sharpness. It would have softened the fruit’s bitterness, lifted its aroma, and made the dish feel more refined. The sugar moderates the acidity, while cinnamon adds warmth and spice.
For my feast, I did not use wine vinegar. Wine and wine vinegar can trigger migraines for me, so I made a practical substitution: rosewater with a splash of lemon juice. This preserved the two most important features of rose vinegar, floral fragrance and acidity, while making the dish something I could safely eat myself. Historical cooking is most meaningful when the table includes the cook, too.
Source Text
Original Italian
English Translation
Togli cedri maturi, et mondali bene della scorza grossa et dell’amaro. Tagliali in fette sottili. Metti sopra aceto rosato in poca quantità, zucchero quanto basta, et un poco di cannella pesta. Lasciali stare alquanto tempo, et servili nel primo servizio.
Take ripe citrons and clean them well of the thick peel and bitterness. Cut them into thin slices. Put over them a little rose vinegar, sugar as needed, and a little ground cinnamon. Let them stand for a short while, and serve them in the first service.
Authentic Recipe vs. Feast Adaptation
The period recipe calls for citron, rose vinegar, sugar, and cinnamon. That is the historical anchor of this post. It is the dish named in the Carnivale menu, and it belongs exactly where the menu places it: in the first service, among dishes that need brightness and contrast.
My modern Carnivale version used blood oranges because citron was not available. If I had been able to source citron, pomelo, or Oroblanco grapefruit easily, I would have considered those as substitutes because their structure is closer to citron. Blood oranges are juicier and softer than citron, but they were available, beautiful, and very effective in the same culinary role.
The goal was not to pretend that blood orange is citron. It is not. The goal was to preserve the function of the dish: bright citrus, floral acidity, sweetness, warm spice, and visual contrast in a meat-heavy first service.
For the feast, I used blood oranges with rosewater, a splash of lemon juice, sugar, a light sprinkle of cinnamon, dates, and a sprig of chocolate mint. The cinnamon softened into the blood orange juices rather than sitting harshly on top. The dates added a little richness, while the mint lifted the whole dish back into freshness.
The result landed somewhere between fruit salad, palate cleanser, and tiny jeweled luxury. Against a table of cold meats, capers, sausage, capon, and testa, it punched far above its weight.
What to Use When Citron Is Unavailable
Citron can be difficult to find in modern grocery stores. For a closer texture, I would look first for pomelo or Oroblanco grapefruit. Both offer a thicker structure and a less aggressively juicy character than oranges. A thick-peeled lemon can work in a small amount if the pith is carefully removed, though it will be sharper and more intense.
Blood oranges are not the closest historical substitute, but they are a beautiful feast adaptation. Their color alone makes them worthwhile on a banquet table. In this service, where visual contrast mattered, the deep red-orange slices looked dramatic beside pale meats, greens, and capers.
Capons Salpamentati / Sopramentati in a Renaissance Carnivale First Service
Originally published: September 28, 2021, 12:19 PM Updated: May 22, 2026
Capponi sopramentati, adapted as sliced chicken pinwheels with prosciutto, herbs, cheese, lemon, and Renaissance spices.
This is one of those recipes that keeps returning to my table.
I first prepared this dish during the COVID years, when SCA feasts had largely gone quiet in our area. We had not yet returned to the normal rhythm of events and feast halls, but I still wanted to cook period food for people I loved. So I made a small historical picnic lunch for close friends. That earlier lunch can be found here: Crown Tournament Chez Beauvisage Picnic Lunch.
The dish was a hit then, and it was a hit again when it appeared in my Renaissance Carnivale feast. I was delighted to find this preparation, or something very close to it, listed in a period banquet menu. There is a particular joy in being able to point to a historical menu and say, “Here it is. This belongs here.”
This version is not a strict reconstruction of Scappi’s whole stuffed capon. Instead, it is a practical feast-cook adaptation: chicken breast, prosciutto, herbs, cheese, spices, and lemon, served cold in neat slices. It is economical, elegant, make-ahead friendly, and especially useful in a meat-forward service where a little richly flavored poultry can go a long way.
The Carnivale Menu Context
This dish appeared in the Primo servitio posto in tavola, the first service placed on the table, in a Carnivale banquet menu:
Insalata di cicoria bianca, insalata di carote, prosciutto sfilato, testa di ruffolatto fredda, fette di cedro condite con aceto rosato, zuccaro & cannella, grue arrosta fredda, capperini, capponi salpamentati & salsiccioni bolognesi.
In English, this service included white chicory salad, carrot salad, shredded prosciutto, cold testa, citron slices dressed with rose vinegar, sugar, and cinnamon, cold roast crane, capers, seasoned capons, and Bolognese sausages.
That first service is rich, bright, acidic, salty, and deeply meat-forward. The cold capon belongs beautifully in that company. It offers a composed, spiced poultry dish that can be prepared ahead and served sliced among other cold meats, salads, preserved flavors, and sharp garnishes. The lemons, capers, rose vinegar, and citron are not decorative afterthoughts. They help balance the richness of the meats and keep the opening service from feeling heavy.
Testa di ruffolatto in gelatina served beside sliced caponi sopramenti pinwheels during the Carnivale first service. The pairing shows how cold prepared meats, spice, acid, and texture worked together on the Renaissance table.
A Note on Salpamentati vs. Sopramentati
The Carnivale menu lists capponi salpamentati. In the digitized period text, the word can be easy to misread as falpamentati, because early printed books often use the long s, which resembles an f to modern eyes. Read as modern type, the word is best understood as salpamentati.
Bartolomeo Scappi’s related recipe, however, is titled cappon sopramentato. Are these precisely the same term? I cannot say that with absolute certainty. Historical spelling and culinary vocabulary are often flexible, and menus may use terms differently than recipe headings. What I can say is that the culinary context is very close: a capon preparation, heavily seasoned, suitable for cold service, and appropriate to a formal first service.
For this reconstruction, I chose Scappi’s detailed recipe for cappon sopramentato as the closest surviving practical guide to the capponi salpamentati named in the Carnivale menu.
Source Text: Scappi’s Capon Recipes
The following recipes are from Bartolomeo Scappi’s Opera dell’arte del cucinare (1570), translated by Terence Scully in The Opera of Bartolomeo Scappi (1570): The Art and Craft of a Master Cook, p. 198.
122. To boil a boneless capon
When the capon has been prepared in either of the above ways (skinned and deboned), get the flesh from the breast of another uncooked capon, and a pound of prosciutto and pork fat together, and beat those finely with knives, adding in half an ounce of common spices, a handful of finely chopped herbs, two egg yolks and two ounces of grated cheese. Stuff the capon with that mixture, pushing it into the wings and thighs; sew it up so the stuffing cannot come out, with its wings and thighs trussed, put the capon into an ample earthenware or copper pot with cold water and put that on the fire.
123. To boil and prepare the capon “sopramentato”
When the capon is plucked and drawn, whether stuffed or empty, boil it in a meat broth or else in water with a piece of prosciutto and crushed pepper. When it is done, take it out of the broth and let it drain. Then make several slashes across the thighs, body, and breast. Sprinkle it all over, especially in the slashes, with a mixture of sugar, pepper, cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg, and fennel flour. Let it cool. When you wish to serve it, do so with it cold, with cut-up lemons over it. Before sprinkling it, you can also splash it with rose vinegar.
Authentic Recipe vs. Modern Feast Adaptation
The period recipe calls for a whole capon, optionally stuffed with another capon breast, prosciutto, pork fat, herbs, egg yolks, cheese, and common spices. That is a luxurious preparation, and exactly the sort of thing one expects from a high-status Renaissance kitchen.
My modern feast version is more modest and practical. Rather than stuffing a whole bird, I butterfly chicken breast, season it, add prosciutto and a cheese-herb mixture, roll it into pinwheels, and poach or bake it. For the Carnivale feast, I used a single butterflied chicken breast and a single slice of prosciutto to feed several diners because the rest of the service was already very meat-forward.
This is not a perfect one-to-one reconstruction. It is an interpretation. But it preserves the heart of the dish: seasoned poultry, prosciutto, aromatic spices, herbs, cheese, lemon, and cold service. More importantly, it is delicious and has become a favorite among those who have eaten it.
Common Sauce Spices
First, you will need to put together your common spices. This is delicious, and I use it quite a bit in my cooking. I have sometimes substituted cubebs and long pepper for the pepper and ginger to create a spicier blend.
Rupert de Nola’s Libre del Coch (about 1529) gives instructions for Common Sauce Spices. Roughly translated, the instructions are:
Cinnamon three parts; cloves two parts; one piece ginger; pepper a part; some dry coriander well ground; a little saffron. Be all well ground and sifted.
Testa di Ruffolatto Fredda - Cold Pressed Young Boar in Gelée (Carnivale Feast)
Testa di Ruffolatto Fredda, or cold young boar head meat, was one of the most surprising dishes served during the Carnivale Feast. It appeared on the table cold, sliced, and set in its own natural jelly. For many modern diners, the texture was unfamiliar at first. The flavor, however, won them over completely.
This was not a dish most of us eat regularly. Cold meat suspended in savory gelée can feel strange to modern palates accustomed to sliced deli meats, pâtés, or pulled pork. Yet by the end of the feast, there was none left. The turning point came when someone spread a slice onto warm bread, allowing the natural jelly to melt into it. Then someone else added capers. After that, everyone had to try it.
Testa di Ruffolatto Fredda served alongside caponi sopramenti pinwheels during the Carnivale Feast. Though unfamiliar in texture to many modern diners, the rich flavor quickly won people over.
The Original Source
This reconstruction draws on an Italian jelly-meat recipe from Libro di cucina / Libro per cuoco, a 14th/15th-century Italian culinary text translated by Louise Smithson. The recipe is not a modern head cheese recipe, but it gives us a clear period method for producing a meat jelly from collagen-rich cuts and spiced broth.
XXXI - Jelly of whatever meat. If you want to make a good jelly of any meat: of meat of pork of the woods (boar), take ears and feet and each thing, and capons and partridge, and thrush, and hare, and roebuck (venison), and pheasant, take these things and put these to the fire in part water and part vinegar and when they are boiled and well skimmed, put spices and pepper and cinnamon and ginger and saffron not beaten together, that you choose is enough with the meat. And when the meat it is enough cooked pull it out, until remains the ears and the feet until it is of enough substance. When it is pulled all these things from, pulverize all the meat and spices, and take the jelly from the fire and let it stand, and take saffron and temper with jelly and place the meat into a vessel that you want that is lined with bay leaves and put over this jelly and strain the jelly and saffron with wool (through a cloth). When it is strained over the meat, take sweet spices and mix with this same jelly and pour it above, it should be colored and good yellow, and put with to boil from that which is come together, and it will be a good jelly.
The method is wonderfully practical: cook collagen-rich meats in water and vinegar, skim carefully, season with spices, strain the broth, arrange the meat in a vessel, and allow the natural jelly to set. The result is a cold, sliceable meat dish suitable for display and service.
What Is a Ruffolatto?
At first, the word ruffolatto raised questions. It can look obscure to a modern reader, and it is easy to confuse this dish with other animal-head preparations from the same feast. However, the Grande Dizionario della Lingua Italiana identifies rufalotto, ruffolatto, and rufolatto as a young wild boar, specifically a cinghiale di pochi mesi, or a wild boar of only a few months.
This matters. The dish is not goat. It is associated with young wild boar, a prestigious game animal and an appropriate choice for a lavish Carnival banquet before the restrictions of Lent. Young boar would have offered tender meat, rich flavor, and excellent natural gelatin.
Because young wild boar is difficult to source for a modern kitchen, this feast reconstruction used country-style pork ribs. They were inexpensive, available, flavorful, and, most importantly, produced an excellent natural jelly without added gelatin.
A Cold Dish for a Banquet Table
Modern diners often imagine historical feasts as a parade of hot dishes brought steaming from the kitchen. In reality, many Renaissance banquet foods were served cool, cold, or temperate. Salads, preserved fruits, sliced meats, cured meats, jellied preparations, and composed dishes could be prepared ahead, arranged carefully, and served from the sideboard or brought to the table as part of a larger service.
Testa di Ruffolatto Fredda fits that logic beautifully. It was not a hurried dish. It required time, patience, careful skimming, cooling, and setting. Once prepared, it could be sliced and arranged neatly for the table, making it ideal for a feast with many dishes served together.
Nose-to-Tail Cooking and Banquet Luxury
To modern ears, head meat and jellied pork may sound humble or even intimidating. In historical kitchens, however, collagen-rich cuts were valuable. Feet, ears, heads, skin, bones, and joints were not waste. They were the source of texture, body, richness, and natural gelée.
This was not merely survival food. In an elite context, a well-made meat jelly showed skill. The broth needed to be skimmed cleanly, the meat cooked until tender, the seasoning balanced, and the final dish set firmly enough to slice. It was thrift and luxury at the same time, the sort of kitchen alchemy historical cooks understood deeply.
Why All the Skimming?
One of the least glamorous but most important parts of the process was skimming the pot during the first stage of cooking. As the pork slowly heated, foam rose to the surface. This is normal. It is made up of coagulated proteins and impurities released from the meat.
Removing that foam helped produce a cleaner broth and a clearer finished jelly. The original recipe specifically calls for the meat to be “well skimmed,” and this turned out to be excellent advice. For a cold sliced dish, appearance matters. A well-skimmed broth gives the finished gelée a cleaner flavor and a better look.
Why It Set Without Gelatin
One of the surprises of this reconstruction was that no added gelatin was needed. The country-style ribs produced enough natural collagen to set the broth firmly on their own.
The process was simple but slow. The pork was cooked low and slow until the meat fell from the bones. The meat was strained from the broth, then the broth was allowed to rest overnight so the fat could rise and harden. Once the fat cap was removed, the broth was reheated until it melted, poured over the shredded meat in a loaf pan, and chilled until firm.
This is the heart of traditional aspic cookery: collagen, time, and cooling. No packet of gelatin. No modern shortcut. Just patient cooking and a broth rich enough to become its own structure.
The French Connection
If you have eaten French charcuterie, this dish may feel more familiar than it first sounds. It belongs to the same broad family as fromage de tête, English brawn, German Sülze, and other European jellied or pressed meats. These dishes differ by region and seasoning, but they share the same essential idea: tender cooked meat held together by a savory natural gel.
That comparison helped me understand the dish at table. The sliced testa was not strange once treated as charcuterie. It wanted bread. It wanted something sharp. It wanted the capers that were already part of the first service.
The Surprise of the Table
I will admit that I was surprised by how well this dish was received. This is not something most of us normally eat, and the mouthfeel was unfamiliar to several diners. Served cold, the gelée gives the meat a texture somewhere between terrine, aspic, and rich pork spread.
The flavor, however, was excellent: deeply porky, gently spiced, savory, and comforting. Once someone spread it on warm bread and the gel melted into the crumb, the dish suddenly made sense. Then someone added capers, bringing salt and acidity to the rich pork, and everyone wanted to try it.
Bread had been baked for the sops beneath the crane, represented at feast by chicken, rather than specifically for the testa. Serving warm bread with the cold meat was not the strictest interpretation of the original service. Still, fresh bread had been baked, and refusing to serve it while its ghost lingered through the hall would have been a very naughty thing indeed.
By the end of the feast, there was none left. For a dish many diners approached with caution, that felt like high praise.
How Would This Have Been Eaten?
A dish like this would most likely have been served cold and sliced, as it was at the feast. Diners could cut small portions with a knife and eat them alongside other dishes from the same service. In a banquet setting, foods were not always experienced in isolation. A bite of rich meat might be followed by capers, bitter greens, preserved citron, bread, or another contrasting flavor from the table.
The capers were not written into the testa recipe, but they were present in the same service and made excellent sense. Sharp, salty, acidic foods balance rich meats beautifully. In that sense, the diners who added capers were participating in the same flavor logic that made Renaissance banquet tables so compelling.
Humoral Notes
In humoral thinking, rich meats and gelatinous broths were often associated with nourishment and strength. A dish like this would have been substantial, warming, and sustaining, especially when made from a young animal and served as part of a lavish pre-Lenten feast.
The vinegar in the cooking liquid and the sharpness of accompaniments such as capers helped balance the richness of the meat. That balance between fat and acid, rich and sharp, soft and bright, is part of why the dish worked so well for modern diners too.
Originally published: June 29, 2025 at 4:14 PM | Updated: June 5, 2026
Updated 6/5/2026: This post has been expanded to current Give It Forth standards with additional Roman bread history, feast service notes, Pennsic and camp cooking guidance, a recipe scaled for 8 diners, dietary notes, FAQ, internal links to the full Roman feast menu, and structured recipe data.
What is Piadina? Piadina is a simple Italian flatbread with roots in the broader world of ancient Mediterranean griddle breads. This feast version is made with flour, fat, salt, and warm water, then cooked on a hot griddle or pan. It is quick, sturdy, and especially useful for Roman-inspired feast service or camp cooking.
Bread is the quiet workhorse of a feast. It holds sauces, softens sharp flavors, stretches a meal, and gives diners something familiar to reach for while exploring less familiar historical dishes. In this Roman-inspired menu, Piadina served as that edible anchor: simple flatbread cooked on a hot surface and served with cheese spread, olives, sausages, vegetables, and other first-course foods.
This is not a fussy bread. It needs no yeast, no oven, and no long rise. Flour, fat, salt, and water become a workable dough that can be rolled, griddled, stacked, wrapped, and carried to table. That makes it especially useful for camp kitchens, dayboards, and feast service, where a reliable bread can save the meal from feeling scattered.
Historical Background
Piadina as it is known today is a later regional Italian flatbread, especially associated with Romagna, but it belongs to a much older Mediterranean family of simple breads cooked on hot stones, hearths, tiles, pans, or griddles. For a Roman-inspired feast, this method makes practical historical sense: a basic dough cooked on a hot surface without requiring a built bread oven.
Flatbreads occupy an important place in Roman food history because they are practical. Before every household had ready access to a dedicated oven, doughs could be cooked on heated surfaces. Bread served not only as food, but also as a utensil, a scoop, a trencher-like base, and a way to carry sauces, cheeses, meats, olives, and vegetables from plate to mouth.
For feast interpretation, this distinction matters. I am not claiming that modern piadina is an unchanged ancient Roman recipe. Rather, this redaction uses piadina as a practical modern bridge to ancient breadmaking habits: simple ingredients, direct heat, fast cooking, and service alongside the strongly flavored foods of a Roman table.
🏛️ Roman bread note: This is a Roman-inspired flatbread rather than a claim that modern piadina is unchanged from antiquity. The method reflects an ancient and practical style of breadmaking: a simple dough cooked on a hot surface without requiring a bread oven.
Bread at the Roman Table
Roman meals used bread in many ways. It could be served plainly, dipped in sauces, eaten with cheese, used to accompany pulses and vegetables, or paired with preserved and salted foods. In a feast setting, bread also helps balance richer dishes. A bite of flatbread softens the intensity of fish sauce, garlic, olives, smoked meat, or heavily seasoned sausage.
This is why Piadina works so well in the Push for Pennsic Roman menu. It is not merely a side dish. It is the edible architecture of the meal: a carrier for spreads, a companion for sausages, and a reliable anchor for the rest of the course.
With Moretum, the flatbread becomes a vehicle for garlic, herbs, and cheese. With Epityrum, it carries olives and oil. With Lucanicae, it gives diners a way to eat rich sausage without needing modern sandwich bread. It does exactly what feast bread should do: quietly make everything else easier to enjoy.
🍞 Feast service note: For Push for Pennsic, I prepared about 12 flatbreads per table for 8 diners so guests could share and take an extra portion if desired. Bread disappears quickly when served with olives, sausages, spreads, sauces, and vegetables.
Modern Interpretation
This version of piadina uses only basic ingredients: flour, fat, salt, and water. It cooks quickly on a griddle or open fire, making it ideal for period events with limited kitchen access.
Olive oil keeps the bread vegetarian, vegan, and dairy-free, while lard gives a richer and more tender result. Either choice works well. For a Roman-inspired feast, olive oil is the more flexible option, especially if serving guests with dietary restrictions.
The finished bread should be flexible enough to fold or tear, but sturdy enough to hold a spread. If the dough feels dry, add water a tablespoon at a time. If it feels sticky, dust with flour as you roll. The goal is not perfect bakery uniformity. The goal is practical bread that can move from pan to platter without drama.
Camp and Pennsic Notes:
No oven needed: Cook on a griddle, skillet, cast iron pan, or clean flat cooking surface.
Good for primitive sites: The dough uses simple pantry ingredients and can be mixed by hand.
Make-ahead friendly: Cook ahead and rewarm briefly on a dry pan or grill.
Feast service: Stack wrapped breads in a towel to keep them warm and flexible.
Sharing: Serve whole for tearing, or cut into halves or wedges for a dayboard or appetizer table.
Originally published: June 29, 2025 at 3:44 PM | Updated: June 5, 2026
Updated 6/5/2026: This post has been expanded to current Give It Forth standards with additional historical context, Roman feast placement, Pennsic and camp cooking guidance, an appetizer-sized recipe for eight, dietary notes, FAQ, internal links to the full Roman feast menu, and structured recipe data.
What are Lucanicae? Lucanicae were seasoned sausages associated by Roman writers with Lucania in southern Italy. This version is inspired by Roman sausage traditions and the flavors of Apicius: minced meat, pepper, pine nuts, and liquamen or fish sauce, shaped small for feast service and grilled or gently cooked before finishing.
Lucanicae are exactly the kind of dish that makes a Roman feast feel generous from the first course. Small, savory, highly seasoned sausages sit beautifully beside flatbread, olives, cucumbers, herbed cheese, cabbage, and chickpeas. They are rich enough to feel substantial, but when made small they remain appropriate for the gustum, the appetizer course meant to wake the appetite rather than exhaust it.
For modern feast cooks, they are also practical little flavor engines. The mixture can be prepared ahead, shaped small, chilled, transported, and cooked quickly on a grill or skillet. That makes Lucanicae especially useful for Pennsic-style service, primitive sites, and SCA dayboards where food needs to be flavorful, sturdy, and manageable without a full modern kitchen.
Historical Background
Lucanicae, the seasoned sausages of Roman origin, were named after the region of Lucania in southern Italy. Roman writers connect them with the Lucanians, and the name survived into later sausage traditions such as Italian luganega and Spanish longaniza.
Did You Know?
The Roman author Varro explains Lucanicae as sausages named from Lucania, describing the practice of stuffing minced meat into casings with seasonings. Whether read as food history, etymology, or both, the passage shows that Romans associated this style of sausage with a specific regional tradition.
For more on ancient Roman cookery, see the digitized Latin and English text of Apicius – De Re Coquinaria.
The surviving Roman cookery tradition does not give us a modern sausage recipe with neat measurements, temperatures, and timing. Instead, it gives us a flavor-world: pepper, liquamen, herbs, nuts, wine, vinegar, smoke, roasting, and meats prepared for household tables, taverns, military travel, and feasts. This redaction is therefore not a claim of exact reconstruction. It is a practical, feast-tested interpretation designed for SCA service, camp conditions, and modern food safety.
This is the useful place where historical cooking meets real-world feast work. A cook has to ask not only “what did the source say?” but also “how do I serve this safely, attractively, and generously to a table of modern diners?” For Lucanicae, the answer is to preserve the Roman flavor profile while making the shape and cooking method flexible.
Lucania, Soldiers, and Sausage-Making
The Roman explanation for lucanicae ties the sausage to Lucania, a region of southern Italy. Whether the Roman army truly learned the technique there or later writers preserved a convenient food etymology, the association matters. Sausages are portable, efficient, flavorful, and well suited to feeding groups. Minced meat mixed with salt, spice, and fat can stretch ingredients, cook quickly, and serve neatly in small portions.
That practicality explains why sausage belongs so comfortably on a Roman-inspired feast table. It is not merely meat in a casing. It is preserved knowledge: how to season meat strongly, how to divide it into portions, how to make it easy to cook, and how to carry rich flavor into a meal without requiring a large roast or elaborate carving.
For a feast cook, that ancient practicality still applies. A platter of small, bite-sized sausages looks abundant, serves cleanly, and works beautifully in an appetizer course. At Push for Pennsic, these are best treated as a gustum: a savory opening bite served with other small Roman-inspired dishes rather than as a large modern entree.
🏛️ Feast-cook note: A mound of small, meatball-sized sausages is pleasing to the eye and gives a generous impression while keeping portions appropriate for an appetizer course. About 1 tablespoon of meat mixture per sausage gives two or three bites, and 1 pound of meat makes roughly 30 small sausages.
Modern Interpretation
This simplified grilled version uses bulgur to approximate the grainy texture of some Roman-style forcemeats and mixes pork and beef for richness. Pine nuts add a distinctly Roman touch, and liquamen, or modern fish sauce, gives the meat its salty, savory backbone.
Historically, sausage could be stuffed into casings, but feast conditions are not always generous. This version may be shaped into small patties, rolled into bite-sized sausage logs, stuffed into casings, or gently poached in plastic wrap when casings are unavailable. The goal is not to make a modern deli sausage, but to create a flavorful Roman-inspired bite that can survive real event conditions.
The flavor should be peppery, savory, and slightly rich from the pine nuts. The fish sauce should not make the sausage taste fishy. It should deepen the meat, much as Roman liquamen does throughout Apicius-style cooking. If your fish sauce is very strong or salty, use a little less and add more only after cooking a test piece.
Why These Ingredients?
Ground meat: Pork is especially appropriate for Roman cookery, though a pork and beef blend gives a rich, accessible modern texture.
Bulgur: This is a modern practical choice that gives texture and helps the mixture hold together. It also echoes the use of grains and fillers in historic forcemeat traditions.
Liquamen / fish sauce: Roman cookery used fermented fish sauces extensively. Modern fish sauce is the easiest substitute.
Pine nuts: Pine nuts appear frequently in Roman recipes and add richness, texture, and a distinctly ancient Mediterranean character.
Pepper: Black pepper was a prized imported spice and appears often in Apicius-style seasoning.
⚖️ Humoral note: Later medieval dietary theory often treated pork and beef as heavy meats that benefited from warming spices, salt, vinegar, mustard, or sharp sauces. While this recipe is Roman rather than medieval, the flavor logic still makes sense at table: pepper, fermented fish sauce, and accompaniments such as mustard, olives, herbs, or wine help cut the richness of the meat.
Fride Creme of Almaundys – Cold Cream of Almonds, a Medieval Almond “Cheese” (Harleian MS. 279)
Fride Creme of Almaundys – Cold Cream of Almonds
Originally published: November 15, 2015 at 6:07 PM | Updated: May 19, 2026
Updated 5/19/2026: This post has been fully revised to current Give It Forth standards with expanded historical context, a clearer modern translation, a feast-scaled redaction serving eight, dietary notes, related almond-milk recipes, FAQ, source links, and structured recipe data.
What is Fride Creme of Almaundys? This fifteenth-century recipe from Harleian MS. 279 makes a thickened, drained almond cream: something between sweet almond curd, almond cream cheese, and a soft dairy-free spread. It was especially useful for Lenten and fast-day tables, when animal dairy might be restricted.
Almond milk cream cheese? Yes, yes, yes! This dish is definitely being added to my repertoire of things to make at feast. Despite the fact that the instructions sound forbiddingly difficult, this dish is very easy to make. It starts with my quick and dirty almond milk recipe and ends with a sweet, creamy Lenten substitute for cheese or butter.
Why Almond Cream Matters in Medieval Cooking
Almond milk appears again and again in medieval European cookery, especially in elite and urban recipe collections. It was not merely a modern-style dairy substitute; it was a flexible kitchen technology. Almonds could be ground, steeped, strained, boiled, thickened, colored, sweetened, or soured. The resulting milk or cream could stand in for dairy in fast-day cookery, enrich sauces, thicken pottages, and create elegant dishes for feast tables.
Fride Creme of Almaundys is especially interesting because it treats almond milk almost as though it were dairy. The cook makes a thick almond milk, heats it, salts it, lets it rest, drains it through linen, sweetens it, and dresses it in the manner of mortrewys, a soft, rich pottage or paste-like dish. The result is not cheese in the biological sense, since it is made from almonds rather than animal milk, but the texture and use are familiar: soft, spreadable, rich, and suited to careful presentation.
📖 Fast-day cooking: In medieval Christian food culture, periods such as Lent and many weekly fast days restricted meat and sometimes animal dairy. Almond milk gave cooks a luxurious way to create creamy sauces, soups, desserts, and “cheese-like” dishes without relying on cow, sheep, or goat milk.
This recipe also gives a glimpse into the practical intelligence of medieval kitchens. The almond cream is drained in linen, adjusted with sugar and salt, and loosened with sweet wine if it becomes too thick. This is exactly the kind of instruction that suggests hands-on cookery: the cook is expected to watch the texture and correct it as needed.
Original Text and Modern Translation
Original Text
Modern Translation
.xij. Fride Creme of Almaundys. — Take almaundys, an stampe hem, an draw it vp wyth a fyne thykke mylke, y-temperyd wyth clene water; throw hem on, an sette hem in þe fyre, an let boyle onys: þan tak hem a-down, an caste salt þer-on, an let hem reste a forlongwey or to, an caste a lytyl sugre þer-to; an þan caste it on a fayre lynen clothe, fayre y-wasche an drye, an caste it al a-brode on þe clothe with a fayre ladel: an let þe clothe ben holdyn a-brode, an late all þe water vnder-nethe þe clothe be had a-way, an þanne gadere alle þe kreme in þe clothe, an let hongy on an pyn, and let þe water droppe owt to or .iij. owrys; þan take it of þe pyn, an put it on a bolle of tre, and caste whyte sugre y-now þer-to, an a lytil salt; and ȝif it wexe þikke, take swete wyn an put þer-to þat it be noȝt sene: and whan it is I-dressid in the maner of mortrewys, take red anys in comfyte, or þe leuys of borage, an sette hem on þe dysshe, an serue forth.
12. Cold Cream of Almonds. Take almonds and pound them, and draw them up into a fine thick milk tempered with clean water. Put it on the fire and let it boil once. Then take it down, add salt, and let it rest a furlong-way or two. Add a little sugar. Then cast it onto a fair linen cloth, well washed and dried, spreading it broadly with a ladle. Let the cloth be held wide so that the water beneath may drain away. Gather the cream together in the cloth and hang it on a pin, letting the water drip out for two or three hours. Then take it down, put it in a wooden bowl, and add enough white sugar and a little salt. If it becomes too thick, add sweet wine so that it is not noticeable. When it is dressed in the manner of mortrews, garnish the dish with red anise comfits or borage leaves, and serve it forth.
For more information on this and similar recipes, please visit Dan Myers’ Medieval Cookery by clicking the link below.
xij – Fride Creme of Almaundys. Take almaundys, an stampe hem, an draw it vp wyth a fyne thykke mylke, y-temperyd wyth clene water; throw hem on, an sette hem in the fyre, an let boyle onys: than tak hem a-down, an caste salt ther-on, an let hem reste a forlongwey (Note: Other MS. forlange.) or to, an caste a lytyl sugrether-to; an than caste it on a fayre lynen clothe, fayre y-wasche an drye, an caste it al a-brode on the clothe with a fayre ladel: an let the clothe ben holdyn a-brode, an late all the water vnder-nethe the clothe be had a-way, an thanne gadere alle the kreme in the clothe, an let hongy on an pyn, and let the water droppe owt to (Note: two.) or .iij. owrys; than take it of the pyn, an put it on a bolle of tre, and caste whyte sugre y-now ther-to, an a lytil salt; and 3if it wexe thikke, take swetewyn an put ther-to that it be no3t sene: and whan it is I-dressid in the maner of mortrewys, take red anys in comfyte, or the leuys of borage, an sette hem on the dysshe, an serue forth.
Interpreting the Recipe
The original instructions describe several important techniques:
Make a thick almond milk: This is not a thin drinking almond milk. It should be rich enough to leave body behind after straining.
Boil once: Heating thick almond milk helps it thicken and set into a creamier texture.
Salt, rest, and sweeten: The balance is not purely sweet. A little salt gives the finished almond cream a more cheese-like character.
Drain in linen: This is the key step. The texture depends on removing enough liquid to make a soft, spreadable cream.
Adjust with sweet wine: The recipe assumes correction. If the almond cream grows too thick, it may be loosened discreetly with wine.
Garnish beautifully: Red anise comfits or borage leaves make this a feast-worthy presentation rather than a plain kitchen paste.
🌰 Texture note: This is best understood as a drained almond cream or almond curd. It will not behave exactly like dairy cheese, but when properly drained and sweetened it becomes smooth, rich, and spreadable.
Humoral and Dietary Context
In medieval medical and dietary writing, almonds were generally considered nourishing, temperate, and useful in refined cookery. They were often recommended in preparations intended to be gentle, strengthening, or suitable for restricted diets. Sugar, depending on context, was also valued medicinally as well as culinarily. Sweet spices such as cinnamon, cloves, mace, cubebs, and related spice mixtures were frequently associated with warmth and digestion.
Within that framework, Fride Creme of Almaundys makes sense as more than a novelty. It is rich without meat, creamy without animal dairy, elegant without being complicated, and adaptable for feast service. The optional additions of wine, saffron, comfits, and borage place the dish firmly in the world of careful presentation and sensory balance.
🥕 Dietary Notes:
Vegan / Dairy-Free: This recipe is naturally dairy-free when made with almond milk and sweet wine or vinegar.
Vegetarian: Suitable as written.
Gluten-Free: Suitable as written, provided all garnishes and spice blends are gluten-free.
Nut Allergy: This recipe is almond-based and is not suitable for those with tree nut allergies.
Alcohol-Free: Use vinegar or verjuice instead of wine for curdling and omit the final sweet wine adjustment.
Feast Service: Serve in small bowls, molded portions, or as a spread with wafers, bread, sops, or fruit.
Camping/Event Use: Best made ahead and packed cold. Keep refrigerated in a cooler and serve in small portions with bread, wafers, crackers, or fruit. Not ideal for making from scratch at camp unless you have reliable heat, clean straining cloths, and adequate chilling.
Hen in Cyve – Medieval Chicken (or Rabbit/Duck) in Onion & Wine Sauce (Harleian MS. 279)
Conyng, Mawlard, in gely or in cyuey – Hen, Rabbit, or Duck in Onion Sauce (Harleian MS. 279)
What is “Cyve / Cyuey”? A savory medieval onion sauce thickened with bread and sharpened with vinegar and wine—balanced with warm spices like ginger, mace, cinnamon, and cloves. Wonderful with poultry, rabbit, or duck.
Updated 5/19/2026: This post now includes related recipes: .lxxiij. Conyngys in cyveye and .lxiij. Harys in Cyueye.
Medieval Stew in Onion Sauce
One of my favorite finds from The Ordinance of Pottage was “Hare in Cyve,” a richly flavored onion-based sauce that quickly became a feast favorite in my early SCA days. When I later discovered a related recipe in Harleian MS. 279 (c.1430), I knew it had to go on my cooking list.
Conyng means rabbit; Hare its larger cousin; and Mawlard means duck. The recipe offers flexibility—showing how cooks adapted this onion-thickened sauce (or cyuey) to whatever meat was available.
📖 A cyuey is a spiced medieval onion sauce thickened with bread and vinegar, balancing savory, sweet, and tart notes. It’s delicious with poultry, rabbit, or game.
Original Text (Harleian MS. 279)
.xlij. Conyng, Mawlard, in gely or in cyuey – Take Conynge, Hen, or Mawlard, and roste hem alle-most y-now, or ellys choppe hem, an frye hem in fayre Freysshe grece; an frye myncyd Oynenons, and caste alle in-to þe potte, & caste þer-to fayre Freysshe brothe, an half Wyne, Maces, Clowes, Powder pepir, Canelle; þan take fayre Brede, an wyth þe same brothe stepe, an draw it þorw a straynoure wyth vynegre; an whan it is wyl y-boylid, caste þe lycoure þer to, & powder Gyngere, & Salt, & sesyn it vp an serue forth.
Modern Translation
42. Rabbit, Hen, or Duck in Onion Sauce – Take rabbit, hen, or duck, and roast them almost enough, or else chop them, and fry them in good fresh fat. Fry minced onions and add all into the pot with fresh broth and half wine, along with mace, cloves, pepper, and cinnamon. Then take good bread, soak it in the same broth, and strain it with vinegar. When it is well boiled, add this mixture, plus ginger and salt. Adjust seasoning and serve hot.
What is “Coley(s)” / Cullis? A medieval restorative made by cooking a capon until tender, then enriching the broth with the meat, bread, and the “liquor of the bones.” Think early bone-broth technique with a comforting, spoonable finish.
Originally published 5/12/ 2019 Updated 5/13/2026
In Two Fifteenth-Century Cookery Books (Harleian MS. 279), Coleys calls for not only the broth from boiling the capon but specifically the liquor of the bones—a clear nod toward longer extraction and collagen, much like today’s bone broth. French sources, including Du fait de cuisine, even frame coulleys as food for the sick: nourishing, mild, and easily digested.
This is not a clear soup. It is closer to a spoonable medieval chicken soup, a savory porridge, or a soft restorative broth thickened with bread. The result is mild, warming, and practical: a dish that uses the bird thoroughly and turns broth, meat, bones, skin, and bread into something sustaining.
Soops and Mashed Potatoes – How a Tudor Luxury Became a Holiday Staple
A Dutch still-life evoking the abundance of a 17th-century banquet — a perfect match for the spirit of Thanksgiving.
Editor’s Note: As autumn turns to feast season, the next several posts on Give It Forth explore a different kind of Thanksgiving table — one inspired not by Pilgrims and pumpkins, but by the kitchens of Tudor and Stuart England. These 16th- and 17th-century dishes, drawn from sources like Robert May’s The Accomplisht Cook (1660), showcase the foods and flavors that would have graced a festive English winter board. Presented here in modern form, each recipe offers a way to bring history to an American Thanksgiving — blending Old World elegance with New World abundance.
Historical Note: Today, mashed potatoes feel indispensable on a Thanksgiving table. But in the 17th century, potatoes were still exotic — treated more like a luxurious root or even a dessert component than a plain side. This post traces that transformation through three recipes: Robert May’s Tudor-style “soops,” an early Georgian dish of potatoes “beat up with cream,” and the first printed recipe to use the phrase “mashed potatoes.”
Potatoes reached England in the late sixteenth century, but for a hundred years they remained rare and refined. The following three recipes trace how they evolved from May’s sweet-spiced “soops” to the creamy, savory mashed potatoes we know today.
AI assistance disclosure: This post used AI to help with HTML formatting, SEO/meta, image creation, internal linking, and clarity edits. All recipes, testing, historical framing, and final edits are by the author.
Basic Recipe – Furikake (Rice Seasoning from Kombu & Bonito)
Context: This simple, fragrant seasoning captures the essence of Japanese umami cooking. Furikake transforms what might otherwise be kitchen scraps—kombu and bonito from dashi-making—into a savory, nutritious topping for rice or vegetables. It’s a perfect example of resourceful cooking in both medieval and modern kitchens.
AI assistance disclosure: This post used AI to help with HTML formatting, SEO/meta, image creation, internal linking, and clarity edits. All recipes, testing, historical framing, and final edits are by the author.
Did you know? The oldest written mention of kamaboko dates to 1115, during the Heian period, when it was served on bamboo skewers at a noble banquet. By the 1500s, it had evolved into molded loaves, and Odawara (near modern Kanagawa) became famous for its skilled kamaboko artisans—a reputation it still holds today.
Context: Kamaboko appears on the Second Tray with O-zoni at the Crown Tournament Feast. It’s a classic celebratory food: the pink-and-white pairing signals auspicious good fortune, so neatly sliced kamaboko shows up in New Year’s osechi and formal banquets. The technique is simple but tactile — and the result is pleasantly springy with clean, ocean-sweet flavor.
AI assistance disclosure: This post used AI to help with HTML formatting, SEO/meta, image creation, internal linking, and clarity edits. All recipes, testing, historical framing, and final edits are by the author.
Basic Recipe – Kaku-Mochi (Traditional Japanese Square Rice Cake)
Context: Kaku-Mochi, or square rice cakes, form the heart of O-zoni (Rice Cake Soup), served at the 2019 Crown Tournament Feast. These rice cakes were a symbol of prosperity and endurance, reflecting both samurai field traditions and the ritual importance of rice in Muromachi-period Japan.
