'I have slept and have taken my rest: and I have risen up, because the Lord hath protected me.' Psalm 3: 6. Image from the Utrecht Psalter: Utrecht, Universiteitsbibliotheek, MS Bibl. Rhenotraiectinae I Nr 32 (Rheims, c.830), folio 2v, detail. By permission of the Utrecht Library. Please click on the image to go to the online digital facsimile. Hello readers, or should that be 'blessed ones'? I thought I should apologise for the lack of new posts the last few months, here on my Anglo-Saxon Monk blog. Unfortunately, I've been ill. For those of you who follow me/the Anglo-Saxon Monk on Facebook, you probably already know that I was diagnosed with pernicious anaemia, an autoimmune disorder that means I can't absorb vitamin B12 from my food, and so need to have B12 injections. Without the injections, it causes serious neurological and cognitive problems as well as anaemia and often heart problems, so I've been feeling pretty rubbish to put it succinctly. Thank goodness I don't actually live in the Anglo-Saxon period – or any time before the 1920s, in fact – because I'd eventually be pushing up the daisies, as untreated pernicious anaemia kills you. However, the good news is that I've been feeling much improved this last ten days, now that I've had an initial course of 12 injections, and although there are some complications that need to be looked into over the next few weeks and months, and the regularity of the injections needs to be worked out, I do hope to be back posting material on here as soon as possible. Many of you will know that I have a big project that I'm working on, Monk's Modern Medieval Cuisine, and this will be taking priority for a while, so I still might not get that many new posts on my Anglo-Saxon Monk blog for a while. Please bear with me. I do hope you will join me on my new website where I've just posted my latest recipe experiment: Pynnonade, a spiced pinenut affair. Surely, I've tempted you! Christopher Monk
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Blessed ones, I just can't keep up with this fellow, so I'll get straight to it: I hereby announce, with due ceremony and hearty monastic blessings, that Dr Christopher Monk has started a new blog on this our website, all about his new project on medieval food. Find out more by clicking on the button below.
Dr Monk returns with a research snippet about spices in medieval England Hello everyone! Good to be back. The godly Anglo-Saxon Monk has permitted me to do another research snippet. So I thought I would let you all know what I've been up to in recent weeks, and where this has led me in terms of research. I've been translating the fourteenth-century cookery book known as Forme of Cury, which basically means the 'how-to of cookery'. It was written by the master chef of Richard II. I'm doing this because this year I'm filming a series of medieval cookery videos, and the recipes being used in these will be some of those from the Forme of Cury. In fact, I have already filmed a pilot of one of the recipes (Tart de Bry, a cheese tart with ginger spice), and that is presently being edited. However, the recipe proved quite problematic, not least because there are no quantities given! This experience has suggested to me the need to translate all the recipes (close to 200) before proceeding any further with the filming. So, at the moment I'm about a third of the way through transcribing and translating Forme of Cury's Middle English. I'm working directly from the digital facsimile of the manuscript, which is located in the John Rylands Library in Manchester. I've now become quite familiar with a range of different ingredients, and I'm particularly fascinated by the variety of spices used. So far I've come across saffron (primarily used as a colourant), fennel seeds, ginger, cinnamon, mace, cloves, sandalwood (used as a colourant), galangal, pepper, anise, alkanet root (used as a colourant), coriander seeds, caraway, and cubebs. In addition, two spice mixes, known as powder douce ('sweet') and powder fort ('strong') have been regularly mentioned. As far as I can deduce, the content of these mixes is not given in the Ryland's Forme of Cury, so I need to do some further research to identify the likely candidates. Now I began to wonder which of these spices, most of which were imported into England at the time Forme of Cury was written, were being used in the Anglo-Saxon period (i.e. before the Norman Conquest in 1066); and, moreover, how they were being used. Here's what I've found so far: Saffron Saffron is the dried stigmas and styles ('threads') of the saffron crocus (Crocus sativus). It is mentioned (by the Old English name croh) in the medical text known today as The Old English Herbarium, which survives in four copies, one of which is illustrated, Cotton MS Vitellius C. iii (follow the link to the British Library's digitised facsimile), and which dates to the first quarter of the eleventh century. Though a translation of a Mediterranean work written in Latin, the fact that the English work includes its own table of contents with numbered chapters for each plant and the ailments it was suitable for suggests it was more than simply an exercise in copying Latin but, rather, was a practical working manual in England (Pollington, p. 70). Moreover, there is clear evidence that spices from the Mediterranean and beyond were imported in early medieval England, both through commercial trade and via diplomatic and ecclesiastical exchange. For example, the German Church sent pepper, cinnamon and frankincense to Abbess Cuniburg around the year 740 (Pollington, p. 68). So, if saffron did indeed get as far as England in the Anglo-Saxon period, what was it used for? The Herbarium instructs that it be pounded and mixed with the herb seofenleafe ('seven-leaf'; Latin, Tormentil septifolium) to make a treatment for fotadle ('foot disease'): the resulting juice was smeared on the feet and the promise is made that 'it takes away the pain on the third day' (Pollington, pp. 336-9). Fennel seeds Fennel seeds are twice mentioned in another medical work, known today as Lacnunga ('Cures'). This survives, along with other medical texts, in the British Library manuscript Harley MS 585, which was copied around the year 1000. The Lacnunga text has been described as 'a private collection of jottings of various recipes and cures, as they came to hand, in one location' (Pollington, p. 72). So, what were fennel seeds used for? Here's the first mention: Against pain in the loins: fennel seed, green leaf of betony, the lower part of agrimony; pound it to a dust, steep it with sweetened ale, warm it; give it to drink hot, standing upright; let [him] stand a good while. (Pollington, p. 207) I'm not entirely sure what 'pain in the loins' refers to it, but I have my suspicions that it is rather euphemistic, meaning something to do with the genital organs and/or the urinary tract. The second occurrence is within a long directive for 'a good morning drink' which is presented pretty much as a cure-all, from headaches and dizziness to dysentery and poisoning! Fennel seed is listed along with thirty other seeds as well as cumin, costmary, pepper, ginger and mastic. The advice is given to make up 'enough dust [powder] in autumn, and use it when the need arises' (Pollington, p. 237). Stephen Pollington does suggest that fennel seeds may have also been sprinkled on bread because of their rather nice aniseed flavour, but really there is no way of knowing for sure (Pollington, p. 118) as Anglo-Saxon bread recipes don't exist. Ginger In Forme of Cury ginger is used predominantly in its dried, powdered form, though I have come across a recipe that refers to peeling and mincing ginger, indicating that either fresh or rehydrated whole root of ginger was used in fourteenth-century England. We've just seen how ginger was used in the cure-all recipe of the Lacnunga text. Evidently, this was dried, since the text refers to a 'dust' being made up from the various herbs and spices. Its mention in another recipe of this text, however, hints at it being used in its fresh form, since 'plants' juices' are referred to. However, as you will see, it isn't entirely clear if ginger is indeed one of the plants that must have been fresh in this recipe. Moreover, in view of the vast distances ginger would have travelled (it was probably grown in India before being exported to the Mediterranean and beyond), it is perhaps more reasonable to conclude that if the 'juices' include that of ginger root, it is perhaps more likely that its juice was extracted from rehydrated ginger root. Whatever the case, using ginger to make a salve for wens (tumours or swellings) and nyrwet (hardness of breathing; 'asthma') is a far cry from using it in a fourteenth-century cheese tart recipe (more on that another time): As a wen-salve: take elecampane and radish, chervil and raven's foot, English turnip and fennel and sage and southernwood and pound them together, and take a good deal of garlic, pound and wring through a cloth into purified honey; when it is thoroughly steeped, then put pepper and zedoary, gallengale and ginger and bark and laurel berries and pellitory – a good deal of each according to its strength; and when it [all] be mixed, the [plants']* juices and the honey, then boil it twice as strong as it was before; then you have a good salve against wens and against asthma. (Pollington, p. 189) *Pollington gives 'plant's' (genitive singular), but the Old English is genitive plural (þara wyrta), and so I've amended his translation accordingly. No doubt some of you noticed the use of gallengale (Old English, gallengar) in this salve recipe and, like me, wondered if this is the same as the galangal of Forme of Cury. I haven't yet been able to work this out. Confusing me is the fact that there is a native English plant which goes by the name of galingale; so it may be this, rather than the ginger-related galangal, that is meant. I will get back to you on this. You will have noticed, too, that another spice I've discovered in the Forme of Cury is mentioned in this salve, namely pepper. I will take a more comprehensive look at pepper in a future research snippet post. Since it is used in numerous cures, it deserves some special attention. Also in this forthcoming post I will address the other spices I mentioned at the outset, including cinnamon, alkanet and coriander seeds. Until then! Work cited: Stephen Pollington, Leechcraft: Early English Charms, Plantlore, and Healing (Anglo-Saxon Books, 2000).
Dr Monk looks at the origin of the word 'Christmas' and finds out what thirteenth-century servants got for Christmas Hello everyone. The Anglo-Saxon Monk has told me he is preoccupied with spiritual matters at present, so he has delegated the Christmas themed post to me. And, magnanimous as ever, he sends his blessings to you all. My post is inspired by a Facebook chat I was having yesterday with some friends about the word 'Christmas', which literally means 'Christ's Mass'. I said that I'd been translating a Latin custumal (a survey of manorial rents and services), from thirteenth-century Rochester, in which 'Nativity' (Latin Nativitas) was used, rather than 'Christmas'. To be more accurate, the full term used in the custumal is 'the Lord's Nativity' (Latin Nativitas Domini). On looking back at the manuscript this morning, I realised that 'the Lord's birthday' (Latin natal Domini) is also used. But in the shadowy recesses of my brain lay the half-conviction that I had at at some point come across the word 'Christmas' somewhere in the custumal. Yes, I mumbled to myself, it's something to do with the servants of the monks (the custumal was written by the monks of Rochester)... and a Christmas log. So I looked back at my translation of the section on the servants' duties and checked it against the relevant section of the manuscript. And this is what I came up with: 'The aforementioned three must have before the Lord's birthday a wooden log, which in English is called the Christmas brand.' ('Debent predicti tres habere truncum ligneum contra natale Domini, qui Anglice dicitur Christemesse brand.') The 'aforementioned three' were, in fact, the tailors (who doubled up as the tanners), the master tailor and his two associates. They were not the only ones to get the 'Christmas brand'; the two laundrymen, master and second rank, were also to have one, 'just like the tailors'. The etymology of the modern English word 'Christmas' actually dates back to the Anglo-Saxon period, deriving as it does from Old English cristesmæsse. Often you will see it claimed that the word first appeared in 1038, but this is not quite the case. It is found in a manuscript copied in the late 900s where it appears in a horology (a text which calculates the time from the lengths of shadows) in the phrase 'on Christmas Day' ('on Cristesmæsse dæg'). As someone who trained as an Anglo-Saxonist, I'm always interested to find when earlier English words were carried over from the Anglo-Saxon period (ending in 1066) into the post-Conquest world and beyond. What I find fascinating in this example is that not only were the English people of the thirteenth century still carrying on with the long-held Pagan tradition of burning the Christmas, or Yule, log (it was lit on Christmas Eve and continued burning for the twelve days of Christmas), but they were still calling the log by its Old English name, 'Christmas brand' (brand in Old English means 'fire'). Now to finish this Christmas research snippet, I thought I should let you know what else besides Christmas logs were given to the servants at Christmas by the Rochester monks. Half a pint of ale was given to the 8 hired men brought in, throughout the year, to help the church attendants with curtaining the altar and ringing the bells on processions. All the permanent servants – the millers, brewers, cooks, and others – were given a gift of money at Christmas (and also at Easter), 'the master a penny, the second-rank a halfpenny'. In addition, 'all have meat equally at Christmas or one penny'. And it was at Christmas the servants got half their annual wages. So, no doubt, being payday gave Christmas, if not an added sparkle, then at least a measure of relief to those hardworking folk. So, blessed readers (as the Anglo-Saxon Monk would say), whatever you are doing over the Christmas holiday, be you burning the Christmas brand or eating its chocolate equivalent, drinking a half-pint (or more) of Christmas ale, or cooking and eating your Christmas roast, have a very merry Christmas!
The Anglo-Saxon Monk returns with more answers to the wondrous imagery of the Harley Psalter The Harley Psalter. © British Library Board. London, British Library, Harley MS 603, folio 4r. Click on the image to go to the online zoomable facsimile. All images of the Harley Psalter below are cropped details from this image of folio 4r, reproduced, with permission, from the British Library website. Blessed ones, I have returned, humbled (nay, humiliated) by your silence over my neglect of provision of spiritual nourishment in recent months. I beg your mercy and forgiveness. So, let me get straight to it. It's time for you all to engage anew with the holy Psalms, both visually and spiritually. Work out the clues in the charades scenes in the above image of the eleventh-century Harley Psalter, and you will have sufficient sustinance of spirit to last you, well, at least until my next post in this series. If you do need a refresher on the concept of medieval charades, just click here. But in essence, you are all to politely shout out the answers to the visual clues in the pictures, noting the correct answers as we go along, which will be underlined for your edification. Let's start where we should always start, with our Lord (top centre of the image on folio 4r). I know he doesn't look obviously Lord-like, but that's because the artist forgot to copy the nimbus, or halo, in the Utrecht Psalter model, as you can see from the image below. Mind you, the Utrecht artist forgot to put a cross in the nimbus, so he was only slightly less sinful. Such sloppiness just wouldn't be tolerated by my abbot, I can tell you! Back to the charades, blessed ones... I'm sincerely hoping you don't need much assistance in order to comprehend what the Lord is doing: yes, he brandish[es] his sword and hath bent his bow. Please don't disagree with me on the latter. The Lord has indeed bent his bow, but it was a few moments ago, it would seem, and now he is resting it a while. But, indeed, he made it ready. He's got his arrows, after all. But for what is this preparedness for violence? We shall see. The eagle-eyed amongst you will have recognised that the Lord is looking towards this fellow, the psalmist (he's in almost all the pictures of the psalter). Now the psalmist is looking back towards the Lord, but is also, yes, you noticed, pointing downwards with both hands. What a helpful charades player! On the right, the psalmist's left, we have a rather energetic foursome. You can see what they're up to, can you not? Arrows, spears and a rather splendid axe all aimed at our poor friend. You've got it, no? Why, they're the psalmist's nasty persecutors, of course, them that persecute me, as he puts it. Never trust any such fellows so scantily clad, is my advice, and if there are four of them, you absolutely know they're up to no good whatsoever. Shocking behaviour! As you can see, on our left, but his right, the psalmist also brings to our attention this rather marvellous lion and the unfortunate soul beneath its paws. Now, I beg you all to leave aside the lion's rather friendly disposition, evident in its somewhat anthropomorphised face, and please ignore its elegantly swishing tail that seems to be anticipating future use in heraldry, and instead gaze upon the overall effect on the fellow beneath. I'm quite sure, like me, you've quickly spotted this desperate individual's nakedness. Now, please, I implore you all once more: do not start thinking he's another one of those disreputable fellows who go about with their tunics hitched up to their nether regions. No! For this fellow is naked before God, which means just one thing, doesn't it? Yes? Come on now, I already slipped the answer in two paragraphs ago. He's a soul (souls are frequently represented as naked in medieval art): the psalmist's soul, to be precise. And so our psalmist is, quite understandably, pointing out his concern should the enemy seize upon [his] soul like a lion. The more spiritually adept amongst you may well be nodding sagely at this stage, recognising the Christian allusion to the devil as our adversary, walking around like a roaring lion seeking to devour someone (1 Peter 5:8). For those of you still wondering why this particular lion is smiling so benevolently, well, I throw my hands up in despair. Moving on... In this part of the illustration, I reckon you should pick up the visual codes with relative ease. Those beneath the Lord on high (notice he stands upon a lofty mountain, as is his wont) are indeed a congregation of people... well, men, in reality, but we're not going to quibble over an eleventh-century monk-artist's gender perceptions, are we now? Perhaps of greater alarm is the badly dressed fellow entering the scene stage left (our right). With those outstretched arms it looks rather like he's searching for something, does it not? No, I doubt it's the cockerel weathervane, just above him to the left, though it is rather splendid, I agree. No, it's something else, and we need to go back to the model image to work it out. Aha! Our Harley artist has been sloppy again. He's missed off this devil's wings – too preoccupied with his flight of fancy cockerel, perhaps. Let me, however, just say in his defence that the text actually doesn't mention any devil, or demon, just an enemy. So perhaps he was choosing to be less specific, and was quite happy to settle for a human in typical devil garb (you may remember how in the previoius psalm the devils are shown with raggedy skirts). But being as the Utrecht artist was clearly tapping into Christian imagery (and adding to the 'devil like a lion' allusion we discussed above), perhaps the Harley artist was amiss to drop the wings. But we must forgive him. Not so easy to forgive is both artists' positioning of the enemy. Surely by now it is clear the enemy intends to pursue [the psalmist's] soul. But he's miles off! "Over there!" I hear you all shouting. "Bottom left!" But perhaps we shouldn't be encouraging such nefarious deeds, even though, if you read the text in full (below), it becomes clear that it is the psalmist who asks of God that the enemy be allowed to pursue him. What a strange, contradictory fellow! Now to the final two clues, adjacent to each other on the page, and to my favourite parts of the charade imagery for this folio. Let's take first the badly coiffured woman on the right. What a miserable face! Mind you, three babes all at once; it's enough to drive anyone to despair. And that hair is a definitive sign of devilment, is it not? Another sure cause of misery, at the very least. Now, lying at the crux of this charade is understanding who her children are; so, any guesses of the children's names? No, not Shadrach, Meshack, and Abednego – wrong biblical story. And, no, not Snap, Crackle, and Pop – wrong century. Now, don't be silly, it is not the three Bee Gees, Barry, Maurice and Robin! Some seriousness, please! This woman has been in labour with injustice, conceived sorrow, and brought forth iniquity. So, Injustice, Sorrow, and Iniquity are the names. Obvious, really. You didn't get it? Maybe you'll do better with the final answer. What do we have here, then? He's another one of those fellows with exposed limbs, so the odds are he's dodgy. It's certainly unseemly to be flailing one's legs in such a debauched manner, I would say. What is he doing, do you think? Before you shout something ridiculous – like, he's lying on a sheepskin doing a spot of sunbathing – do take a look, by way of comparison, at the image below, taken from the contemporaneous Illustrated Old English Hexateuch. You've got it, haven't you? As with the Hexateuch figures being thrown out of heaven, our disreputable fellow in the Harley Psalter is falling. In fact, he hath opened a pit and dug it: and he is fallen into the hole he made. Granted, I don't see his spade, so we might have to take it as read that he's dug his own pit, or grave, we might say. Whatever, the case, you now know the importance of my title for this blog post: mind thine own pit, blessed ones! Well, what a lot of good, clean, spiritual fun we've had together. But I can hear some of you shouting, "But you've not explained what the Lord is doing, all ready with his bow and arrows!" Well, to conclude your spiritual sustinance, this very hour you must all now read through the entirety of Psalm 7, kindly reproduced below, where you will find the answer in verse 14. Any questions, just leave a comment below, and I will drag myself away from my many labours, and endeavour to respond with estimable longsuffering. May you be blessed. PSALM 7
1 The psalm of David which he sung to the Lord, for the words of Chusi the son of Jemini. 2 O Lord my God, in thee have I put my trust: save me from all them that persecute me, and deliver me. 3 Lest at any time he seize upon my soul like a lion, while there is no one to redeem me, nor to save. 4 O Lord my God, if I have done this thing, if there be iniquity in my hands. 5 If I have rendered to them that repaid me evils, let me deservedly fall empty before my enemies. 6 Let the enemy pursue my soul, and take it, and tread down my life on the earth, and bring down my glory to the dust. 7 Rise up, O Lord, in thy anger: and be thou exalted in the borders of my enemies. And arise, O Lord my God, in the precept which thou hast commanded. 8 And a congregation of people shall surround thee. And for their sakes return thou on high. 9 The Lord judgeth the people. Judge me, O Lord, according to my justice, and according to my innocence in me. 10 The wickedness of sinners shall be brought to nought: and thou shalt direct the just: the searcher of hearts and reins is God. 11 Just is my help from the Lord: who saveth the upright of heart. 12 God is a just judge, strong and patient: is he angry every day? 13 Except you will be converted, he will brandish his sword: he hath bent his bow, and made it ready. 14 And in it he hath prepared the instruments of death, he hath made ready his arrows for them that burn. 15 Behold he [the iniquitous person] hath been in labour with injustice; he hath conceived sorrow, and brought forth iniquity. 16 He hath opened a pit and dug it: and he is fallen into the hole he made. 17 His sorrow shall be turned on his own head: and his iniquity shall come down upon his crown. 18 I will give glory to the Lord according to his justice: and will sing to the name of the Lord the most High. |
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