1675 - Pompion Pye, and 1877 - A Pumpkin Pie Fiasco

Hannah Woolley's recipe, 1675...

Pompion-Pye

Take a pound of Pompion, and slice it; an handful of Time, a little Rosemary, sweet Marjoram stripped off the stalks, chop them small; then take Cinamon, Nutmeg, Pepper, and | | 146a few Cloves, all beaten; also ten Eggs, and beat them all together, with as much Sugar as you shall think sufficient; then fry them like a Froise; and being fried, let them stand till they are cold; Then fill your Pye after this manner: Take Apples sliced thin round-wise, and lay a layer of the Froise, and another of the Apples, with Currans betwixt the layers; be sure you put in good store of sweet Butter before you close it. When the Pye is baked, take six yolks of Eggs, some White-wine or Verjuice, and make a Caudle thereof, but not too thick; cut up the lid and put it in, and stire them well together whilst the Eggs and Pompions are not perceived, and so serve it up.    (Hmm...what did she say at the end there?  Wikipedia to the rescue..."A caudle is a British thickened and sweetened alcoholic hot drink, somewhat like eggnog.")

Below is an English look at the pumpkin pie in the 19th century... Mosaic Gleanings: A Souvenir for 1877 - Mrs R. Frazier This brings to my mind a circumstance in my own experience, which not inaptly illustrates the importance of attending to minutiae. In the days of my boyhood, my father's family was frequently visited by a gentleman who for several years had resided in the United States. His conversation was much relished by our family, and more especially by the younger branches. He was a kind of Peter Parley in the social circle, and we always hailed his approach as affording a promise of an interesting and instructive visit.  I can see, in my mind's eye, myself and my brother sitting in our little chairs at his feet, and drinking in with delight his graphic description of matters and things which had come under his notice while in foreign lands. I am not sure but that this gentleman first fired my young bosom with the spirit of adventure, and led me at an early age to roam the world. Be this as it may, I was completely captivated with his conversation, nor was it less relished by the elder branches of the family; for he was well-informed, happy in description, and could embellish the most barren subject by a pleasing method of narration. In the course of one of his visits he had mentioned with approbation having eaten pumpkin pies in America. This annunciation produced among the female portion of his audience the most evident marks of surprise. What! make a pie out of a pumpkin? They would as soon have thought of making one from a turnip. The conclusion was hastily adopted in their minds that he must be in jest. On the assurance, however, that it was a sober fact, the next conclusion was not less hasty: that those who could relish such a dish must possess a barbarous taste. Our friend left us, but not before he had appointed a time when he would spend aday at our house. As he resided some miles from my father's, he was in the habit of setting the time for his visits. The story of the pumpkin pie seemed to make a strong impression on my good mother, and weighed heavily on her spirits. It was such an anomaly in the history of pies, such a startling exception to the best established rules of pastry economy, that she could scarcely credit the story, much less acquiesce in the judgment and taste of the narrator in pronouncing it excellent. The result of her meditations was a resolution to test the truth by actual experiment; and that the advocate of pumpkin pies might be triumphant or confounded, she determined that the pie should make its appearance on the table, on the very day when he next visited us.  I have never seen the pumpkin cultivated in England as an article of food, either for men or cattle. In France, I have seen it frequently in the market; and it is used by the poorer inhabitants in their vegetable soups. There was, however, a gardener in the vicinity of my father's who raised a few, but I know not what use he made of them. To him application was made, and for a shilling, a fine and rich pompion (for so the word is spelt and pronounced in England) was procured. The pumpkin was brought home and deposited in the pantry, to await the day of trial, no doubt greatly to the astonishment of the cook, who was at a loss to imagine to what culinary purpose it could be put.  As my brother and myself were in the secret, we awaited with no small degree of impatience the appointed day, big with the fate of pumpkin pies. I cannot suppose that the wheels of time moved more slowly than usual in bringing the desired hour, but they appeared to do so, and that to us was the same thing. The tardiness of time is in this respect like a fit of hypochondria; imagination becomes a reality to the sufferer, and fills him with all the pains and inconvenience that the actual disease would produce. There was no small stir in the kitchen department on the day when the expected guest was to make his appearance. The pumpkin was brought out and placed, like a subject for dissection, on the table. A deep dish was brought, a rich crust of paste lined it, and the knife was raised to slay the pumpkin. I have no doubt that my mother trembled, and that the servants, who were spectators of the unheard-of deed, were filled with dismay atthe awful experiment. The unhappy pumpkin was, however, soon divided, and subdivided, cut up in its natural state, in pieces about as large as it is customary to cut the fruit in making an apple pie; next, it was placed in the dish appointed for its reception, being well sugared and spiced; next, it was surmounted with a coverlid of paste, and finally consigned to the oven.  At the usual hour our old friend made his appearance, and one or two more were invited to partake of the feast. The dinner passed off much in the usual manner, except a gentle hint, which my good mother could not repress, that there was a favorite and delicate dish in store, and that it would be well to " keep a corner" for that. On clearing away the meat, sure as fate, the pie made its appearance, large, deep, and smoking hot. It was suggested that the dish was of foreign parentage, and a hope was expressed that due honor might be done to the stranger. My good mother dealt it out to the expectant guests in no stinted measure, and requested them, if not sufficiently sweet, " to sugar for themselves."  Alas, the want of sweetness was its least failing! My brother and myself narrowly watched the countenances of the guests, with that unerring knowledge of physiognomy which even children possess. Our observations were anything but favorable, and the promise they afforded of pleasure in partaking of the delicacy, far from flattering. A wry face and a crash between the teeth proclaimed the presence of the pumpkin, but it did not argue that it was a dainty morsel by any means. An unwillingness to discredit the cookery, and a feeling of courtesy, obtained for the raw subject a reception which he would not have otherwise enjoyed.  My parents, who, of course, by the established laws of etiquette were the last to partake, felt unquestionably somewhat mortified at the feeble encomiums which were passed on the occasion. One, wishing to disguise his abhorrence of the raw material he was champing, modestly remarked that " he thought the fruit a little too crisp." Another had no question of its goodness, but he never was partial to fruit pie. A third more bluntly and honestly said that it was not quite baked enough. But now the time had arrived for my mother herself to test her own experiment, and I shall not soon forget the look of utter dismay she gave on tasting the pie. On the very first mouthful, the very first crack at the vegetable, the whole concern exploded. It was pronounced horrible, detestable, unfit for any one but a savage or barbarian.  All eyes were now turned to our " traveled friend," on the strength of whose description the pie had been made. His face was red, tears starting in his eyes, his hands on his sides, and he was choking, not with pumpkin, but laughter. I do not know but that my mother gave him a worse look than she did the pie when she first stuck her teeth in its uncooked contents. But the joke was too good to yield to a dozen such looks, and it was not till his laughter had found a vent that an explanation took place. My mother accused him of having trifled, in his declaration that the Americans ate pumpkin pies, and that they were good. He as stoutly maintained that such was the sober fact. This led to the inquiry how they were made, and the mystery was at once revealed. My good mother had got everything that was good of its kind into the pie, but unfortunately she had forgotten—to stew the pumpkin! ----------- NOTE: I don't know why, by 1877,  this woman did not know about pumpkin pies!!  I'm sure I have read of them in English this and thats. Later: Wikipedia says: In the 19th century, the English pumpkin pie was prepared by stuffing the pumpkin with apples, spices, and sugar and then baking it whole.[4][5] ---