‘A Few Drops of Milk Will Do’: Breast Milk as Medicine

The traditional Madonna lactans: the breastfeeding Mary. Madonna Litta, attributed to Leonardo da Vinci © Wikimedia Commons.
The traditional Madonna lactans: the breastfeeding Mary. Madonna Litta, attributed to Leonardo da Vinci © Wikimedia Commons.

By Julia Martins

A few weeks after my baby was born, I noticed her tear ducts were blocked. Echoing Galen, the midwife suggested a few drops of breast milk to help treat and open the ducts. A few days later, the problem was solved, much to my astonishment. If you Google medical uses for breast milk, you might be surprised at the number of articles mentioning it as a treatment for ear infections, eczema, acne, eye problems, and many other conditions in babies. While most of this evidence is anecdotal, we know breast milk has antimicrobial properties, so it may indeed help.

Using breast milk as medicine is nothing new, however. Nor is it only a Western phenomenon, with human milk being used in imperial China. For centuries, medical recipes (especially those in the vernacular tradition) contended that menstrual blood in its concocted form of breast milk could be used to treat a myriad of conditions. Vernacular books published for a broad readership, such as Thomas Reynalde’s The Birth of Mankind, a 1540 adapted version of the 1513 German midwifery manual Rosengarten by Eucharius Rösslin, contained many recipes using human milk. As a general reproduction and fertility manual, Reynalde’s book also contained advice about childrearing and how to treat childhood ailments. So, when discussing the swelling of infants’ eyes, Reynalde recommended a mixture containing ‘woman’s milk’. He also suggested putting amber dissolved in breast milk inside the child’s nose.

Reynalde’s breast milk medicines for infants, used for ailments ranging from hiccups to stomach issues and sleeping problems, were not unusual. Like many entries in the book, these uses were taken from Ibn Sina’s Canon or Rhazes’ Practica Puerorum. Other early modern books contained milk in their recipes, such as John Gerard’s and John Partridge’s formulas to provoke sleep. As in The Birth of Mankind, these were books aimed at a wide readership, to be primarily used in a domestic setting.

As a readily available, free resource, breast milk was not only recommended for treating children. Since antiquity, it was thought that milk could also answer questions about what the pregnant body contained. In a passage copied from Ibn Sina, Reynalde told readers how breast milk could be used to determine the sex of the unborn child:

But if ye be desirous to know whether the conception be man or woman, then let a drop of her milk, or twain, be milked on a smooth glass or a bright knife, other [or] else on the nail of one of her fingers. And if the milk flow and spread abroad upon it by and by, then it is a woman child. But if the drop of milk continue and stand still upon that the which is milked on, then it is a sign of a man child.

Female trunk, from The Birth of Mankind. © Wellcome Collection.
Female trunk, from The Birth of Mankind. © Wellcome Collection.

Human milk could even be used to treat the one giving birth. Following a difficult birth, early modern people believed that abscesses and other problems could be healed with medicines containing human milk. Reynalde also told readers how, if the foetus died in the womb, drinking breast milk (albeit from another woman) might help someone to ‘expel the dead birth’. This belief was probably inherited from the medieval tradition, such as the Trotula, reminding us of the many continuities in the history of medicine.

‘Woman’s milk’ was not the only kind of milk used in early modern recipes. For instance, in Alessio Piemontese’s Secrets, another best-selling vernacular book published in the period, Piemontese recommended that women drink mare milk to facilitate conception. The milk from a dog just delivered could induce labour in women whose babies had died and needed to be expelled; this resembled the recipe using another woman’s milk. The symbolic association between ‘mothers’ meant that animal milk could have similar effects to human milk, working sympathetically to produce the desired goals.

In early modern medicine, humoral theory played a crucial role in understanding the body and reproduction. In its concocted form of breast milk, menstrual blood was often found in recipes published in the vernacular. Even though human milk as medicine seems to have been more prevalent among laypeople who read and wrote in the vernacular than in higher, more educated circles, such as university physicians, it is important not to trace too sharp a divide between ‘learned’ and ‘popular’ traditions, with perceptions about menstrual blood and breast milk varying widely. However, it is comforting to think of the links between Ibn Sina, 16th-century vernacular books, and what I was told as a new mother that I could do to help my baby, even if the reasons behind these recommendations have changed.

References:
Gerard, John. Herball, or Generall Historie of Plantes. London: 1597.

Partridge, John. The Widdowes Treasure. London: 1595.

Piemontese, Alessio. De’ secreti del reverendo Donno Alessio Piemontese. Milan: 1559.

Rhazes, The First Treatise on Pediatrics [Practica Puerorum], translated by Samuel X. Radbill. American Journal of Diseases of Children 112.5 (1971): 369-76.

Reynalde, Thomas. The Birth of Mankind: Otherwise Named, The Woman’s Book. Edited by Elaine Hobby, Farnham: Ashgate, 2009 (originally published in 1540).

Rosslin, Eucharius. Der Swangern Frauwen und Hebammen Rosegarten. Strasbourg: 1513.

Ibn Sina, The General Principles of Avicenna’s Canon of Medicine [Liber Canonis]. Translated by Mazhar H. Shah. Karachi: 1966.

The Trotula: A Medieval Compendium of Women’s Medicine. Edited and translated by Monica Green. Philadelphia: 2001.

*****
Julia Martins is a PhD candidate in History at King’s College London. Her thesis focuses on the translation of early modern recipes about the female body and reproduction (‘secrets of women’) from Italian into French and English. Her research is about how medical knowledge was changed as it circulated in print in sixteenth- and seventeenth-century vernacular books of secrets, and what these modifications can tell us about the way gender and the sexed body were understood in the period. Julia’s research interests are gender history, the history of medicine, and recipes literature.

Novel Liquids: Brandy, Shrub, and Early Modern “Cocktails”

A receipt 'To make Shrub' from a ‘Book of Receipts for Cookery and Pastry 1732 & c.’, attributed to Sarah Tully. (Wellcome Collection, MS.8687, p. 131).
A receipt ‘To make Shrub’ from a ‘Book of Receipts for Cookery and Pastry 1732 & c.’, attributed to Sarah Tully. (Wellcome Collection, MS.8687, p. 131).

Tyler Rainford

Everyone has a favourite drink. Whether it’s a pint of pale ale, a smooth glass of merlot, or a certain cocktail for when we’re feeling fancy, we know what we like and what we’d rather avoid. We’re also very particular about how we drink it. Hold the ice. Shaken not stirred. Deviations from the norm can be seen as a form of alcoholic sacrilege, as today’s debates over the merits of the pre-mixed or pre-batched cocktail might indicate. Everyone has their preferences. In many ways, early modern Britons were similarly pedantic, and recipe books from the period indicate an intense interest in what went into any one drink. This was particularly clear following the emergence of distilled alcohols, which we commonly refer to as “spirits”.

Spirits had long played a vital role in the maintenance of household health and wellbeing in the early modern period. Featuring prominently in English receipt books alongside a host of physicks, syrups, and salves, these curious cordials were designed to alleviate the ailing body and bring a physical respite to the suffering drinker. However, as the seventeenth century progressed, their medical function became increasingly opaque. By the early eighteenth century, distilled spirits were also consumed for their apparent intoxicating effects, fiery flavours, and socially lubricating potential. Although not all contemporaries were enthused by the emergence of these new tipples, recipe book writers demonstrated an acute awareness of how these liquors could be crafted to serve individual tastes and personal pleasures.

This newfound taste for distilled spirits was most evident in the case of flavoured brandies, and recipes abound for brandies made from, or infused with, a host of fruits, sugars, and spices. Cherries, raspberries, oranges, and lemons were enthusiastically squashed and squeezed into this heady mix. An anonymous receipt book, possibly kept at Worth House, near Tiverton in Devon between 1714 and 1773, even contained a recipe for rhubarb brandy, combining rhubarb, cardamom seeds, saffron and nutmeg. The author considered it an ‘an excellent receipt’ but suggested no obvious medical benefits.

Another popular beverage, infused with the juices and rinds of citrus fruits, was shrub. Although relatively time consuming, this fruity liquor was easy to make and did not require the use of a still.  An example from the receipt book of Rebecca Tallamy, likely kept between 1735 and 1738, dictated:

To a Gallon of good Rum put a Quart of Juce fresh squees’d & strain’d, two pounds of good Loaf sugar, take half the Lemon rinds & six of Oranges & steep them one night in the Juce & Rum then strain it through a Coarse Cloth or Bag into a vessel or Bottle, Shake it three or four Times a day for Fourteen Days then let stand to settle till it is as water, then draw it off in Bottles Cork them well & hosen them down, besure not to put in any decay’d fruit nor a Sweet one.

(Wellcome Collection, MS.4759, fo. 173v.)

On the one hand, Tallamy’s receipt for shrub was straightforward. It contained three key ingredients – citrus fruits, sugar, and a form of liquor – that were to be mixed, strained, and shaken to produce what we might define as an early modern cocktail. However, beyond these three basic ingredients, there was no one prescriptive formula to be followed. Contemporaries either made do with what they had or adapted receipts to suit their individual tastes and preferences. The only restriction was to avoid using overripe or rotten fruit. Beyond this, the choice was theirs to make.

Another receipt book, supposedly belonging to Sarah Tully (c. 1708/9 – 1736), contained two recipes for shrub, each written in a different hand. One specified it should be made with brandy and three pints of boiling milk, whereas another suggested the reader could substitute the brandy for rum, ‘if you think Proper’, but made no mention of milk. Despite being penned only a few pages apart; these two receipts were considerably different, suggesting there was no one ‘proper’ way to make shrub. Personal preferences were paramount and could change over time. Another receipt book, likely composed by Anne Lisle in 1748, used the juice from ripe currants alongside a gallon of rum, brandy, or arrack, suggesting the choice of liquor was subject to taste. Similarly, a receipt book belonging to Anne Talbot of Lacock Abbey in Wiltshire claimed shrub could be mixed with white wine, cider, or brandy. The reader could choose ‘which [they] please’.

Clearly, shrub was a liqueur drunk for pleasure. But how was it consumed? Although some contemporaries might have drunk shrub as it was, it was frequently mixed with water to make punch: an immensely popular beverage with fascinating maritime origins. This choice is understandable. Undiluted, shrub was likely very strong, and very tart. Its zing needed to be tamed and receipt book authors made this clear. Sarah Tully’s receipt referenced above suggested that the liquor could be mixed with water to create an ‘Excellent punch at once’. Another receipt book, attributed to Mary Bent, contained a receipt for shrub with the addendum: ‘In Makeing the punch put two pints of Watter to one of Shrubb’. Shrub could be quickly transformed at a moment’s notice, suggesting it was a highly adaptable beverage.

In this respect, rather than being served as a drink in and of itself, shrub could be compared to an alcoholic squash, or a premixed cocktail. A point that might give some snobbish mixologists today pause for thought. It was bottled, sealed, and stored in keen anticipation of revels to come. Preparation was a fundamental part of this process. The prevalence of shrub in contemporary receipt books provides but one example of how individualised and adaptable the landscape of drink could be in early eighteenth-century England.

****

Tyler Rainford is a second year PhD student at the University of Bristol, funded by the SWW DTP. His research explores the role of intoxicants in early modern England, with a specific focus on how distilled spirits informed ideas about the self and society over the course of this period. More broadly, he is interested in consumption, work, and identity in the early modern Atlantic world, c. 1600 – 1800.

A Snake Oil from Tenth Century al-Andalus

Illustrations of snakes in an Arabic version of Dioscorides' Materia medica (Kitāb al-Ḥašāʾiš). Leiden University Ms. Or. 289, fol. 60b, http://hdl.handle.net/1887.1/item:1578609
Illustrations of snakes in an Arabic version of Dioscorides’ Materia medica (Kitāb al-Ḥašāʾiš). Leiden University Ms. Or. 289, fol. 60b, http://hdl.handle.net/1887.1/item:1578609

Leonie Rau

Historians of medicine might know him as Abulcasis, the ‘Father of Surgery,’ but Andalusian physician Abū al-Qāsim Khalaf Ibn al-‘Abbās al-Zahrāwī (936–1013) wrote about much more than the inner workings of the human body. As Katarzyna Gromek has explored in her post on “Treating winter ailments – recreating three recipes from al-Andalus in the Iberian Peninsula,” al-Zahrāwī devoted parts of his famed Kitab al-Taṣrīf li-man ‘aǧiza ‘an al-ta’līf  (“The Book of Management for Those who are Unable to Compose”) to topics such as perfumes. At the time these were understood not necessarily as sensorially pleasing fragrances, but as remedies used to treat illnesses.

The book furthermore contains pharmaceutical chapters dealing with compound drugs such as stomachics, laxatives, eye-salves, and various oils. While most of his recipes for distilling and infusing oils call for ingredients like rose petals, bitter almonds, or basil, two of his formulas read as fairly peculiar to the modern eye.

The first of these is a literal snake oil, and al-Zahrāwī offers not one but two methods for its extraction, translated from the Arabic below:

Take three parts sesame oil and pour into a ceramic pot. Throw in five to ten black vipers, depending on their size. Close the pot’s lid and cook on a small flame. Take off the fire and leave to cool a little. Then open the lid, careful of the steam, and leave until it has cooled completely and the vapour is gone. Strain into a bottle and use as we have described by brushing it [onto the skin] with a brush. If you see that it causes harm, stop using it, then take it up again until it cures you, God willing.

Another method of extracting snake oil is to “cast [the vipers] into boiling water and to cook them until they fall apart. Then gather the oil from the water’s surface and store it. When it is needed, mix the oil with a bit of sesame oil and use, for it is stronger, God willing.[i]”

According to al-Zahrāwī, this snake oil is “useful against anything similar to leprosy when applied to [the skin].”

Viper flesh has a long history of being included in so-called theriacs—cure-alls and antidotes supposedly effective against all sorts of poisons, in use from antiquity up until the 19th century—because it was thought that viper flesh contained a cure to the snakes’ own poison. While there is no modern scientific basis for any of these claims, medical practitioners like Galen believed that theriacs containing viper flesh were effective against leprosy.

As if snake oil wasn’t odd enough, al-Zahrāwī immediately follows this recipe with an oil made from flying ants:

Take a thousand flying ants and soak in one pound of white lily oil. Leave in the hot sun for two weeks and use as an oil rub.[ii]

Some ant species do have medicinal properties, with one even being used to suture wounds, but otherwise most effects found through the medicinal use of ants are related to the insects’ venom. Even if al-Zahrāwī does not specify where exactly on the body this oil is to be rubbed, his indication that it is “useful for arousal” might give us a rough idea.

We luckily find clarification in a similar recipe, listed by Persian philosopher and scholar Naṣīr al-Dīn al-Ṭūsī (1201–1274) in his Kitāb Albāb al-bāhīya wa-l-tarkīb al-sulṭānīya (translated by Daniel L. Newman as The Sultan’s Sex Potions), which assembles a variety of aphrodisiacs and sexual stimulants apparently in use in the medieval Arabic-speaking world.

Naṣīr al-Dīn al-Ṭūsī  directed the reader to use just a hundred regular black ants instead of al-Zahrāwī’s thousand flying ants, and calls for “blue liquorice oil” instead of lily oil, but otherwise describes a similar preparation. He does, however, explain that it is to be used “on your fingers, teeth, armpits and elbows,” so that, “[e]ven if you were to engage in coitus with ten women during the night, you would not be incapacitated.”[iii]

It can only be hoped that al-Zahrāwī’s readers were somehow aware of these directions for the administration of this oil, since we can (hopefully!) only speculate what a flying ant oil might feel like when applied to one’s private parts.

*****

[i] I would like to thank Timo Blocksdorf for his help in deciphering the uses of viper flesh, and Nicolas Hintermann for his feedback on this text.
Hamarneh, Sami, and Glenn Sonnedecker, A Pharmaceutical View of Abulcasis Al-Zahrāwī in Moorish Spain. With Special Reference to the „Adhān“ (Leiden: Brill, 1963), p. 84, my translation.

[ii] Hamarneh, Sami, and Glenn Sonnedecker, A Pharmaceutical View of Abulcasis Al-Zahrāwī in Moorish Spain. With Special Reference to the „Adhān“ (Leiden: Brill, 1963), p. 84, my translation.

[iii] aṭ-Ṭūsī, Naṣīr al-Dīn, The Sultan’s Sex Potions. Arab Aphrodisiacs in the Middle Ages [Kitāb Albāb al-bāhīya wa-l-tarkīb al-sulṭānīya]. ed., tr., and introduced by Daniel L. Newman (London: Saqi Books, 2014), p. 118f.

*****

Leonie Rau is a master’s student in Islamic and Middle Eastern Studies at the University of Tübingen, Germany. She is currently writing her thesis on a medieval Arabic pharmacological manuscript and plans to pursue a PhD after her graduation.She also writes and edits for ArabLit and ArabLit Quarterly and can be found on Twitter @Leonie_Rau_.

Lime: An Ancient Molecular Ingredient

Utku Can Topçu [1]

Lime or limestone (an abundant sedimentary rock) has found great use in construction throughout history. The usage of lime in construction dates back to some of the world’s earliest settlements. Even though some experts estimate the usage of lime in mortar started at least 10,000 years ago,[2] radiocarbon dating of lime mortar found in early Neolithic settlements in Nevali Çori (Turkey) would suggest an even earlier use, going back more than 20,000 years. The irony is that we cannot really date Nevali Çori that far back.[3] 

The “lime cycle” is a well-known property of lime that enables its use in construction. It is a three-step process[4]:

  1. Calcination: CaCO3(s) + Heat → CaO(s) + CO2(g)
  2. Hydration: CaO(s) + H2O(l) → Ca(OH)2(s) + Heat
  3. Carbonation: Ca(OH)2(aq) + CO2(g) → CaCO3(s) + H2O(g)

During the first step, calcium carbonate (in limestone) is heated to produce calcium oxide (burnt lime, or quicklime). The second step is the hydration of lime. Upon contact with water, burnt lime produces a strong base: calcium hydroxide (aptly named as slaked lime). The third and final step is carbonation. The slaked lime in water (limewater) comes into contact with carbon dioxide and reverts to its original form: calcium carbonate. This cycle has been essential in the invention of lime mortar. In order to produce the mortar, slaked lime in water is mixed with some aggregate (e.g., sand). Upon its application, the carbonation step is triggered by the atmospheric carbon dioxide to complete the cycle, forming calcium carbonate.[5]

While lime-based mortar must have been an integral part of building many kitchens throughout history, usage of lime in the kitchen has not been limited to construction alone. It has traditionally been used as a key ingredient in numerous food preparations. Out of many of its culinary uses, I will focus on two distinct recipes originating in two regions far away from each other.

Our first recipe utilizes a technique from ancient Mesoamerica: Nixtamalization. “Nixtamalización” is the name of the process that is used for the preparation of maize. Passed from generation to generation, this ancient technique is still used around the world today for various maize products, tortilla being a popular one. The process uses slaked lime or limestone in boiling water. The usage of lime not only softens the maize, so it can be ground easily to create a dough, but it is also helpful in terms of food safety as it destroys almost all the aflatoxin in mycotoxin-contaminated produce.[6] The treatment also uncovers additional nutritional value by making more essential amino acids available.[7] During their research into the food safety aspects of the traditional nixtamalization process, Dr. Doralinda Guzmán-de-Peña studied their family recipe. The recipe relayed here outlines the basic steps of the technique that has been used in Mexican homes traditionally[8]:

(1) Boil maize (1 kg) with water (3 l) and limestone or slaked lime (10 g) for 50 min; (2) Soak the mixture overnight (14 h); (3) Wash the cooked maize two or three times with water and (4) Ground nixtamal to obtain the dough (masa). Once the dough is ready, different dishes can be prepared: tortillas, tamales, atole, gorditas, etc.

Corn before and after Nixtamalization. Image Credits: Ll1324, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons.
Corn before and after Nixtamalization. Image Credits: Ll1324, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons.


Our second recipe is for Pekmez. It is, in essence, a molasses-like reduction of grape juice. Instead of grapes, it could also be made using other fruit rich in sugars. Traditionally, the version that uses grapes has been prepared in Turkey almost unchanged for ages.[9]
The earliest written accounts of pekmez date back to Divan-i Lugati’t-Türk, written in 1073.[10] Similar to how it is used in nixtamalization, lime is also used to make pekmez. The function of lime in this process is two-fold: 1) it reduces the acidity of the grape juice, 2) it also aids in clarifying the syrup by adsorbing impurities. The traditional recipe uses limestone soil called “pekmez toprağı” (pekmez soil) rich in calcium carbonate. Based on the oral tradition, many families – including mine – prepare it more or less using the same method. Here is a recipe relayed by Dr. Selma Birer from their paper on the dietary use of pekmez in Turkey[11]:

The grapes harvested from the vineyards are washed, have their stems separated, and juiced by being pressed in crushing mills. The excess water is evaporated by boiling. In order to prevent the acidity (sourness) of the grape juice, white soil called pekmez soil containing 90% or more CaCO3 (calcium carbonate) is used. Besides entirely or partially removing the juice’s acidity, the soil also helps clarify it. Pekmez soil is added in the ratio of 0.1-1 kg to 100 kg of juice. When the pekmez soil is added to the reduction, it is boiled for 5-10 minutes and then rested for clarification. pH change, temperature, and positively charged calcium ions play a role in this chemical process.

Even though archeological evidence has not yet been established about its history, the recipe for pekmez made from grapes is believed to have originated in prehistoric Anatolia. If we were to compare the two grape-based products, pekmez must have been even more critical for neolithic communities than wine, especially when we consider its function to preserve the nutritional value of the grapes.[12] 

Making of pekmez. From the family album of the author.
Making of pekmez. From the family album of the author.


Our ancestors must have understood and experimented with the lime cycle, enabling the recipes discussed above. The discovery of the lime cycle had its use both in culinary and construction applications. A hypothesis on how this could all have started comes via another ancient culinary practice: stone boiling.[13]
Stone boiling is the practice of transferring heat via heated stones instead of direct heat from open fire to the cooking vessel. Large stones would be heated in a fire or hearth and then placed in the cooking liquid. More stones would gradually be introduced in order to sustain the cooking process. According to this hypothesis, the discovery of the lime cycle could have “accidentally” been ignited by using limestones for this purpose. Limestones heated in a wood fire would get hot enough to start the calcination process described above. The cook would then naturally notice how these stones changed when heated and reacted with water. Being curious, they would also not have missed how it hardened over time and reverted to a stone-like material: reshaped limestone.[14]

Contemporary recipes for pekmez and nixtamalization do not call for heated limestones. However, archeological and experimental evidence suggests that using limestones for stone boiling can facilitate the cooking and start the required molecular reactions for nixtamalization.[15] It could be possible that the innovation of lime mortar in construction was not the only happy result of the accidental use of limestones for cooking. Due to lack of evidence suggesting otherwise (yet), we should accept that limestones found their initial use in construction. Nevertheless, we also need to appreciate their incidental use in cooking (through stone boiling). Observations on how it altered the cooking results must have followed naturally. It seems to me that the accident of using limestones for cooking might not only have resulted in the discovery of lime mortar in construction, but it could also have resulted in the development of pekmez and nixtamalization.

Utku Can Topçu is a software engineer living in Amsterdam. Next to his day job, he spends most of his time in his kitchen: reading, researching, and experimenting.

+++++
[1]  I would like to thank Dr. Inci Gunler for her invaluable feedback during the preparation of this text.
[2]  Dorn Carran, John Hughes, Alick Leslie, Craig Kennedy, “A Short History of the Use of Lime as a Building Material Beyond Europe and North America,” International Journal of Architectural Heritage, 6(2), (2012): 117-146. https://doi.org/10.1080/15583058.2010.511694
[3]  S. Felder-Casagrande, H. G. Wiedemann, A. Reller, “The calcination of limestone – Studies on the past, the presence and the future of a crucial industrial process,” Journal of Thermal Analysis, 49(2), (1997): 971-978. https://doi.org/10.1007/bf01996783
[4]  Carran, A Short History of the Use of Lime
[5] Ibid.
[6]  Doralinda Guzmán-de-Peña, “The Destruction of Aflatoxins in Corn by ‘Nixtamalización,’” in Mahendra Rai, Ajit Varma (eds.), Mycotoxins in Food, Feed and Bioweapons, (Berlin, Heidelberg: Springer, 2009), 39-49. https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-642-00725-5_3
[7]  Emily C. Ellwood, M. Paul Scott, William D. Lipe, R. G. Matson, John G. Jones, “Stone-boiling maize with limestone: experimental results and implications for nutrition among SE Utah preceramic groups,”Journal of Archaeological Science, 40(1), (2013): 35-44. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jas.2012.05.044
[8]  Guzmán-de-Peña, “The Destruction of Aflatoxins in Corn by ‘Nixtamalización’”
[9]  Selma Birer, “Pekmezin Beslenmemizdeki Yeri ve Kullanılması,” Beslenme ve Diyet Dergisi, 12, (1982): 107-114.  https://beslenmevediyetdergisi.org/ind
[10]  Sevan Nişanyan, “pekmez,” in Nişanyan Sözlük Çağdaş Türkçenin Etimolojisi, https://www.nisanyansozluk.com/kelime/pekmez (accessed on 16 January 2022)
[11]  Birer, “Pekmezin Beslenmemizdeki Yeri ve Kullanılması”
[12]  Ahmet Uhri, Anadolu Mutfak Kültürünün Kökenleri – Arkeolojik, Arkeometrik, Dilsel, Tarihsel ve Etnolojik Veriler Işığında (İstanbul: Ege, 2016), 46-51
[13]  Carran, “A Short History of the Use of Lime”
[14] Ibid.
[15]  Ellwood, “Stone-boiling maize with limestone: experimental results”