Category Archives: Posts

Reynolds’ Reading Practice Wins John Ben Snow Book Prize

By the RP Editorial Team

We are delighted to share that Melissa Reynolds’ book, Reading Practice: The Pursuit of Natural Knowledge from Manuscript to Print (University of Chicago Press, 2025) has won the John Ben Snow Book Prize from the North American Conference on British Studies (NACBS).

Awarded to the best book by a North American scholar in any field of British Studies, and dealing with the period from the Middle Ages through the eighteenth century, Reynolds’ book represents the first time a work on recipes has won this prize. With our ongoing support for scholarship on recipes — any time period, any place in the world — the Recipes Project is thrilled by this news, which represents a significant achievement for our field. We are even more excited because Melissa Reynolds is part of our RP Editorial Team!

Reading Practice was described by the prize committee as “a remarkable exploration of the complex interaction between manuscript and print publications about ‘natural knowledge’—medical recipes, almanacs, herbals, and pictorial prognostications.” The committee particularly praised the ways that the book speaks to and engages with many different subfields, including book and reading history, manuscript studies, gender history, business history, and studies of nature and the environment. As anyone who studies recipes knows, this is one of the many reasons why they are such valuable resources to writers, scholars, food professionals, and students; recipes connect and speak to so many aspects of human life.

Want to learn more? (Of course you do, the book is fabulous.) You can order a copy of the book here. You can also look through our archives — the RP has featured Reading Practice in our New Work Forum, with contributions from Grace Murray writing about “Print and Continuity,” alongside Nikianna Dinenis reflecting on “The Uses and Abuses of Medieval Manuscripts,” and Caleb Prus discussing “Medical Manuscripts.” And Melissa herself wrote a response to these pieces, reflecting on her own process of writing the book in “Continuing the Conversation.” You can also get a glimpse of Melissa’s early thinking about the book in her very first post for the RP from 2019 — “But Does it Work? Playful Magic and the Question of a Recipe’s Purpose” — which shares a lighthearted look at recipes from medieval manuscripts that seem to promise silly, funny, or outright magical things…all while offering readers a real sense of the medieval mindset and a reflection on our own modern assumption that a good recipe is one that “works” the way we expect it to.

Congratulations to Melissa and to Reading Practice! Well deserved recognition for a shining piece of scholarship.

Theriac: an Imperial Recipe

By Barbara Di Gennaro Splendore

Over two millennia, the theriac recipe was the most debated in Galenic pharmacy throughout Europe and the Middle East. From the seventeenth century onward, missionaries, soldiers, and merchants carried it around the world. New versions of theriac were created in China, and across the Russian, Portuguese and Dutch empires, often incorporating local ingredients. The two excerpts below, from Barbara Di Gennaro Splendore’s  The State Drug: Theriac, Pharmacy, And Politics in Early Modern Italy (Harvard University Press, 2025), detail how theriac was made and argue that it was an imperial recipe from the very beginning.

Repeated by hundreds of authors over the centuries, the origin story of theriac and mithridate told by De theriaca ad Pisonem explicitly outlined the relationship between the state and the two remedies. The state was both the creator and the recipient of such outstanding drugs: a king (Mithradates) created the antidote; a general (Pompey) secured powerful medicines; and an imperial physician (Andromachus) modified the king’s antidote for his emperor (Nero). Furthermore, De theriaca ad Pisonem associated the remedy with other emperors, not just Nero: “We know that the divine Marcus Aurelius . . . used the drug greedily and as if it were a food.”[1] Emperors used, commissioned, and cherished theriac.

Theriac’s imperial birth derived from its very materiality. Rare ingredients from across the known world entered its composition. Only a colossal empire at the peak of its power could plausibly expect to produce such a compound. A proper theriac demanded Cyperus longus from Africa, Costus odoratusfrom India, and licorice juice from Cappadocia, Turkey, to name just three ingredients. Such an antidote was the outcome of a productive, highly organized society with a vast and well-developed commercial network, the ability to set up complex supply chains, and wealthy patients willing to pay for expensive medicines.

Colloquially, preparing theriac was the epitome of complex tasks. In a letter to his dear friend Farinelli (Carlo Broschi, 1705–1782), the famous castrato singer, the poet Pietro Metastasio (1698–1782) ironically lamented how in Vienna it was easier to have the best cooks make a pot of theriac than a homey dish of macaroni with zucchini.[2] In the early modern period, making theriac was a significant undertaking, not limited to apothecaries. In 1687 the Bolognese Collegio Medico informed the Senate that “this year, since making theriac and other noble compositions requires it, the College will be occupied with great diligence throughout spring and summer.”[3]

Ceramic pharmacy jars. Wellcome Collection.  (CC BY 4.0)

Making theriac demanded time and refined artisanal skills. Recent scholars have described the making of theriac as nothing less than “an artistic endeavor,” recognizing the skills it demanded.[4] Early modern apothecaries approached production with reverence: it represented both the pinnacle of their various preparations and the culmination of their careers. As the editor of the Roman Antidotario declared, “After having discussed it, I was able to observe the composition of this antidote [theriac] many times. Yet, I only dared to attempt such composition at the age of forty-five, and not before.”[5]Making theriac was a challenging process for many reasons: the sheer number of ingredients and their cost; the difficulties in sourcing several components; the uncertainty of identifying which plants to use; the uncommon skills and knowledge required to carry out the long and intricate compounding procedure; and the need for money, preparation, and a wide network of social connections.

As we have seen, the successful production of “true theriac” was an apothecary’s key to becoming regarded as a “learned apothecary.” Recipes such as that of theriac needed interpretation by skilled artisans. Learned apothecaries became aware of and vocal about their artisanal competence, stressing the “universal rules of the apothecary art” over Galen’s instructions, as Georg Melich described: “Practice [l’esperimento] has found a better way . . . than what the Ancients wrote, and good apothecaries rely more on the general rules of the art and on experience than on the authority of Galen, although he is a great authority.”[6]Melich’s sense of pride and  independence in his work, knowledge, and experience was shared by many learned apothecaries.[7] Most Theriaca magna recipes used in Italy in the early modern period listed sixty-three ingredients, not sixty-four as is often stated.[8] More precisely, the recipe comprised sixty-one ingredients plus wine and honey, which served as the medium for blending. The ingredients were divided into six classes, and each had a usually fixed number of components: one, four, eight, seventeen, twenty-four, and seven. […] 

Three components of theriac—trocisci hedicroi, scyllitici, and viperini—were preparations that themselves involved several ingredients, so the actual number of ingredients totaled seventy-one (not counting repeats). However, the number of substances needed for the entire theriac manufacture was higher, because single components required other ingredients for production. For example, to make chalcitidis, apothecaries needed vitriol; to cook squill for trocisci scyllitici, they needed wheat flour; yet vitriol and wheat flour were not listed as ingredients of theriac.[9]

The ingredients of each class were added to the compound in fixed proportions: 48, 24, 12, 6, 4, and 2 drachms. Pharmacopoeias used the same scale for weights, but systems of weight differed greatly. Aldrovandi acknowledged the difficulties imposed by this variation: “As for the measures, we grope around and go blind in our understanding of Ancients’ medicinal doses.”[10] Apothecaries often compounded more than one batch at a time, multiplying each quantity to maintain the right pro-portions. Some pharmacopoeias, such as De Sgobbis’s Universale theatro farmaceutico, provided specific instructions for producing theriac in bulk.[11]

The ingredients were as diverse as they were numerous. […]

This enormous variety required apothecaries to have good planning, timing, and organization—indeed, it sometimes took over a year to assemble the ingredients in their entirety. Because theriac had to ferment, it was good practice to make it early, before the summer, in May or June, so the fermentation could benefit from the season’s natural heat.[12] This meant many herbs and roots had to be harvested a year before, during the previous summer, and then stored.[13] But then there was the risk of supplies becoming rotten, dusty, or moldy—especially trocisci viperini, which was notoriously susceptible to mold. For this reason, many apothecaries preferred to make theriac at a later date, in August. In 1577 the Collegio Medico in Florence decreed theriac-making season to run from June 1 and August 31.[14] Apothecaries wishing to make theriac had to navigate recipes rife with contradictions, follow steps that were often ambiguous or down-right obscure, then justify their decisions.

Excerpted from THE STATE DRUG: THERIAC, PHARMACY, AND POLITICS IN EARLY MODERN ITALY by Barbara Di Gennaro Splendore, published by Harvard University Press.  Copyright © 2025 by the President and Fellows of Harvard College. Used by permission. All rights reserved.


[1] Robert Leigh, On Theriac to Piso, Attributed to Galen: A Critical Edition with Translation and Commentary (Leiden: Brill, 2015), 89.

[2] Pietro Metastasio, Lettere (Nice: Soc. Tipografica, 1787), vol. 5, 203.

[3] Archivio di Stato di Bologna (ASB), Assunteria di Studio 87, March 17, 1687.

[4] Nils-Otto Ahnfelt, Hjalmar Fors, and Karin Wendin, “Making and Taking Theriac: An Experimental and Sensory Approach to the History of Medicine,” British Journal for the History of Science Themes 7 (2022): 39–62, 43; Martin Kluge, “Das Theriak-Experiment,” in Materialwissen: Experimentelle Geschichte im Pharmaziemuseum, edited by Barbara Orland and Byron Cole Dowse (Zurich: Intercom, 2022).

[5] Collegio dei medici di Roma, Antidotario romano latino e volgare (Rome: Ruffinelli, 1624), 37.

[6] Georg Melich, Auertimenti nelle compositioni de’ medicamenti per vso della spetiaria (Venice: Giovanni e Andrea Zenaro, 1575), 42–43.

[7] On artisanal awareness, see Pamela H. Smith, The Body of the Artisan: Art and Experience in the Scientific Revolution (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004).

[8] See also Edoardo Rosa, “La panacea dell’antichità approda all’Archiginnasio,” in L’Archiginnasio: Il Palazzo, l’Università, la BibliotecaGiovanni Roversi ed. (Bologna: Credito Romagnolo, 1987), vol. 1, 334.

[9] Archivio di Stato di Napoli, Badia di Mileto 268, 33r; vitriol was part of an apothecary’s list of missing ingredients for making theriac.

[10] Biblioteca Universitaria di Bologna, Ald. Ms. 21, IV, 127v.

[11] Antonio De Sgobbis, Nuovo et universale theatro farmaceutico (Venice: Stamperia Iuliana, 1667), folding sheet at 424–425.

[12] Bartolomeo Maranta, Della theriaca et del mithridato libri due (Venice: Marcantonio Olmo, 1572), 50–52.

[13] Adriano Riccardi, Istruttione intorno al comporre la Theriaca d’Andromaco (Bologna: Vittorio Benacci, 1606), 4.

[14] Sharon T. Strocchia, Forgotten Healers: Women and the Pursuit of Health in Late Renaissance Italy (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2019), 260 n62.

 

‘All Manner of Fluxes:’ Plants and the Natalist Conquest of British Colonial America

Virginian Rock Polypody Fern. Image Credit: Wikimedia Commons.
Virginian Rock Polypody Fern. Image Credit: Wikimedia Commons.

By Fiona O’Brien

The flows and fluxes of bodily fluids that determined an early modern woman’s embodied existence would need to be, if not controlled, understood by her. If we focus on the fluidity of the early modern reproductive body, we can begin to better understand the materia medica used to treat it; once we do so, we can begin to compare worldviews more aptly, and examine, for example, the continuities and breaks between the reproductive pharmacopeias used by Indigenous Americans and English colonists. If we accept population expansion and settlement to be a key aspect of the building of the early paternalistic American state, these materia medica used for regulating the female body become pertinent to histories of colonization, law, and politics. How was the natalist conquest of early Northeast America fueled by this piecemeal process of filling a pharmacopeia full of the familiar, and stuffing the unfamiliar into known molds? How do we investigate this process as historians, when both parties of women concerned, Indigenous and English, left few records behind?

European Polypody Fern. Image Credit: Wikimedia Commons.
European Polypody Fern. Image Credit: Wikimedia Commons.


English colonists uniformly observed that Indigenous women gave birth in total isolation, did not feel pain while doing so, and recovered almost immediately: in 1634, William Wood tells English readers that for Indigenous women in New England, “a bigge bellie hinders no business, nor a childebirthe takes much time.” [1] Clearly, there was a lack of interest in recording the birthing practices of Indigenous women. But maybe we begin to get answers if we flow between sources, thus crafting an amorphous middle-ground. Early modern recipes encourage us to engage with sources collectively; those sources themselves cannot be understood in isolation, but require that the historian temporarily inhabit the phenomenal, the experiential, the habitual body.

According to Western medicine, peak health was believed to be reached when humoral balance was suited to the condition, climate, and individual. It was therefore believed that when early modern Europeans left their homelands, they risked moral, customary, and physiological degeneration; a hot climatic change would cool the man’s body and heat the woman’s.[2] The overheated female body could overmenstruate, expel fetuses, and fail to purify blood into seed or breastmilk.[3] This risked the colonial project: women were required to establish a successful colony, but their reproductivity was in danger within this humoral cosmology.

In order for a medication to be successful, it must purge: the healing patient should be vomiting, bleeding, urinating, sweating, or crying. This meant the body’s proper flow was restored, needless stoppages and loose fluids ushered back into their rightful places.[4] The humoral chilly moistness of the female body rendered the woman passive and kind, but also meant that her body was dangerously subject to disease due to its porosity and permeability.[5] Much of the female body’s organization and survival was linked to her heat, blood flow, womb, and seed, and thus to her menstrual capabilities.

But how did the English understand new ingredients that may have been visually identical to their own cures contained within their recipe books back in the metropole? ‘Flow’ provides a useful starting point. As Laurence Totelin puts it, “a woman’s life is marked by fluxes, healthy or otherwise,”[6] so historians must broadly consider the use of abortifacients or emmenagogues– agents which increase blood circulation to the pelvic area and stimulate menstruation[7]–without being clouded by our modern understanding of abortion.

Perhaps ‘flow’ was on the minds of colonists when they spotted the ubiquitous and familiar fern crawling up New England stumps and rocks. Maidenhair and polypody ferns were repeated throughout their recipe books’ entries, specifically when related to flow and heat: in 1719, Mary Kettilby recommended a mixture of herbs sweetened with “Syrup of Maiden-hair” as “a cooling drink in a Fever or Pleurisie.” Midwife Jane Sharp recommended that the polypody ferns be “bruised and boyl[ed]” then drunk, as a remedy “Against the Piles or Hemorrhoids” in postpartum women, and in 1674, Susanna Packe recommended “six ounces Polipedy” to “cleans the body of sharp humor or Mullinchollly.”

The Haudenosaunee use(d) lamb’s quarters to prevent milk flow when the child is stillborn,[8] and black snakeroot to promote it when the child is healthy.[9] Kettilby recommended “Virginia snake-weed” for use “in any malignant distemper,”[10] and in 1798 Benjamin Barton called it “a valuable medicine…sometimes called Squaw-root…from its having been used as a medicine by our Indians.”[11] “Squaw-root” points to its omnipresence in Indigenous midwifery pharmacopeia for its promotion of slow labor.[12]  Jane Staveley’s 1693 recipe book recommended “A very strengthening Medicine,” including “1 Oz. of Snake root put into a Bottle of Port Wine,” while a century later and an ocean apart, Martha Ballard recalled the inclusion of Virginia snakeroot in a water used to deliver a woman of a dead child.[13]

We can turn back to the fern here, too: maidenhair is recommended by the Haudenosaunee for excessive menstruation and abortal pains. Biologist Lenore May notes that maidenhair fronds were distilled into syrups to mitigate “female disorders” by Indigenous Americans.[14] The American Adiantum pedatum variety of maidenhair was interpreted by colonists as interchangeable with the English variety, Adiantum capillus-veneris. “Maiden Hair, or Cappellus veneris verus” was recommended by John Josselyn in 1672  “For all manner of Fluxes.” In 1653, Nicholas Culpeper remarked that fern can “purge the belly” and “cause abortion.”[15] Sharp, on cures for womb ulcers that have degenerated into fistulas, recommended a “vulnerary decoction”–used to aid in the healing of wounds– of, among other ingredients, the “roots of male fern.”

Purgation and reinstatement of proper flow are central, so the removal of a deceased fetus was also relevant. Postpartum hemorrhage, or “bloody flux” after delivery, was certainly a death sentence, to say nothing of resulting childbed fevers and infections. The Seneca practiced some form of herbal family limitation for centuries preconquest,[16] but the conflation of abortifacients used for non-abortive reproductive health purposes has led to confusion: overall, both Indigenous and English women placed emphasis on bodily flow. This emphasis in Indigenous communities is compounded by their use of sweat lodges and herb-smoking,[17] mirrored in European reproductive healthcare back to the medieval period.[18]

When we privilege “flow” as a search term, we begin to understand more about the history of colonization, and health writ large. Flow is inherent in the medium of the recipe book, too: as Wendy Wall argues, recipes represent a transitional space, the movement from “raw to cooked…nature to art, from shapeless materia to cultural product.”[19] The epistemology of the recipe book is then one predicated on flow, just as was the success of an early modern reproductive remedy.
*****
Fiona O’Brien is a second year PhD student in history at Fordham University, where she is a Loyola Distinguished Fellow and works as a writing tutor to undergraduate students. She recently completed a funded Scholarly Programs Fellowship at the Folger Shakespeare Library, during which she presented work on early modern abortion. She presented papers focused on early modern reproductive history at several conferences over the course of her first year of the PhD, including one which analyzed the medical character of late medieval fertility and birth rituals and compared them to early modern remedy. She completed her BA and MA at the University of Toronto. During this latter degree, she was supervised by Dr. Nicholas Terpstra in the completion of her thesis, entitled “Our Groans to God: The Synching of Sensory and Emotional Experience During the Early Modern Birth Process,” and worked as a graduate promotions fellow at the Centre for Renaissance and Reformation Studies.

Works Cited
Primary Sources

Barton, Benjamin Smith. Collections for an Essay towards a Materia Medica of the United States. Philadelphia, 1798. The National Library of Medicine. http://resource.nlm.nih.gov/2542050R

Culpeper, Nicholas. Culpeper’s Complete Herbal: Over 400 Herbs and their Uses. Edited by Diana Vowles. Arcturus Publishing Limited, 2009.

Herrick, James W., and Dean R. Snow. Iroquois Medical Botany. 1st ed. The Iroquois and Their Neighbors. Syracuse University Press, 1995.

Kettilby, Mary. A collection of above three hundred recipes in cookery, physick and surgery: for the use of all good wives, tender mothers, and careful nurses. The second edition. London: Printed for Mary Kettilby, 1719. National Library of Medicine. http://resource.nlm.nih.gov

Packe, Susanna. Cookbook of Susanna Packe [manuscript].1 674. Folger Shakespeare Library, V.a.215. https://folgerpedia.folger.edu/Recipe_books_at_the_Folger_Shakespeare_Library

Plant Atlas 2020. Botanical Society of Britain & Ireland and UK Centre for Ecology & Hydrology. Biological Records Center, UK. https://plantatlas2020.org/atlas/.

PLANTS Database. Natural Resources Conservation Service. U.S. Department of Agriculture, https://plants.usda.gov/

Sharp, Jane. The midwives book, or, The whole art of midwifry discovered.: Directing childbearing women how to behave themselves in their conception, breeding, bearing, and nursing of children in six books. London: Printed for Simon Miller, at the Star at the West End of St. Pauls, 1671. Ann Arbor: Text Creation Partnership and digital collection Early English Books Online 2. https://name.umdl.umich.edu/A93039.0001.001. University of Michigan Library Digital Collections.

Wood, William. New England’s Prospect. London, 1634. In O’Brien, Jean M. “‘Divorced’ from the Land: Resistance and Survival of Indian Women in Eighteenth-Century New England”  In Native Women’s History in Eastern North America before 1900: A Guide to Research and Writing. Eds. Kugel, Rebecca and Lucy Eldersveld Murphy, eds., University of Nebraska Press, 2007.

Secondary Sources

Chaplin, Joyce E. Subject Matter: Technology, the Body, and Science on the Anglo-American Frontier, 1500 – 1676. Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2001.

Cooper, Alix. Inventing the Indigenous: Local Knowledge and Natural History in Early Modern Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007.

Kugel, Rebecca and Lucy Eldersveld Murphy, eds. Native Women’s History in Eastern North America before 1900: A Guide to Research and Writing. University of Nebraska Press, 2007.

Kumar, Dinesh, Ajay Kumar, and Om Prakash. “Potential Antifertility Agents from Plants: A Comprehensive Review.” Journal of Ethnopharmacology 140, no. 1 (2012): 1–32. https://doi.org/10.1016/j.jep.2011.12.039.

May, Lenore Wile. “The Economic Uses and Associated Folklore of Ferns and Fern Allies.” Botanical Review 44, No. 4 (Oct.-Dec., 1978), pp. 491-528. Springer, New York Botanical Garden Press.

Mendelson, Sara Heller, and Patricia Crawford. Women in Early Modern England, 1550-1720. Clarendon Press, 1998.

Rublack, Ulinka, and Pamela Selwyn. “Fluxes: The Early Modern Body and the Emotions.” History Workshop Journal, no. 53 (2002): 1–16. http://www.jstor.org/stable/4289771.

Shoemaker, Nancy.  “The Rise or Fall of Iroquois Women.”  In Native Women’s History in Eastern North America before 1900: A Guide to Research and Writing. Eds. Kugel, Rebecca and Lucy Eldersveld Murphy, eds., University of Nebraska Press, 2007.

Tannenbaum, Rebecca J. Health and Wellness in Colonial America. Health and Wellness in Daily Life. Greenwood, 2012.

Totelin, Laurence M.V. “A Woman in Flux: Fluidity in Hippocratic Gynaecology.”  Holism in Ancient Medicine and Its Reception, ed. Thumiger, Chiara. Studies in Ancient Medicine: 53. Brill, 2021.

Ulrich, Laurel Thatcher, and Martha Ballard. A Midwife’s Tale: The Life of Martha Ballard, Based on Her Diary, 1785-1812. 1st Vintage Books ed. Vintage Books, 1991.

Volo, James and Dorothy. Family Life in Native America. Connecticut: Greenwood Press, 2007.

Wall, Wendy. Recipes for Thought: Knowledge and Taste in the Early Modern English Kitchen. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2016.

Weisser, Olivia. Ill Composed: Sickness, Gender, and Belief in Early Modern England. Yale University Press, 2015.

[1] William Wood, New England’s Prospect (London, 1634), in Jean M. O’Brien, “‘Divorced’ from the Land: Resistance and Survival of Indian Women in Eighteenth-Century New England,” Rebecca Kugel and Lucy Eldersveld Murphy, eds., Native Women’s History in Eastern North America before 1900: A Guide to Research and Writing, (University of Nebraska Press, 2007): 353. Colonizing men made similar observations toward Black women in the Caribbean; for more information, see Jennifer L. Morgan, “‘Some could suckle over their shoulder’: male travelers, female bodies, and the gendering of racial ideology, 1500-1770,” The William and Mary Quarterly 54, no. 1 (1997): 167-192.

[2] Alix Cooper, Inventing the Indigenous: Local Knowledge and Natural History in Early Modern Europe, (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2007),  44.

[3] Joyce E. Chaplin, Subject Matter: Technology, the Body, and Science on the Anglo-American Frontier, 1500 – 1676, (Cambridge: Harvard University Press, 2001), 133-134.

[4] Ulinka Rublack and Pamela Selwyn, “Fluxes: The Early Modern Body and the Emotions,” History Workshop Journal, no. 53 (2002), 1-2.

[5] Sara Heller Mendelson and Patricia Crawford, Women in Early Modern England, 1550-1720, (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1998), 20.

[6] Laurence M.V. Totelin, “A Woman in Flux: Fluidity in Hippocratic Gynaecology,” Holism in Ancient Medicine and Its Reception, ed. Chiara Thumiger, Studies in Ancient Medicine: 53. Brill (2021) 220.

[7] Dinesh Kumar, Ajay Kumar, and Om Prakash, “Potential Antifertility Agents from Plants: A Comprehensive Review,” Journal of Ethnopharmacology 140, no. 1 (2012): 1–32.

[8]James W. Herrick and Dean R. Snow, Iroquois Medical Botany, 1st ed, The Iroquois and Their Neighbors, Syracuse University Press, 1995, 142

[9]  James W. Herric, Iroquois Medical Botany, 1st ed, (Syracuse University Press, 1995), 119.

[10] Kettilby. A collection, 133-134

[11] Benjamin Smith Barton, Collections for an Essay towards a Materia Medica of the United States, (Philadelphia, 1798, The National Library of Medicine), 9.

[12] Rebecca J. Tannenbaum, Health and Wellness in Colonial America, Health and Wellness in Daily Life, (Greenwood, 2012),  60-61.

[13] Laurel Thatcher Ulrich and Martha Ballard, A Midwife’s Tale: The Life of Martha Ballard, Based on Her Diary, 1785-1812, 1st Vintage Books ed. Vintage Books, 1991, 407.

[14] Lenore Wile May, “The Economic Uses and Associated Folklore of Ferns and Fern Allies,” Botanical Review 44, No. 4 (Oct.-Dec., 1978), Springer, New York Botanical Garden Press, 508.

[15]  Nicholas Culpeper, Culpeper’s Complete Herbal: Over 400 Herbs and their Uses, edited by Diana Vowles, (Arcturus Publishing Limited, 2009), 158.

[16] Nancy Shoemaker, “The Rise or Fall of Iroquois Women,” in Native Women’s History in Eastern North America before 1900, eds. Rebecca Kugel and Lucy Eldersveld Murphy, (University of Nebraska Press, 2007), 318.

[17] James and Dorothy Volo, Family Life in Native America, (Connecticut: Greenwood Press, 2007), 95.

[18] Monica Helen Green, The Trotula: A Medieval Compendium of Women’s Medicine.

[19] Wendy Wall, Recipes for Thought: Knowledge and Taste in the Early Modern English Kitchen, (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2016),  5.

The King of Fruits: Pineapples and Class Culture in British Cookbooks from 1661-1850

By Elizabeth Schmidt

In 1789, John Taylor sent a pineapple to his mother Jean in Scotland; the pineapple was from his cousin’s plantation in Jamaica, where John lived and worked as a merchant. Not having seen the fruit before, Jean turned to friends for guidance. On November 20, she wrote to John: “I have not looked in to the Pine Apple yet as they tell me its only to show out a Grand Table & not to be eat.” Four months later she added, “I do not intend to open the Pin Apple till you Come.” Laying on maternal guilt to convince him to return for a visit, she promised John a party in his honor where the pineapple could sit center stage.

Native to South America, the pineapple was cultivated by Indigenous peoples across the Caribbean. The plant was called hoyriri or anona by the Tupi, and iaiama by the Taino. Columbus and his crew were probably the first Europeans to taste the fruit in Guadalupe, and they brought back a case of pineapples for King Ferdinand and Queen Isabella. Only one survived unspoiled enough to eat, but King Ferdinand declared it his favorite fruit after just one taste. In England, the first pineapple was presented to the king somewhere around 1661, a “queen-pine” from Barbados.[1] The fruit is quite beautiful: the hexagonal eyes around the body grow in a spiral sequence that are often cited as a three-dimensional representation of the Golden Ratio, and the leaves on the top of the pineapple are commonly referred to as its “crown.”[2]

In a painting by Hendrick Danckerts, ca. 1675-1680, King Charles II is presented with a pineapple. Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.
In a painting by Hendrick Danckerts, ca. 1675-1680, King Charles II is presented with a pineapple. Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

Why did Jean’s friends tell her it was not to be eaten, and only “to show”? Even today, producers harvest and ship pineapples before they are perfectly ripe to ensure that the fruit reaches its destination while still attractive, since ripe fruit bruises easily and rots quickly. Unfortunately, once a pineapple is harvested, it does not continue to ripen.[3]

In eighteenth-century Scotland, Jean’s pineapple would have looked attractive but tasted terrible. Cookbook authors capitalized on this, offering instructions to preserve pineapples whole for repeated display. First seen in Elizabeth Raffald’s The Experienced English House-keeper (1769), preservation recipes were offered for readers who desired pineapple centerpieces. The fruit was brined for five days in saltwater, then boiled in a saucepan with the brining liquid. Then, the sugaring process began: the cook would submerge the pineapple in a thin sugar syrup for a week, remove it, re-boil the syrup, and then submerge again. This process was replicated over eight to ten weeks, with the syrup re-boiled two or three times in that period to prevent molding. Francis Collingwood refined these instructions in The Universal Cook and Country Housekeeper (1792): the pineapple was left in the jar for six to eight weeks, re-boiling the syrup every week. The final instruction was to remove the pineapple from the jar and cover it with a thick, cool, sugar syrup that had been boiled with slices of ginger, a natural preservative. According to Raffald and Collingwood, a pineapple preserved in this way would “keep several years, if tied down close with a bladder.” This preservation process had been used on fruit in Europe since the fourteenth century. Preservation played a key role in both cuisine and medicine through the eighteenth century, especially as diet remained a key element in managing health.[4]. In fact, Collingwood’s 1792 cookbook had similar instructions to preserve cherries with their stalks and leaves to “make a very pretty appearance in a desert [sic] by candle-light.”

By the mid-eighteenth century, aristocrats could buy pineapples grown in “pine-houses” rather than imported from the Caribbean. Dutch horticulturist Agnes Block experimented with propagating new pineapple plants from the crown of the fruit and successfully produced the first European-grown specimen in 1687. Later, horticulturists realized they could import whole plants from the West Indies: the plant is drought-resistant and capable of storing water in its leaves to keep it alive.[5] Soon elite estates across Britain built their own pine-houses. Cookbooks aimed at the upper classes introduced recipes for pineapple desserts as early as 1732, when Richard Bradley included a pineapple tart in The Country Housewife and Lady’s Director. In 1770, Borella’s The Court and Country Confectioner, a book clearly aimed at either royal or aristocratic houses, included two recipes for “Anana, or Pine Apple Cream Ices.” By the mid-nineteenth century, pineapple recipes were much more numerous yet still aimed at the upper classes. Charles Francatelli’s The Modern Cook (1846) had ten recipes with pineapple, including fritters, souffles, and brioche. Yet Francatelli was the chef to Queen Victoria, and his cookbook did not purport to be written for the average English housewife.

The practice of displaying pineapples continued long after recipes were developed for baking them into sweet treats. In P. Masters’s Young Cook’s Assistant, and Housekeeper’s Guide (1841), the recipe for “Pine Apple Cream” tells readers that “the pine must be quite ripe – one too ripe for the table will do for this purpose.” Cookbooks authored for the “middling classes” kept including the preservation recipe first written by Raffald, as pineapples remained quite expensive. A 1787 memoir of a London actress tells the story of finding pineapples for sale for one pound per fruit. The author remarks of the actress that “for the first time since I knew her, she declined to gratify her inclination at such an expence.”[6] At the coronation of King George IV in 1821, hundreds of hothouse pineapples were purchased for the banquet.[7] Some were certainly eaten, but others were displayed on tables as exotic centerpieces, as showcased in a painting of the event by Denis Dighton (1821)

The Third and Last Challenge by the Champion during King George IV's Coronation Banquet in Westminster Hall (1821). At intervals along the table, you can see the yellow pineapples with their green crowns. Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.
The Third and Last Challenge by the Champion during King George IV’s Coronation Banquet in Westminster Hall (1821). At intervals along the table, you can see the yellow pineapples with their green crowns. Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.

So, while John probably thought he was sending his mother an exotic, expensive, and exciting gift, he actually sent her a project: a fruit that required significant labor to transform it into a centerpiece she could showcase.
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Elizabeth M. Schmidt is a recent PhD from the University of California Santa Barbara specializing in British Atlantic foodways of the eighteenth century. From roast beef to turtle soup, she researches the intersection of eating and identity during the Age of Revolutions and imperial turmoil. Using microhistories of figures like sailors, military generals, merchants, and housewives, she explores the impact of foodways on discussions of identity, belonging, inclusion, and exclusions. Elizabeth also enjoys cooking historical manuscript recipes, translating eighteenth and nineteenth century instructions, measurements, and tools into their modern equivalent to learn what she can about culinary knowledge and labor.

[1] Kaori O’Connor, Pineapple: A Global History (London: Reaktion Books, 2013), 17-20.

[2] Judithlynne Carson, “Fibonacci Numbers and Pineapple Phyllotaxy,” The Two-Year College Mathematics Journal 9:3 (June 1978): 132.

[3] Fran Beauman, The Pineapple: King of Fruits (London: Chatto & Windus, 2005), 6.

[4] Anne Stobart, Household Medicine in Seventeenth-Century England (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2016).

[5] Bauman, The Pineapple, 31; O’Connor, Pineapple, 24.

[6] Elizabeth Steele, The Memoirs of Mrs. Sophia Baddeley. Late of Drury-Lane Theatre (Dublin, 1787), 90.

[7] Sir Roy Strong, Coronation: A History of Kingship and the British Monarchy (London: Harper Collins, 2005), 33; James Jennings, Two Thousand Five Hundred Practical Recipes in Family Cookery (London, 1837), lv.