Little Women and a Short Tale of Blancmange

 
 

I saw the word blancmange for the first time when I read Little Women, Louisa May Alcott’s novel about Meg, Jo, Beth, and Amy March.

In the story, Jo went to visit her neighbor Laurie, who was ill. Since her own cooking left a lot to be desired, she brought him blancmange made by Meg. Laurie declared it “too pretty to eat,” surrounded as it was by “a garland of green leaves and the scarlet flowers of Amy’s pet geranium.” But Jo insisted, saying it was so soft it would “slip down without hurting your sore throat.”

I had no idea what blancmange meant, so I looked it up in a dictionary. It was pudding. Pudding. That was a letdown. I promptly forgot about blancmange.

Years later, when I began studying food history, I learned that there was much more to blancmange.

For one thing, the word is sometimes used metaphorically. Trembling like blancmange has much the same meaning as quaking like Jell-O^TM. A speech like blancmange is bland and possibly cloying.  But it was the dish, not the imagery, that interested me.

I learned that blancmange dates back to at least the 14th century, when Chaucer mentioned it. As its name suggests, it is a white dish. (Blanc is French for white and manger means to eat.) Originally it was made with finely minced chicken or capon flesh combined with cream, milk, or almond milk along with rice and sugar. Dried haddock or other fish or veal sometimes took the place of the chicken. Blancmange was often served decorated with colored seeds or blanched almonds or sprinkled with sugar.

In the 17th century, the French began making it with calves’ feet or hartshorn (the antler of a hart or stag), so it would jell and could be molded. Subsequently, cooks used isinglass (an early form of gelatin), seaweed or sea moss, gelatin, arrowroot or cornstarch. 

Blancmange was making its way to the dessert course.

Hannah Glasse wrote in the 18th century that it “makes a fine side dish. You may eat it with cream, wine, or what you please. Lay round it baked pears. It both looks very pretty, and eats fine.”

By the 19th century, when Alcott wrote Little Women, the capons and haddocks were long gone.    Blancmange had become a sweet molded dessert and was often associated with the sickroom.

Louisa May Alcott’s mother, Abigail, had a recipe for blancmange in her collection. She’d clipped it from a newspaper but, unfortunately, the clipping did not include the paper’s name. The recipe doesn’t specify an amount of sugar. I used half a cup, which is not overly sweet. If you like a truly sweet dish, add more.

To pay homage to Little Women, serve it garlanded with greens and, if you have them, scarlet geraniums.

Arrowroot blancmange

Take two tablespoonfuls of arrowroot to one quart of milk and a pinch of salt. Scald the milk, sweeten it and then stir in the arrowroot, which must first be wet with some milk. Let it boil once. Orange water, rose water, or lemon peel can be used to flavor it. Pour it into molds to cool. – From Abigail Alcott’s “Receipts and simple remedies,” 1854.

Comments

[Sophie]

I made blancmange again, this time making some vanilla and cherry and some lemon. I also used less cornstarch. Hopefully that makes them turn out better.

[Jeri Quinzio]

Hi Sophie,

That's wonderful. Little Women was my favorite book when I was a girl, and it's lovely to think we can enjoy the same treats the March family ate. I'm glad your daughter liked it as well.
All best, Jeri

[Sophie]

I tried this recipe, but I used 1 cup milk, a pinch of salt, 1 1/2 tablespoons cornstarch (a lot, I know, but I tried it with 1 1/2 teaspoons and it didn't thicken), a little orange and lemon extract, and 2 tablespoons powdered sugar.
It came out nice, thick, a little sugary, bland--but it was blancmange!
I'm not really the best cook, and so my family was pleasantly surprised. However, only one of my daughters liked it as much as I did.
Great simple blancmange recipe!