Lindsey Davis Newsletter

Content (Issue 8)

WELCOME

Io Saturnalia – eat, drink and be merry!

We’ve run out of frescoes

Rome cooking with ma

Recipe: Saturnalia must cake

A word from abroad

ROME COOKING WITH MA

Presenter:
Io! With Saturnalia upon us, let’s consider seasonal eating. Junilla Tacita, you’re a mother of seven who still cooks for her children and grandchildren. Can you talk us through your version of Cato’s recipe for must cake from his well-known book on Agriculture?

Junilla Tacita:
Cato’s must cake? It’s cheap scoff for slaves. What would he know - I can just see a senator up to his elbows in dough! “Start with a modius of flour?” You could buy two tunics for that – more off the nearly new stall, if you overlook a few moth-holes.
Stand aside. Now don’t fluster me… Grind your spices first. Some cumin seeds. I’m also using these anise stars, which are supposed to have a good flavour; my daughter-in-law bought them for me, so I have to use them up. They don’t grind easily. Some trouble-maker is bound to ask “what are these hard bits with the funny taste?”

Oh, before you start, put your must in the sun or a warm place. G|et it frothing.

Right. Take half a bowl of flour –I can’t say what weight; it depends how big your bowl is. “What kind of flour?” they’re signalling. Juno, whatever kind is in your flour crock. I don’t use the white stuff; I’m not made of money. Don’t worry if you’ve kept it too long and the black bugs are running about in it; they die in the oven. No-one ever notices.

Throw in your flavourings – Ganna! Spices, please. (I don’t want to be awkward, but this girl Ganna is useless. She’s supposed to help me in the house. My son landed her on me. Say no more…) My son Marcus won’t eat cumin, so we have to pretend to leave it out… Sift it in. And the anis.

Now your fat. Well, a lump of lard. Enough to rub in nicely. If you have a bit of cheese lying around that needs eating up, cut off the mould and grate that in too. I wouldn’t buy it specially myself, not for a bunch of lazy farmyard slaves. Oh all right, they need some nourishment, I suppose.

Rub it in with light fingertips.

This is where skill comes in.

Some people add the must to the flour before their fat, but I don’t hold with that. You’re making a dough; the warm liquor comes now. Dig a well, pour it in. It always looks as if you’ve used too much. Just like bread making. Keep going, give it a stir. It looks lumpy, but it should come together. As soon as your liquid is taken in, push up your sleeves and get your hands in there. Then just keep kneading until the ball feels right. Your hands can tell if your must is working well.

You need to fashion your cakes. I always go to the bakery first and make the balls there. Cassius moans, but take my advice, if you do it at home, the cakes shoot all over the place while you’re on your way there. Just put your plate and your cover in your basket, with the dough in a damp cloth. With my legs, by the time I’ve got myself down the stairs and along the street to the bakery, the dough has rested nicely. So I shove Cassius aside, and make my cakes right by his oven door.

Take your plate and position your bay-leaves on it. Use fresh, don’t mess with those nasty dried things. I don’t have my own baytree – no room for one. My neighbour Aristagoras is very good; he pops along the street to find some house where they have ornamental trees by their front door and pulls a few off for me. Tear your dough apart. This is the calming part of the job – except for Cassius. He’s always ranting about me being in his way… Take enough to mould easily in your hand, just roll it between your palms, then flatten it and place it on the leaves.

No, I don’t own one of those special covers, though I believe some women speak well of them. I have dropped hints to my children, but what do they care? The covers have a lip to keep the hot coals on top and a hole to look and see if your cakes are done… I have to manage without. I’m used to it. I just use any old upturned pot. Put it on the plate, right over the cakes, then get them in the oven.
How long? Well, I usually go and see how the poor old lady on Tailor’s Lane is doing, and by the time I get back to Cassius, they are done. Nobody likes them but I make them anyway. Well, it’s traditional, isn’t it?

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	Content (Issue 8) WELCOME Io Saturnalia – eat, drink and be merry! We’ve run out of frescoes Rome cooking with ma Recipe: Saturnalia must cake A word from abroad

	ROME COOKING WITH MA Presenter: Io! With Saturnalia upon us, let’s consider seasonal eating. Junilla Tacita, you’re a mother of seven who still cooks for her children and grandchildren. Can you talk us through your version of Cato’s recipe for must cake from his well-known book on Agriculture? Junilla Tacita: Cato’s must cake? It’s cheap scoff for slaves. What would he know - I can just see a senator up to his elbows in dough! “Start with a modius of flour?” You could buy two tunics for that – more off the nearly new stall, if you overlook a few moth-holes. Stand aside. Now don’t fluster me… Grind your spices first. Some cumin seeds. I’m also using these anise stars, which are supposed to have a good flavour; my daughter-in-law bought them for me, so I have to use them up. They don’t grind easily. Some trouble-maker is bound to ask “what are these hard bits with the funny taste?” Oh, before you start, put your must in the sun or a warm place. G\|et it frothing. Right. Take half a bowl of flour –I can’t say what weight; it depends how big your bowl is. “What kind of flour?” they’re signalling. Juno, whatever kind is in your flour crock. I don’t use the white stuff; I’m not made of money. Don’t worry if you’ve kept it too long and the black bugs are running about in it; they die in the oven. No-one ever notices. Throw in your flavourings – Ganna! Spices, please. (I don’t want to be awkward, but this girl Ganna is useless. She’s supposed to help me in the house. My son landed her on me. Say no more…) My son Marcus won’t eat cumin, so we have to pretend to leave it out… Sift it in. And the anis. Now your fat. Well, a lump of lard. Enough to rub in nicely. If you have a bit of cheese lying around that needs eating up, cut off the mould and grate that in too. I wouldn’t buy it specially myself, not for a bunch of lazy farmyard slaves. Oh all right, they need some nourishment, I suppose. Rub it in with light fingertips. This is where skill comes in. Some people add the must to the flour before their fat, but I don’t hold with that. You’re making a dough; the warm liquor comes now. Dig a well, pour it in. It always looks as if you’ve used too much. Just like bread making. Keep going, give it a stir. It looks lumpy, but it should come together. As soon as your liquid is taken in, push up your sleeves and get your hands in there. Then just keep kneading until the ball feels right. Your hands can tell if your must is working well. You need to fashion your cakes. I always go to the bakery first and make the balls there. Cassius moans, but take my advice, if you do it at home, the cakes shoot all over the place while you’re on your way there. Just put your plate and your cover in your basket, with the dough in a damp cloth. With my legs, by the time I’ve got myself down the stairs and along the street to the bakery, the dough has rested nicely. So I shove Cassius aside, and make my cakes right by his oven door. Take your plate and position your bay-leaves on it. Use fresh, don’t mess with those nasty dried things. I don’t have my own baytree – no room for one. My neighbour Aristagoras is very good; he pops along the street to find some house where they have ornamental trees by their front door and pulls a few off for me. Tear your dough apart. This is the calming part of the job – except for Cassius. He’s always ranting about me being in his way… Take enough to mould easily in your hand, just roll it between your palms, then flatten it and place it on the leaves. No, I don’t own one of those special covers, though I believe some women speak well of them. I have dropped hints to my children, but what do they care? The covers have a lip to keep the hot coals on top and a hole to look and see if your cakes are done… I have to manage without. I’m used to it. I just use any old upturned pot. Put it on the plate, right over the cakes, then get them in the oven. How long? Well, I usually go and see how the poor old lady on Tailor’s Lane is doing, and by the time I get back to Cassius, they are done. Nobody likes them but I make them anyway. Well, it’s traditional, isn’t it?
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