A recipe for everybody

Hailey Heseltine
ECB Publishing, Inc.

Three years ago, I purchased a small book from a local estate sale. My first source of intrigue was its clear age, with its browned pages and torn cover; a quick peek at the first few pages revealed that my copy was published in 1872 in Michigan. The second source of intrigue was its title, Dr. Chase's Recipes or Information for Everybody. A book of recipes from the late 19th century was sure to hold some interesting surprises!
Dr. Chase's Recipes or Information for Everybody was written by Dr. Alvin Wood Chase. It was originally published in 1860 as a sort of household resource, with plentiful instruction on how to make everything from paint to pills to pies. Chase was born in 1817, and he spent much of his life as a traveling salesman before he decided to get a medical degree at nearly forty years old. He received it from the Eclectic Medical Institute in Cincinnati, Ohio. Though he was already familiar with the world of home remedies and recipes sales, his new degree gave his input merit, and he began writing books. Dr. Chase's Recipes or Information for Everybody was immensely popular in its time, supposedly having sold more than four million copies. It is versatile and creative, and its surprisingly casual tone makes it feel like getting advice from an old friend.
Though the modern reader may not have much use for a recipe for “eclectic liver pills,” you may be intrigued by some recipes found in other sections, such as ones in the baker's and cooking department. Among the pages dotted with stains of hundred-year-old batter was a recipe for Berwick sponge cake, which was named for its hometown of North Berwick, Maine. The town's thriving railroad made local restaurants popular destinations for visitors from all over the country, and the Berwick sponge cake was served in one of them. It became a national sensation of sorts—one that can even transcend centuries.
Upon reading and preparing to make the Berwick sponge cake, I was daunted by the recipe's lack of butter, salt and vanilla extract—all the things that make baked foods good by modern standards. However, I still gave the recipe a try, and I'm glad I did.

The instructions were somewhat cryptic, but I followed them as closely as possible. I prepared and set aside all the ingredients in their proper portions beforehand, then began by beating the eggs first, then adding the sugar and beating the mixture dutifully for the alloted five minutes, swapping hands every thirty seconds or so and wondering how strong Victorian housewives had to have been to do this regularly without the aid of an electric mixer. I added half the flour and cream-of-tartar mixture, combined it thoroughly, then added the baking soda, water and lemon, which produced a sudden sizzle in the bowl. I added the rest of the flour, combined it all, then put it in a cake pan I had greased with butter beforehand. Saying that the temperate of “moderate oven” is vague is an understatement, but I improvised about 350 degrees for around fifty minutes.
Despite having a concerning smell as raw batter, the cake was delightfully fragrant as it baked and turned a hearty golden brown. Though the addition of frosting or jam would have been period-appropriate, I opted for a simple dusting of powdered sugar instead.
I will not lie and say it was an extraordinary cake. As I ate, I couldn't help but think how it would've been better with the additon of salt and butter. That being said, it was by no means a bad cake—it was simply different. The top had a good crunch to it, its flavor was lemony and lightly sweet and the texture was only a little dense, mostly pleasantly spongy.
I think the most enjoyable part of the experience, however, was the simple act of making a recipe from so long ago. As I turned those pages and traced the flecks of batter and lemon essence from over a hundred years ago, I couldn't help but think about how I also share the unfortunate habit of spilling everything on my paper recipes. How many dozens of others had followed the instructions on that very page before me, complaining about arm pain as they whisked? There is a simple joy in knowing that we are not so different from those who came before us. Many of our valued human experiences have been shared by billions before us. In a way, seeing those stains made me feel a sense of kinship with whoever that mysterious, clumsy baker was, and it made me want to treasure the book even more for whoever's hands it will fall into next.