The pouter is a ghastly sight. I wonder how people dealt with chicken or pigeon bones while on a picnic (while maintaining etiquette). Having a kitchen's worth of cutlery makes life easier. I work in downtown Lowell and random chicken bones on the sidewalk are an occurrence. Someone is a slob.
Ugh, the pouter pigeon looks like a billiard ball on legs. And all that heavy Victorian cooking... What I hate most is that it was almost certainly healthier than what we eat now. I recall seeing a very British chicken pie on the massive kitchen table of a Rectory in Yorkshire. The vicar and his wife were family friends, and she had made the pie. It was simply loads of (boneless) chicken packed in a heavy, tasty crust, and somehow it was not heavy, and very tasty. Maybe aspic was involved? All told, a very Victorian experience, although the Vicar's wife was very cheerfully modern, not a bit of the 19th century about her!
The pouter is a ghastly sight. I wonder how people dealt with chicken or pigeon bones while on a picnic (while maintaining etiquette). Having a kitchen's worth of cutlery makes life easier. I work in downtown Lowell and random chicken bones on the sidewalk are an occurrence. Someone is a slob.
Ugh, the pouter pigeon looks like a billiard ball on legs. And all that heavy Victorian cooking... What I hate most is that it was almost certainly healthier than what we eat now. I recall seeing a very British chicken pie on the massive kitchen table of a Rectory in Yorkshire. The vicar and his wife were family friends, and she had made the pie. It was simply loads of (boneless) chicken packed in a heavy, tasty crust, and somehow it was not heavy, and very tasty. Maybe aspic was involved? All told, a very Victorian experience, although the Vicar's wife was very cheerfully modern, not a bit of the 19th century about her!