bletting

Some fruits, particularly sloes and medlars (more on those later), can be a bit sour to eat, even when they’re ripe (due to high levels of tannins). And that’s where our word of the week comes in – to make them more edible, we blet them. This basically means letting them go past fully ripe to the point where they’re just starting to break down, but aren’t quite rotting yet. Yum.

There seems to be quite an art to bletting – let it go too long and obviously the fruit’s too minging to eat. Don’t do it enough and it’ll be too bitter to enjoy. Having said that, it’s a fairly hands-off process, and mainly involves storing fruit at room temperature then looking at it every now and again. There seems to be some poking involved as well.

Etymology-wise, we can trace ‘blet’ back to the Old English word ‘blætt’ or ‘blǣtt’, that was used to describe anything a bit squishy or soft.

Four medlars, in all their bummy glory (photo © Andrew Dunn, 1 October 2005).

One fruit that’s inedible before bletting is the medlar, which you possibly haven’t heard of. Medlars were actually very popular here in Blighty a few hundred years ago. They go back even further than that as well – the medlar tree comes from Persia, and ye olde Greeks and Romans grew them too. They possibly fell out of favour because a perfectly bletted medlar is brown and squishy to the point that you might think it’s going to collapse in your hand. Doesn’t sound terribly appetising, does it?

Medlars also aren’t the most attractive of fruits – in fact, in France they’re called ‘cul de chien’ which translates as ‘dog’s arse’. Shakespeare called them ‘open-arse’ in Romeo and Juliet (which paints a lovely picture), and DH Lawrence referred to them as ‘autumnal excrementa’ (‘autumn shit’) in his poem ‘Medlars and Sorb-Apples’. That ode starts with these delightful lines:

‘I love you, rotten,

Delicious rottenness.’

Despite all this bad press, the much-maligned medlar is making a bit of a comeback. Medlar jelly is apparently lovely with a bit of cheese, and you can buy it online. Go on, treat yourself to some autumnal poop. You know you want to.

salary

Ah, salaries. Something we’re all a bit obsessed with as we navigate the cozzie livs*. But did you know that the word itself actually has a fairly surprising etymology?

‘Salary’ comes from the Latin word ‘salarium’, which itself comes from ‘sal’ in Latin, meaning ‘salt’. This is because, back in the ancient Roman day, salt was a really valuable commodity. This wasn’t just about making food taste good either – salt was vital for preserving it in a pre-fridge world. And that was crucial for those Romans centurions off conquering and building roads, installing sanitation, and all the other things mentioned in The Life of Brian.

Because of all this value, salt was actually used as a type of currency. And that meant the word ‘salarium’ was used to describe payments given to soldiers to cover their expenses, including to buy salt (presumably not with salt as currency though – that would be mental). Over time, the meaning of ‘salarium’ expanded to include any regular payment made to someone in exchange for their services, becoming ‘salary’ along the way.

The St Kinga Chapel (by Cezary p, CC BY-SA 3.0)

Salt mines have existed for thousands of years, and one of the most famous ones is the Wieliczka Salt Mine in Poland. It produced salt from the 13th century right up to 1996 (when it was closed due to falling salt prices and flooding). The mine is now a tourist attraction and a UNESCO World Heritage Site, and reaches a depth of 1,073 feet (327 metres) while extending for over 178 miles (287 kilometres). It’s particularly famous for the St Kinga Chapel, which is entirely carved out of salt, including the floor, walls and even the chandeliers. The chapel is about 330 feet (101 meters) below the surface of the Earth, and is named after St Kinga, the patron saint of salt miners. Apparently the acoustics are fantastic, so lots of concerts are held there, as well as an annual music festival – you can even get married there.

*Irritating slang for the cost-of-living crisis.

ketchup

Think ketchup originated in America? Well, despite the fact that 97% of American households have a bottle of the red stuff in their kitchens, this condiment actually started life on much more exotic shores. The word ketchup comes from a Hokkien Chinese word, ‘kê-tsiap’, which was the name of a sauce made from fermented fish. (While any food with the word ‘fermented’ in it just doesn’t sound appetising, I think this was actually quite similar to soy sauce.)

So how did ketchup migrate? Well, it’s likely that British travellers brought ‘kê-tsiap’ home, before attempting to recreate it in their kitchens and anglicising it as ‘catchup’ (also ‘catsup’). The first written mention of ‘catchup’ is in ‘A New Dictionary of the Terms Ancient and Modern of the Canting Crew’, a dictionary of English slang first published in 1698. It has over 4,000 entries and, frankly, sounds awesome.

At some point ‘catchup’ mutated into ‘ketchup’. And the first published recipe for ketchup appeared in 1727, in ‘The Compleat Housewife’, an incredibly popular cookbook by Eliza Smith which went through a massive 18 editions. Ingredients in Smith’s recipe included anchovies, shallots, vinegar, ginger and nutmeg, and involved shaking the bottle once or twice a day for a week before using it. A second recipe for ‘ketchup in paste’ appeared in 1732, written by one Richard Bradley (who was the first professor of botany at Cambridge University, and also published the first recipe with pineapple in it – hopefully it wasn’t a pizza). This still wasn’t the ketchup we know today though – the main ingredient was red beans, and there definitely weren’t any tomatoes in there. Other versions followed, often containing mushrooms (apparently Jane Austen was a big fan of mushroom ketchup), unripe walnuts (YUM) and oysters. At this point ‘ketchup’ was really just another word for ‘sauce’.

Despite having been brought to England in the 1500s from South America, tomatoes weren’t popular as people actually thought they were poisonous (possibly due to the lead from lead pewter plates leaching into them). So it wasn’t until around 1812 that the first tomato ketchup recipe appeared. James Mease, a scientist from Philadelphia, gets the credit for this, although he loses points for calling tomatoes ‘love apples’ (due to their reputation for being an aphrodisiac – which seems somewhat at odds with the whole poison thing, but never mind), which doesn’t seem very scientific, and sounds gross. A little start-up by the name of Heinz then introduced their recipe in 1876, and the red sauce we know today was born. Today Heinz is the best-selling brand of ketchup in the United States, with more than 650 million bottles sold every year.

I still don’t like it though.