Anona Norton, 1653

       Hepzibah’s Brawn

      Half a pig’s head, cleaned out

      Water and vinegar, salt and pepper

      Chopped onion

      A bunch of herbs: sage, bay leaves, marjoram, 12 peppercorns, 4 cloves

      Teaspoon of allspice, mace, parsley

      Soak head in water and vinegar for an hour. Re-soak in clean salted water for another half-hour.

      Put in fresh cold water, cover and bring to the boil. Simmer, skim well.

      Change water again, add all the seasonings and simmer until tender. Lift from the pan and cut off all meat into diced pieces.

      Strain the liquor, boil until reduced by half and to a jelly when cold.

      Add the meat and season to taste. Pour into moulds and chill. Turn out and garnish.

       Recipe for a Dish of Frumenty

      Take the crushed grains of new season’s wheat still in the husk with equal parts of milk and water and soak overnight in a stone bowl.

      Cook slowly with some sugar in oven until the frumenty be as thick as jelly.

      Flavour as pleases you with cinnamon, nutmeg or honey. Dried fruits may be added.

      To be served on Christmas Eve, piping hot with cream or top of milk.

      ‘Where are those dozy wenches?’ Hepzibah muttered, seeing a maid running through the yard with no cap on. There were strangers tramping everywhere and the noise of the stuck pig rang in her ears. She scurried with her feather brush from her busyness in the little parlour that was her pride and joy. ‘Why did the girl vanish like morning mist when there was so much to be done?’ The screams were ringing in her ears, echoing from the yard where the men were at the kill. She scuttled through her chores, flicking over her ark chest and carved bedposts, her fine table and stool, and the wall-hung rack of her best pewter plates. Only Blanche had more finery than she, and much of that was disappearing fast from Bankwell House.

      The pig had been lured, stuck in the throat, and even now its blood dripped into the pail. Soon she must heat the water for the scalding of its skin to scrape off the bristles. So much to do: larder to be scrubbed ready for salting down the joints before the Advent fast, the hog’s head to be set boiling in the cauldron for broth and brawn. It was a pity to waste even the trotters; they would be shared out among the helpers, for they would not keep for long.

      Hepzibah was in no mood for celebration for a flood of monthly blood had woken her with such bellyache, and hopes of a summer bairn were dashed again. She was still fretting about Blanche’s boldness in church against the parson and wondered if she should bring them both under her watchful eye over this Christmastide.

      She hurried back through the kitchen to chivvy up the butchery. She had great plans for their modest dwelling. Already she’d made a private parlour and a hearth for her spinning. Nathaniel bred fine sheep for market. She must keep on pestering him for a proper upstairs befitting their standing, a carved oak staircase and private chambers. The thatched roof at the back of the house was in need of repair. Sturdy stone slates would look better but Nate grumbled that it hath seen his father and grandfather through terrible winters, it could wait one more. But what was the point of fancifying their quarters if there was no heir?

      She must visit the healing goodwife down in the village who sold her berry-leaf tea and prayers to the Virgin for a blessing. She hesitated many a night over that one, for it was a popish practice to make supplications in that direction. Why am I barren and Blanche is not? Hepzi paused. Perhaps if she gave alms to the poor, prayed three times a day, curtailed any frivolity of dress, the Lord would be merciful. Obedience and vigilance in worship might bend His ear in her direction too.

      There must be no Christmas in this house, however much Nate complained, and perhaps there might be another way to secure His holy favour too … Oh, where was that dozy wench?

      Two days later Hepzibah and her maid wrapped the brawn in its pot with a muslin cloth. Their hands were raw with rubbing saltpetre into the hams but the pig was cured, hanging safe for the winter. She had prepared the brawn especially for the parson as a goodwill offering behind Nate’s back. He was on Blanche’s side when it came to sermons.

      ‘Mark my words, if that old skinflint doesn’t come and prod us in the belly to see if we’ve eaten a Christmas pie,’ he sneered. ‘What does he need with our sustenance when he’s already as puffed up with air as a pig’s bladder?’

      Hepzi took no notice, for she knew the holy man lived frugally in his cottage by the churchyard. It was her duty to share the Lord’s providence as a token of respect. Parson Bentley kept no servants and welcomed them to his hearth with a grey gaunt face, looking as if he were half starved, his eyes sunk deep in their sockets burning with such zeal. His house was more like a monk’s cell than a kitchen, and smelled of neglect. The rushes on the floor were stale and in need of refreshment. It lacked a woman about the place to soften the edges of its bareness and sweep out the cobwebs, brightening the shelf with trinkets rather than books. There was a bare table in need of a scrub, a stool and hard bench, nothing more but the scriptures set in a plain box.

      Hepzibah presented the wrapped gift with a hesitant smile but he jumped back in alarm when he opened the wrapper.

      ‘I hope this be not some yuletide offering, Mistress Snowden. I cannot accept any such thing,’ he rasped.

      ‘No, no. It’s time for the pig kill, yuletide or no. There is more than enough for our needs, being as yet a small household. You have taught us many a time to share God’s blessings, and Nathaniel and I would deem it an honour to offer this gift for your enjoyment,’ she replied.

      ‘Enjoyment? Nay, lass,’ said Bentley. ‘Rich food in the belly excites the carnal urges that disobey the higher mind. There must be no pleasures of the flesh while I am God’s shepherd in your midst. Pleasure leads only to gluttony and lust.’

      ‘Sadly then I must take it home with me. I would not want to lead you into temptation. It was well meaning but I fear I have done wrong,’ she said, making to withdraw the parcel, but the parson stayed her hand.

      ‘Be not hasty, mistress. I’m sure the Lord in His wisdom prompted you to such a gesture of mercy. I see it was offered in honesty of spirit, which is more than can be said of some of your kin.’ The parson snatched the parcel and ushered her to the bench while the maid stood in the shadows. ‘I heard your cousin Norton disclaiming the word of the Lord, Sunday last. She comes weekly in my sight with her haughty manner and brings up the child in the dress of popery and idolatry. Is that not so?’ He was questioning her, his eyes burning into hers.

      ‘My sister in Christ hath had many troubles of late, sir. She is a widow, unused to straitened circumstances. She finds it hard