In Which I Am Given A Battered Old Cook Book And Find The True Meaning Of "Moscovisch"

A treasured heirloom cook book

A funny thing happened to me today: I was perusing the local bookshop's culinary bookshelf, when a woman asked me if I was perhaps looking for a cook book (oh, please). After my non-committal "just browsing", she went on to say that this was probably very silly, but she would like to *give* me one; and she pulled a very worn old cook book out of a plastic bag.

She explained that she had known the authors, having been to the school that published the book; and that she had had three copies of it, this one having belonged to her mother who had just recently passed away, and she was clearing her stuff. These recipes, she explained, were extremely good, thoroughly tested, truly classics in their kind. It was from 1953, a time when foods like butter were still on distribution. A most excellent book, she said; but her children weren't interested in the shabby looking thing (and it's my guess the posh second-hand book dealer around the corner wasn't interested, either).

So what do you do with an unwanted book, a good book, a well-used book, one filled with scraps and notes, with all those family memories, with the valued treasures of many years? You give it to a stranger.

After the moment is gone

I told her I loved those kind of books, and gratefully accepted her gift; but I was too stunned to ask for her name, or buy her a cup of coffee... You always think of that right after the moment is gone.

Back home, I took a look in it; it is quite similar to the one I have from about 1960. They are extremely useful as reference to basic traditional cooking, the recipes you won't find in any trendy mags. How to prepare "sop in the pan" (wentelteefjes :-), or pea soup, or scorzonera? What to do with fresh chestnuts, or a whole rabbit? Want to make your own rhubarb lemonade? And they have these quant, weird, totally off-world way with food that is very amusing to read - recipes that instruct to boil vegetables like endive or even lettuce for three quarters of an hour, a chapter on foods to gain weight with, or cooking on Sunday: "without help!", oh dear :-) History is science fiction in the reverse.

Meaning of the word "Moscovisch"

The book has a whole section on "Moscovisch" pastry, which was not a familiar word to me. Apparently it's a type of cake made with whipped egg whites, flour, and a small amount of butter, resulting in a very light and crumbly cake (that dries and ages quickly). Looking around on the internet on how to translate "Moscovisch", I found recipes for chiffon cake to be, well, not the same, but related.

Chiffon cake, I read, is a Betty Crocker innovation from the late 1940's, and you would see a lot of recipes for that type of cake at that point. But I've a 1920’s cook book that has an identical ’Moscovische tulband’ recipe... So my guess is that "Moscovisch" is a translation of an older French traditional recipe for fancy cake, meaning literally "in the Russian or Moscovian style". It seems that in 18th century France, when French cooks were catering for the Tsar, every fancy dish was "à la Russe", and stiffly whipped egg white is quite a fancy thing when you don't have a mixer. It would take ages and a lot of muscle power. In 1953 on the other hand, it would be quite the sensible thrifty thing to be able to bake with just a little butter. Not fancy at all. But I'm just guessing here.

Tulband would translate to raisin cake; it's made in a Bundt pan - those words share a root, I think? Tulband also means a headdress: a turban; I guess there you have the origin of the word.
Anyway; in honor of the unknown lady that gave me her mother's treasured old cook book, I made a 1950’s Tulband today.

Quoting from "Neerlands Kookboek"

Wash the raisins, preferably a few days in advance; let them dry thoroughly. Dust a well-buttered bundt pan with powdered sugar. Cut the cold butter with the flour and salt into crumbs, and set aside in a cool place. Mix the sugar and the egg yolks with a fork.

Clean a bowl with vinegar and a bit of salt; whip the egg whites to stiff peaks. Start at low speed, then when the egg mass turns white, turn to a medium or high speed. On top of the stiff egg whites, first place the butter and flour, add the egg yolks and sugar, then place the dry fruit and chocolate chips. Using a metal spoon, lightly and quickly fold this mass into an even batter. Put it into the bundt pan, which should not be more than three-quarters filled.

Baking

Bake the tulband at 170°C for about 40 minutes. Leave to cool 5 minutes in an opened oven. When the cake has shrunk off the sides of the pan, turn it onto a cake rack and leave to cool.

Adding the frosting (to prevent drying out)

Traditionally, a tulband is dusted with powdered sugar. As it won't be eaten all in one day, I put frosting on my tulband, so it keeps fresh just a little longer.
Melt the margarine and Mon Chou, add sugars, zest and lemon juice. Stir until it becomes an even mass. Turn off heat, let it cool off a bit. Pour or dribble over the cooled cake.

I decorated the frosting with cooked lemon zest and ready-made cinnamon-sugar crumbs, but that's just for show.

The tulband turned out to be a lovely airy cake, but it needs the fruits to make it taste interesting. I was pleased to see that the raisins and chocolate chips hadn't sunk but had kept to their place in the baked result; apparently their dryness was of the correct level :-) The crust was very nice and crisp.
Now I'll go and try that recipe for rhubarb lemonade...