Do you have the stomach for blancmange?

One of my favourite books growing up was Louisa May Alcott’s Little Women. I read it many times, and I know I wasn’t alone. Although it was published originally in 1868 and is set in the far-off world of four sisters growing up through the American Civil War, it has been a staple on the reading lists of generations of Australian girls.

As is often the case when we read fiction set in another time or place, I encountered in that book things which seemed alien or strange.

What, for instance was the ‘blanc-mange’ that Jo took next door to the neighbour, Laurie in Chapter Five?

“Here I am, bag and baggage,” she said briskly. “Mother sent her love, and was glad if I could do anything for you. Meg wanted me to bring some of her blanc-mange; she makes it very nicely, and Beth thought her cats would be comforting.”

“That looks too pretty to eat,” he said, smiling with pleasure, as Jo uncovered the dish, and showed the blanc-mange, surrounded by a garland of green leaves, and the scarlet flowers of Amy’s pet geranium.

“It isn’t anything, only they all felt kindly, and wanted to show it. Tell the girl to put it away for your tea; it’s so simple, you can eat it; and being soft, it will slip down without hurting your sore throat…”

From these passages, I assumed it was a foodstuff of some kind, that it had to be made, and that it was cool and soft. The only reference I’ve ever heard in contemporary conversation to blancmange was someone in my mothers’ group referring to her post-pregnancy stomach as having the consistency of blancmange which, without being too unkind, I took to mean soft, squishy and perhaps a little wobbly?

So, what is this mysterious blancmange? Armed with my trusty Household Cookery book from the Emily McPherson College of Domestic Economy in Melbourne (1945), I set about to find out.

Sure enough, Section VIII devoted to Hot and Cold Puddings, contains three ‘Blanc Mange’ recipes: plain, chocolate and lemon.

So I started with the plain. Simple enough ingredients: milk, sugar, cornflour, lemon rind and a bayleaf.

An easy recipe to follow too, although I can’t emphasise how important the word “stir” is in the “stir to the boil” instruction. The cornflour thickens the milk very quickly, and the slightest distraction on the part of the cook could result in a lumpy, burnt mess. (Yes, I almost learnt that the hard way.) The blancmange sets overnight in a wetted mould.

I served it with a strawberry compote. All members of my household were underwhelmed. They said it lacked flavour. I thought the flavour was subtle. I was being kind.

So then I tried the Lemon Blanc Mange, which was a little more complex to make. I’m not sure it really qualifies as a blancmange in the strictest sense, as it doesn’t actually have any milk in it, and every definition I found of the word ‘blancmange’ in various dictionaries contained somewhere within it, the words ‘milk’ or ‘milky’.

The lemon blancmange was made with a water base thickened with arrowroot, and then folded with whipped egg whites.

The addition of lemon rind to the boiling water sure packed a punch flavour-wise, but the end product had the appearance and consistency of snot.

And it certainly didn’t hold its shape when I turned it out of the mould. I’m not sure what went wrong. Perhaps arrowroot today isn’t quite what it used to be in 1945?

The Chocolate Blanc Mange, which is just a variation on the plain recipe (no lemon rind, but melted chocolate instead) I made into small portions as a lunchbox treat. Mindful of the ‘lacking in flavour’ accusations, I doubled the amount of melted chocolate in the recipe. See below for my tweaked version of the recipe.

My oldest daughter was delighted with the end result. It’s a bit like some of those chocolate desserts you can buy from the supermarket, but without any additives in the ingredients. It wasn’t much cheaper than the supermarket options though (I made ten 70gm serves for around 45c each) because I used good quality chocolate. If I had skimped on the amount of chocolate and used a cooking chocolate instead, the unit cost would have been a lot lower.

My overall verdict on blancmange? It wobbles. There is just no other way to describe it. Blancmange would be a great food for someone recuperating from an illness, as it literally slides down the throat. The chocolate version was the most palatable, and kids seem to find it fun to have that as a treat.

In general, however I think it should stay firmly within the pages of classic fiction.

Chocolate Blancmange

600 mls milk
4 tablespoons cornflour
2 tablespoons sugar
1 bay leaf
60gm chocolate, broken into small pieces
Splash of vanilla extract

Blend the cornflour with a little of the milk in a large jug. Heat the rest of the milk in a saucepan, with the bayleaf. Once heated, pour over the blended cornflour.
Return to the saucepan and stir to the boil. Add the sugar and continue stirring while the mixture cooks for three minutes. Remove the bayleaf. Reduce the heat.
Add the chocolate pieces and splash of vanilla and stir while the chocolate melts.
Pour into a wetted mould (or individual containers for lunchbox treats) and leave to set in the fridge overnight.
Turn out onto a pretty dish.