Feasting in the middle ages was all about entertainment with culinary wizards delighting the dignified guests. But what about the meals of the humbler diner? Imagine what the cooking was like in the can. 4Food spent a day in the life of medieval martyr, Joan of Arc, to discover how she’d have dined in 2009.
I was woken from my prison bed by the rattling of the gaoler’s keys come to deliver my morning gruel. Expecting the leering face of my brutish guards I was taken aback when a female face peered through the grill. “You’re eating with the rest today,” she growled and slid back the door.
I believed I was alone in the tower so was much intrigued to see other women prisoners shuffling toward a hatch. I noted my sisters in shackles had also fought to retain their male attire and shouted out my allegiance to their noble cause. “It’s a bloody prison uniform,” snarled the guard. “Now get in line.”
I approached the hatch with renewed vigour but oh, what foul sight greeted me from within – bowls upon bowls of freshly picked fruit. “Thou callous cowards,” I cried at the serving wenches. “Burn me if thy must but let my death be in public sight. I will not be slain by poisonous fruit uncooked and thereby untouchable.” “We’ve got a loopy one here,” sighed the senior wench. “Give her a Poptart and tell her to sit down.”
After sniffing suspiciously at the proffered bar, I was driven by hunger to devour it in one. Hot, sweet nectar flowed from the grainy tart creating a miracle within my mouth. Perhaps it was a message from my angels to keep heart.
Uplifted by my cereal bar I spent the morning in silent prayer before once again I was disturbed by the grunting guards calling me for lunch.
Back in the communal hall I eyed the provisions warily. “Have you no cheese and bread?” cried out my peasant heart. “Ploughman’s isn’t till Thursday,” growled the wench cryptically. “It’s pancakes today. Do you want treacle?”
“A comrade at last,” I cried. Interpreting the proffered substance as protection against the plague I smothered the sticky syrup across my face. “That’s enough of that caper,” cried my comrade aghast. I was locked back in my cell, sticky and unsatisfied.
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