It is December, my descendants have snow, so it must be time for something seasonal. Last year I shared some of my favourite historical novels in my blog ‘advent calendar’; this year it is the turn of non-fiction. Family historians, historical novelists and history fans in general need to immerse themselves in the past; these are books that help you to do just that. For the next twenty four days I will share with you a book that has helped me to evoke a past era. I have just pulled volumes from my bookshelves, so the historical periods will be varied and the choices eclectic. Some of the posts will be very brief and they will be interspersed with other randomness but here goes.

Today’s offering is Dorothy Hartley’s Food in England: a complete guide to the food that makes us who we are. The book was first published in 1954 but unless you are interested in food history in the later twentieth century, this does not matter. The fact that it is still in print underlines the value of Hartley’s work. If you want to know what we used to eat and how it would have been cooked here is a substantial 676 page volume that will come to your aid. There is a chronological thread throughout the book, beginning with the contribution of the Romans, Saxons, Danes and Normans to our diet. There are line drawings to illustrate, amongst other things, cooking methods, breeds of sheep and techniques, such as scalding a pig. In addition there are plates showing kitchens an dining through the ages. There are also chapters on various groups of ingredients, including meat, vegetables, bread, dairy produce and drink. It is no secret that my culinary ‘skills’ are minimal and that I have no interest whatsoever in food preparation in the present. I do however find historic cookery fascinating. So although this is a book that the cooks amongst you will enjoy, it is also valuable if you want to know what your ancestors ate and how they would have prepared it. If you are an historical fiction writer and you want to make sure that the characters in your novel aren’t eating an anachronistic meal or if you are staging an event that involves period food, this book is highly recommended.

In other seasonal news, I thought that I would relate the saga of the flu injection. I am officially too young for this – just thought I’d make that point – but various health weirdnesses mean that I get invited by a disembodied, automated voice to have a needle jabbed in my arm. In fact no one seems to have told said automaton that I have actually now had my injection, as she is still ringing me up at various intervals. I digress. My appointment is for 10.41. I turn up at 10.30 to be told that the staff are about to have their coffee break but I can be booked in. ‘Booking in’ involves a tick being put against my name and being handed a piece of paper listing potential nastinesses associated with said injection. I sit down and the receptionist disappears for her caffine fix. A man comes to sit in her place. I have no idea of his rank but clearly most things are above his pay grade. He spends the next fifteen minutes repeating 30-40 times ‘I can’t book you in please take a seat and wait. The receptionist will be back in 15, 14, 13 (whatever) minutes. What is so difficult about ticking a name and handing over a piece of paper? Is the receptionist’s union going to object if someone usurps her role? It can’t be a data protection thing because everyone is here for a flu injection and they all go to reception and give the chap their name. Why have a person there at all? Why not just write a notice? During the next fifteen minutes forty people enter the surgery and no one leaves. The patients’ nearest and dearest, sat in cars outside, must be wondering if we are all being swallowed up in some vaccinatory black hole. I begin to feel quite sorry for the guy on the front desk. In the end the ‘audience’ are giggling hysterically as he repeats his message, using exactly the same words and intonation, for the umpteenth time. The joys of getting old.