Humble Pie: A Slice of History (and Ego)

Has it been A Week? It certainly feels like it. Between secret files, public blunders, and the astonishing number of people incapable of simply saying, “Yes, that was my fault,” I thought we could all use a bite of something soothing. Behold: humble pie — the original dish of “Oops, my bad,” baked into a crust.

The Origins of Eating Crow’s More British Cousin

Back in the 1600s, when deer were plentiful and egos were just as fragile as today’s, servants often dined on “umbles”—a polite word for the heart, liver, and other bits their lords weren’t fighting over. Thus was born umble pie. Tasty enough, but also a reminder of one’s place at the table.

By the Regency period, the phrase had migrated from kitchens to conversation. By 1812, American newspapers were already using “humble pie” to mock Britain’s humiliations in war. Across the pond, London’s Morning Post in 1819 gleefully reported that politician Sir Francis Burdett had been forced to “eat humble pie and play second fiddle.” That’s Regency-speak for: “he really lost the argument, bless him.”

From Offal to Idiom (with Help from Dickens)

By the 19th century, “umble” slurred into “humble,” and the phrase became immortalized in both political mockery and literature. Dickens had his villain Uriah Heep call himself “umble” in David Copperfield (1849), proving that false modesty ages about as well as leftover pie.

A Recipe for Humility

Should you wish to literally consume your pride, here’s a modern adaptation of that once-humble dish:

Ingredients:

• 1 lb beef liver (or other offal, if you’re brave)
• 1 onion, finely chopped
• 1 garlic clove, minced
• 1 tbsp butter
• 1 tsp thyme
• 1 tsp black pepper
• 1 tsp salt
• 1 cup beef broth
• 1 tbsp flour (for thickening)
• 1 pie crust (ready-made, because even shame deserves convenience)

Method:

1. Preheat oven to 375°F (190°C).
2. Chop the liver into small pieces; sauté with butter, onion, and garlic.
3. Add thyme, pepper, and salt. Stir like you’re covering your tracks.
4. Pour in beef broth; simmer for 10 minutes. Sprinkle in flour to thicken.
5. Pour filling into a crust, cover with a second, and bake 25–30 minutes.
6. Serve warm—with a tall glass of “Yes, I was wrong.”

Why We Still Serve It

While we no longer force social inferiors to eat offal pies, the phrase remains with us. Everyone, sooner or later, must choke down their pride. At least now, we can season it properly and put it in a flaky crust.

So the next time you witness someone refusing to admit they’ve messed up, just smile knowingly and think: that’s going to be one hell of a pie when it finally bakes.

Free Regency Recipe: Apricot Ice Cream

A Regency Romance for Your Tastebuds (with modern freezer privileges) 

You may not realise how often Regency heroines flirt over frozen treats, but I do. You see, I’m ice cream’s most devoted admirer - and apparently, so are many of Jane Austen’s most refined characters. Ice cream, or “ices” as they called them before Haagen met Dazs, only sashayed into English society around 1718.

By the time Darcy was brooding in drawing rooms, it was still the culinary equivalent of a handsome stranger; mysterious, expensive, and absolutely swoon-worthy. Flavours, however, were... daring. Rye ice cream, for example, is the sort of experience best left to history. Fruit ices, however, became the ultimate luxury in Austen’s time, not only because of the delicate flavours, but because summer - when fruit was available - was also when everything melted faster than Marianne Dashwood’s heart. 

Since I like to imagine I’m the sort of person who could afford an ice house in 1813, here’s a delightful recipe from Hannah Glasse’s 1755 Art of Cookery Made Plain. They used moulds back then for serving, because nothing says “Regency elegance” like your dessert arriving in the shape of a pinecone or a miniature temple. 

Need more inspiration? There you go...

Ingredients: 

• 12 ripe apricots (romantically blushing) 
• 170g / 6 oz / ¾ cup powdered sugar 
• 470ml / 16 fl oz / 2 cups cream (luxuriously scalded) 

Regency Method (involving mortar, sweat, and social status): 

1. Boil your apricots like they just insulted your bonnet. 
2. Skin, pit, and pulverise them with a mortar, ideally while making eye contact with a footman. Add sugar and cream (the double refined kind - because obviously). 
3. Sieve, pour into a tin, and play Regency ice tetris.
4. Surround with salted ice in a tub. 
5. Stir occasionally, with gentle disdain. 
6. When thickened, scoop into a decorative mould and repeat the ice bath ritual. 
7. Let it chill for four hours while you embroider or fend off suitors. 
8. When ready, dip the mould in spring water (not tap, darling) and unmould with grace. 

Modern Method (for those lacking a scullery maid): 

1. Blend apricots, sugar, and cream like a sensible modern human. 
2. Freeze in a lidded dish. 
3. Stir every so often until it firms up like a hero’s jawline. 
4. Spoon into moulds, or eat it straight from the dish while bingeing Austen adaptations. 

Serves: 6-8 refined guests - or 1 shamelessly indulgent author (because some romances, like apricot ice cream, are meant to be frozen… and then devoured).

Roast Goose - & a Novel

“Oh, and we must have a goose,” Carter added. “For the Christmas feast.”

“The lady Lydia is attempting to procure such a bird.” Chal shook his head. “I do not grasp the significance of fowl among the English at Christmas, but she insists it’s necessary.”

“I must agree with the lady.”

A Holiday Season at Clifton Hall

In Regency England, nothing said “Merry Christmas” quite like a roast goose—mostly because it was cheap, easy to fatten, and didn’t require a sprawling estate to raise one. Geese were basically the Regency equivalent of meal prepping: feed it scraps for a few months, and voilà, Christmas dinner waddles right up to your door.

Roast goose wasn’t just a meal; it was a full-blown event. Picture it: a glorious, golden-brown bird arriving at the table like the Beyoncé of Christmas meats, with crackling skin and juicy, savoury goodness underneath. Move over, bland beef roast—this was the true showstopper of the season.

And this wasn’t just about taste. Goose was a historical power move, harking back to medieval times when plopping a fat goose on the table symbolised prosperity, abundance, and the subtle flex that you could afford more than a sad bowl of gruel. In short, a roast goose was the edible equivalent of Christmas bragging rights.

Roast goose features rather prominently (and deliciously) in my collaborative #regencyera release, so I figured it was time for a recipe. This one's based on the one in Miss Leslie's Complete Cookery - a popular Regency cookbook.

Roast Goose Recipe

Preparing the Goose:

• Save the Giblets:
  Set aside the goose's giblets (heart, liver, etc.) to use later for making gravy.
• Soak to Soften the Flavour:
  To make the goose taste milder, soak it in a weak saltwater solution for a few hours.
• (Special Step for Older Geese: if your goose is older, quickly dunk it in boiling water for about 5 minutes. This helps tenderise it.)
• Clean and Truss:
  Wash the goose well inside and out. Then truss (tie) it neatly with kitchen string so it holds a nice, compact shape. This also helps it cook evenly and hold lots of delicious stuffing.

Roasting the Goose:

• Season the Inside:
  Wipe the inside of the goose with a clean cloth, then sprinkle it with salt and pepper.
• Prepare the Stuffing:
  I used sweet potatoes mashed with butter or gravy, and boiled chestnuts.
• Stuff the Goose:
  Fill the goose with your chosen stuffing, pressing it in firmly but don’t overfill. The stuffing will expand during cooking.
• Coat the Goose:
  Rub the outside of the goose with sweet lard or butter for a crispy, golden finish.
• Set up for Roasting:
  Place the goose in a roasting pan along with the giblets, neck, and any trimmings. Pour in two teacups of boiling water to keep it moist.
• Roast:
  Cook the goose in a hot oven. Baste it often with the pan juices to keep it juicy and turn it regularly so it browns evenly on all sides.
• Serve:
  Once roasted, serve the goose hot with rich gravy or a tasty onion sauce.

Simple Apple Sauce:

For a perfect side dish, stew juicy apples until they’re dry and soft. Sweeten them to taste and add some grated lemon zest and lemon juice for flavour.

I hope you're able to try it - indeed, I hope you're able top procure a goose as well. There is some issue with this in my novella, and my Romany heroine is at first suspected of theft (a prejudice that is common even today). Turns out, she is not a thief.

I'll end with my favourite quote from my novella - which is where a villainous curate gets his comeuppance:

An ugly vein throbbed at the curate’s temple. “I’m not claiming anything, Mr Clifton. My poultry house has been rifled, sir. I’m told three of my geese are gone.”

A Holiday Season at Clifton Hall