Journal articles on the topic 'Roman épistolaire russe'

Afin d’approfondir l’examen de la nature du genre littéraire et comme le présent volume porte en partie sur les questions du formalisme russe, cet article s’intéressera à l’expression de la subjectivité appliquée aux genres littéraires telle qu’elle est exposée dans quelques textes fondamentaux écrits par deux grands théoriciens du verbe russe : d’une part, il s’agit de Jouri Tynianov, l’un des principaux acteurs de l’OPOÏAZ, le fondateur du formalisme russe avec Victor Chklovski, Roman Jacobson et Boris Eïkhenbaum, et, d’autre part, c’est Mikhaïl Bakhtine qui a entamé son cheminement intellectuel au moment où « le formalisme était au faîte de sa gloire ».

Abstract Olga Grjasnowa’s debut novel The Russian Is One Who Loves Birch Trees, revolving around themes such as national and linguistic boundaries, borderline transgressions and border crossings, the sense of home and the sense of alienation and the search for one’s own identity in the face of a life in the threshold of cultures. Using the example of a young woman who has emigrated from Azerbaijan, who was traumatized as a child, and who is trained as an interpreter in Germany, the article explores subjects such as loneliness, identity, limitations and hunger for language. By making interpreting her profession, the figure solidifies the leap from one culture to the next as a pattern of action and acts transculturally between different spaces. She finds access to marginalized groups, she has ambivalent erotic experiences with men as well as with women, which reflects her cultural indecision.

Eugène Onéguine, écrit par Pouchkine à la fin du XIXe siècle, est l’une des oeuvres majeures de la littérature russe. Souvent dans l’ombre de l’opéra éponyme de Tchaïkovsky, son statut est souvent méconnu hors des milieux russophiles; néanmoins, nombreux sont les traducteurs qui s’attaquent à ce texte, que Pouchkine lui-même définit comme un « roman en vers ». De par sa nature hybride (ni roman, ni poème, à la fois poème et roman) et son caractère multilingue ou polyglotte (Bakhtine), possédant une forme originale (si bien qu’on parle même de « strophe onéguienne »), ce texte constitue un véritable défi que les traducteurs, et même les traducteurs non russophones (Hofstadter, Giudici), sont souvent avides de relever. Si les langues occidentales, riches elles aussi en systèmes métriques et en versification rimée, ont la tentation de transposer le vers russe dans une forme versifiée occidentale, pour les traducteurs occidentaux la question demeure de définir ce qu’est Eugène Onéguine, sachant qu’il échappe à toutes les définitions traditionnelles. Pour les langues orientales, comme le coréen ou le japonais, qui n’ont pas les mêmes traditions linguistiques, littéraires et poétiques, les enjeux dans la traduction sont à première vue plus complexes puisqu’il s’agit d’inventer ou de renoncer à rendre une forme qui est tout aussi importante que le sujet de cette oeuvre. La distinction entre les deux est d’ailleurs rendue caduque par ce texte qui remet précisément en cause cette distinction. Or, l’observation des différentes approches traductives en langues occidentales et orientales permet de mettre en lumière cette caractéristique du texte de Pouchkine et de sa traduction. Car si la familiarité des langues occidentales avec le mètre et le vers semble apparemment poser au traducteur la question du genre (roman/poème, prose poétique/poésie « prosaïque »), l’altérité ou l’étrangeté des langues orientales révèle que la tâche du traducteur est, et a toujours été – même pour les traducteurs occidentaux – non pas tant de restituer un (semblant de) vers, mais de créer une forme, un texte qui fasse « ce que fait le texte » (Meschonnic).

The article describes a problem of the reception of the shape of Leo Tolstoy by the French writer E.-M. de Vogüé (1848–1910), whose book “Russian Novel” (“Le roman russe”) (1886) never fully been translated into the Russian language, the influence of “neomisticism” and his interpretation of cultural situation in Europe at the end of the 19th century on the interpretation of the personality and creativity of the great Russian writer, revealed the ambiguity and contradictoriness of the assessment, which gives Vogüé to Tolstoy’s worldview.

Vladimir Nabokov a débuté sa carrière de traducteur en rendant des textes accessibles à ses lecteurs, modifiant, par exemple, le cadre et les noms des personnages. Plus tard, il exigea de sa part et d’autres traducteurs des traductions « fidèles » et littérales. Ensuite, Nabokov dispensa de cette exigence les auteurs, lui-même inclus, qui traduisent leurs propres oeuvres. En tant qu’auteur de Lolita en anglais et comme traducteur de ce roman en russe, Nabokov, d’une part, accomplit une traduction « fidèle » du roman, tandis que, d’autre part, il apportait des modifications d’auteur qu’il estimait nécessaires. Cet essai démontre que la théorie et la pratique de la traduction chez Nabokov ont évolué au cours de trois phases distinctes mais qui finalement se recoupent. Certains critiques ont appelé la troisième et dernière phase « contradictoire ». Cependant, en considérant les trois phases comme trois étapes différentes du développement de Nabokov traducteur, l’auteur de cet essai propose que, au lieu d’être « contradictoire » ou antithétique, cette phase peut être perçue comme évolutive, correspondant ainsi au développement de Nabokov traducteur et écrivain.

Le roman par courriels, contrairement au roman épistolaire traditionnel (dans lequel les protagonistes écrivent surtout pour se mettre en valeur), paraît reposer sur une dynamique d’échange de considérations des plus banales. Dans E, E2 et Eleven, qui se déploient en entreprise, cet échange de trivialités devrait normalement laisser place à l’adoption d’un registre plus sérieux lorsqu’un événement grave survient. L’article examine notamment la pléthore de courriels vides de sens qui forment l’intrigue de ces trois romans en tentant de mettre en lumière ce que révèlent la superficialité et la banalité sur l’individu et la société de notre siècle.

Résumé Le roman russe est pour Charles Ferdinand Ramuz, dès ses débuts, l’occasion d’une réflexion sur le genre romanesque, et sur la nécessité de sa « regénération » dans l’espace francophone. La lecture de Dostoïevski lui donne accès à un modèle dont il s’inspirera, indirectement, dans ses premières tentatives de « révolutionner » le roman, en particulier lors de l’écriture de Jean-Luc persécuté. Mais cette adhésion fervente sera suivie, pendant la maturité de Ramuz, d’une phase de désaffection, à l’issue de laquelle le grand Russe auquel le romancier suisse tendra à s’identifier sera Tolstoï.

Résumé Cette étude traite de deux romans marqués par « l’influence » de Dostoïevski : Âmes russes de Francis de Miomandre et Un Raskolnikoff d’Emmanuel Bove. Alors que le roman de Miomandre met à profit certains des principaux traits d’écriture qui témoignent de la manière relativement stéréotypée dont les romanciers de l’entre-deux-guerres pouvaient recevoir l’oeuvre de Dostoïevski, celui de Bove accompagne sa « lecture » du romancier russe d’un renouvellement même de la pensée esthétique et métaphysique de celui-ci. Bove ne fait pas que reconduire le personnage de Raskolnikoff, il en propose une figure nouvelle, propre à l’époque, et qui conduit à ce que j’appelle « l’héroïsme de l’inaction ».

International audience The literary histories of the Russian “great century,” the nineteenth century, have a museographic and patrimonial character, which gives full meaning to Roland Barthes’s reflection on literary historiography as a “ succession of single men.” However, the exclusion of women from the “ national narrative” that is Russian literary historiography is a real anomaly, because it corresponds neither to the reality of writing and publishing practices, nor to that of reading practices. Conceived at the crossroads of historiography (how it develops), literature (the manufacture of classics) and gender studies or women’s studies, this article attempts to understand the mechanisms of “invisibilisation” (or the “Matilda effect”) whose female writers of “the great Russian century” were victims. We will also look at two “case studies:” that of Anna Bunina, who was the first author to exist professionally in the Russian public literary space in the early nineteenth century, and that of Ekaterina Kniazhnina, the first woman to whom were opened the ways of publishing in Russia in 1759. Les histoires littéraires du « grand siècle » classique russe, le xixe siècle, possèdent un caractère muséographique et patrimonial qui donne tout son sens à cette réflexion de Roland Barthes sur l’historiographie littéraire comme une « succession d’hommes seuls ». Mais l’exclusion des femmes du « roman national » qu’est l’historiographie littéraire russe relève d’une véritable anomalie, car elle ne correspond ni à la réalité des pratiques d’écriture et d’édition, ni à celle des pratiques de lecture. Conçu à la croisée de l’historiographie (comment elle s’élabore), de la littérature (la fabrication des classiques) et des études de genre ou des études féminines (women studies), cet article tente de comprendre les mécanismes d’invisibilisation » (ou « effet Matilda ») dont les écrivaines du grand siècle russe ont été victimes. Nous nous intéresserons également à deux « études de cas » : celui d’Anna Bounina, qui fut la première autrice à exister professionnellement dans l’espace littéraire public russe au début du xixe siècle, et celui d’Ekaterina Kniajnina, première femme à qui furent ouvertes les voies de l’édition en Russie, en 1759. Всем историям литературы русского «золотого» (то есть классического) 19‑ого века присущи агиографический характер и отсутствие писательницей, что придает новое значение знаменитой фразе Роланда Барта о литературной историографии как «последовательности одиноких писателей». Но исключение женщин из «большого нарратива» русской литературы 19‑ого века является настоящей аномалией, ибо оно не соответствует ни письменной и издательской практикам того времени, ни социальным практикам русской читающей публики. На перекрестке историографии (как она пишется), литературы (как формировалась «русская классика») и гендерных исследований данная статья излагается механизмы, которые привели к так называемому «эффекту Матильды» в историях русской литературы – то есть к отрицанию и забвению писательниц 19‑ого века. Мы будем рассматривать два конкретных примера русских забытых поэтесс. Анна Бунина – первая «авторица», профессионально существовавшая в общественной русской литературной сфере в начале 19‑ого века; Екатерина Княжнина – первая женщина, опубликовавшая свои произведения в России (в 1759‑ом году).

Introduction Cookbooks are an exceptional written record of what is largely an oral tradition. They have been described as “magician’s hats” due to their ability to reveal much more than they seem to contain (Wheaton, “Finding”). The first book printed in Germany was the Guttenberg Bible in 1456 but, by 1490, printing was introduced into almost every European country (Tierney). The spread of literacy between 1500 and 1800, and the rise in silent reading, helped to create a new private sphere into which the individual could retreat, seeking refuge from the community (Chartier). This new technology had its effects in the world of cookery as in so many spheres of culture (Mennell, All Manners). Trubek notes that cookbooks are the texts most often used by culinary historians, since they usually contain all the requisite materials for analysing a cuisine: ingredients, method, technique, and presentation. Printed cookbooks, beginning in the early modern period, provide culinary historians with sources of evidence of the culinary past. Historians have argued that social differences can be expressed by the way and type of food we consume. Cookbooks are now widely accepted as valid socio-cultural and historic documents (Folch, Sherman), and indeed the link between literacy levels and the protestant tradition has been expressed through the study of Danish cookbooks (Gold). From Apicius, Taillevent, La Varenne, and Menon to Bradley, Smith, Raffald, Acton, and Beeton, how can both manuscript and printed cookbooks be analysed as historic documents? What is the difference between a manuscript and a printed cookbook? Barbara Ketchum Wheaton, who has been studying cookbooks for over half a century and is honorary curator of the culinary collection in Harvard’s Schlesinger Library, has developed a methodology to read historic cookbooks using a structured approach. For a number of years she has been giving seminars to scholars from multidisciplinary fields on how to read historic cookbooks. This paper draws on the author’s experiences attending Wheaton’s seminar in Harvard, and on supervising the use of this methodology at both Masters and Doctoral level (Cashman; Mac Con Iomaire, and Cashman). Manuscripts versus Printed Cookbooks A fundamental difference exists between manuscript and printed cookbooks in their relationship with the public and private domain. Manuscript cookbooks are by their very essence intimate, relatively unedited and written with an eye to private circulation. Culinary manuscripts follow the diurnal and annual tasks of the household. They contain recipes for cures and restoratives, recipes for cleansing products for the house and the body, as well as the expected recipes for cooking and preserving all manners of food. Whether manuscript or printed cookbook, the recipes contained within often act as a reminder of how laborious the production of food could be in the pre-industrialised world (White). Printed cookbooks draw oxygen from the very fact of being public. They assume a “literate population with sufficient discretionary income to invest in texts that commodify knowledge” (Folch). This process of commoditisation brings knowledge from the private to the public sphere. There exists a subset of cookbooks that straddle this divide, for example, Mrs. Rundell’s A New System of Domestic Cookery (1806), which brought to the public domain her distillation of a lifetime of domestic experience. Originally intended for her daughters alone, Rundell’s book was reprinted regularly during the nineteenth century with the last edition printed in 1893, when Mrs. Beeton had been enormously popular for over thirty years (Mac Con Iomaire, and Cashman). Barbara Ketchum Wheaton’s Structured Approach Cookbooks can be rewarding, surprising and illuminating when read carefully with due effort in understanding them as cultural artefacts. However, Wheaton notes that: “One may read a single old cookbook and find it immensely entertaining. One may read two and begin to find intriguing similarities and differences. When the third cookbook is read, one’s mind begins to blur, and one begins to sense the need for some sort of method in approaching these documents” (“Finding”). Following decades of studying cookbooks from both sides of the Atlantic and writing a seminal text on the French at table from 1300-1789 (Wheaton, Savouring the Past), this combined experience negotiating cookbooks as historical documents was codified, and a structured approach gradually articulated and shared within a week long seminar format. In studying any cookbook, regardless of era or country of origin, the text is broken down into five different groupings, to wit: ingredients; equipment or facilities; the meal; the book as a whole; and, finally, the worldview. A particular strength of Wheaton’s seminars is the multidisciplinary nature of the approaches of students who attend, which throws the study of cookbooks open to wide ranging techniques. Students with a purely scientific training unearth interesting patterns by developing databases of the frequency of ingredients or techniques, and cross referencing them with other books from similar or different timelines or geographical regions. Patterns are displayed in graphs or charts. Linguists offer their own unique lens to study cookbooks, whereas anthropologists and historians ask what these objects can tell us about how our ancestors lived and drew meaning from life. This process is continuously refined, and each grouping is discussed below. Ingredients The geographic origins of the ingredients are of interest, as is the seasonality and the cost of the foodstuffs within the scope of each cookbook, as well as the sensory quality both separately and combined within different recipes. In the medieval period, the use of spices and large joints of butchers meat and game were symbols of wealth and status. However, when the discovery of sea routes to the New World and to the Far East made spices more available and affordable to the middle classes, the upper classes spurned them. Evidence from culinary manuscripts in Georgian Ireland, for example, suggests that galangal was more easily available in Dublin during the eighteenth century than in the mid-twentieth century. A new aesthetic, articulated by La Varenne in his Le Cuisinier Francois (1651), heralded that food should taste of itself, and so exotic ingredients such as cinnamon, nutmeg, and ginger were replaced by the local bouquet garni, and stocks and sauces became the foundations of French haute cuisine (Mac Con Iomaire). Some combinations of flavours and ingredients were based on humoral physiology, a long held belief system based on the writings of Hippocrates and Galen, now discredited by modern scientific understanding. The four humors are blood, yellow bile, black bile, and phlegm. It was believed that each of these humors would wax and wane in the body, depending on diet and activity. Galen (131-201 AD) believed that warm food produced yellow bile and that cold food produced phlegm. It is difficult to fathom some combinations of ingredients or the manner of service without comprehending the contemporary context within they were consumeSome ingredients found in Roman cookbooks, such as “garum” or “silphium” are no longer available. It is suggested that the nearest substitute for garum also known as “liquamen”—a fermented fish sauce—would be Naam Plaa, or Thai fish sauce (Grainger). Ingredients such as tea and white bread, moved from the prerogative of the wealthy over time to become the staple of the urban poor. These ingredients, therefore, symbolise radically differing contexts during the seventeenth century than in the early twentieth century. Indeed, there are other ingredients such as hominy (dried maize kernel treated with alkali) or grahams (crackers made from graham flour) found in American cookbooks that require translation to the unacquainted non-American reader. There has been a growing number of food encyclopaedias published in recent years that assist scholars in identifying such commodities (Smith, Katz, Davidson). The Cook’s Workplace, Techniques, and Equipment It is important to be aware of the type of kitchen equipment used, the management of heat and cold within the kitchen, and also the gradual spread of the industrial revolution into the domestic sphere. Visits to historic castles such as Hampton Court Palace where nowadays archaeologists re-enact life below stairs in Tudor times give a glimpse as to how difficult and labour intensive food production was. Meat was spit-roasted in front of huge fires by spit boys. Forcemeats and purees were manually pulped using mortar and pestles. Various technological developments including spit-dogs, and mechanised pulleys, replaced the spit boys, the most up to date being the mechanised rotisserie. The technological advancements of two hundred years can be seen in the Royal Pavilion in Brighton where Marie-Antoinin Carême worked for the Prince Regent in 1816 (Brighton Pavilion), but despite the gleaming copper pans and high ceilings for ventilation, the work was still back breaking. Carême died aged forty-nine, “burnt out by the flame of his genius and the fumes of his ovens” (Ackerman 90). Mennell points out that his fame outlived him, resting on his books: Le Pâtissier Royal Parisien (1815); Le Pâtissier Pittoresque (1815); Le Maître d’Hôtel Français (1822); Le Cuisinier Parisien (1828); and, finally, L’Art de la Cuisine Française au Dix-Neuvième Siècle (1833–5), which was finished posthumously by his student Pluméry (All Manners). Mennell suggests that these books embody the first paradigm of professional French cuisine (in Kuhn’s terminology), pointing out that “no previous work had so comprehensively codified the field nor established its dominance as a point of reference for the whole profession in the way that Carême did” (All Manners 149). The most dramatic technological changes came after the industrial revolution. Although there were built up ovens available in bakeries and in large Norman households, the period of general acceptance of new cooking equipment that enclosed fire (such as the Aga stove) is from c.1860 to 1910, with gas ovens following in c.1910 to the 1920s) and Electricity from c.1930. New food processing techniques dates are as follows: canning (1860s), cooling and freezing (1880s), freeze drying (1950s), and motorised delivery vans with cooking (1920s–1950s) (den Hartog). It must also be noted that the supply of fresh food, and fish particularly, radically improved following the birth, and expansion of, the railways. To understand the context of the cookbook, one needs to be aware of the limits of the technology available to the users of those cookbooks. For many lower to middle class families during the twentieth century, the first cookbook they would possess came with their gas or electrical oven. Meals One can follow cooked dishes from the kitchen to the eating place, observing food presentation, carving, sequencing, and serving of the meal and table etiquette. Meal times and structure changed over time. During the Middle Ages, people usually ate two meals a day: a substantial dinner around noon and a light supper in the evening (Adamson). Some of the most important factors to consider are the manner in which meals were served: either à la française or à la russe. One of the main changes that occurred during the nineteenth century was the slow but gradual transfer from service à la française to service à la russe. From medieval times to the middle of the nineteenth century the structure of a formal meal was not by “courses”—as the term is now understood—but by “services”. Each service could comprise of a choice of dishes—both sweet and savoury—from which each guest could select what appealed to him or her most (Davidson). The philosophy behind this form of service was the forementioned humoral physiology— where each diner chose food based on the four humours of blood, yellow bile, black bile, or phlegm. Also known as le grand couvert, the à la française method made it impossible for the diners to eat anything that was beyond arm’s length (Blake, and Crewe). Smooth service, however, was the key to an effective à la russe dinner since servants controlled the flow of food (Eatwell). The taste and temperature of food took centre stage with the à la russe dinner as each course came in sequence. Many historic cookbooks offer table plans illustrating the suggested arrangement of dishes on a table for the à la française style of service. Many of these dishes might be re-used in later meals, and some dishes such as hashes and rissoles often utilised left over components of previous meals. There is a whole genre of cookbooks informing the middle class cooks how to be frugal and also how to emulate haute cuisine using cheaper or ersatz ingredients. The number dining and the manner in which they dined also changed dramatically over time. From medieval to Tudor times, there might be hundreds dining in large banqueting halls. By the Elizabethan age, a small intimate room where master and family dined alone replaced the old dining hall where master, servants, guests, and travellers had previously dined together (Spencer). Dining tables remained portable until the 1780s when tables with removable leaves were devised. By this time, the bread trencher had been replaced by one made of wood, or plate of pewter or precious metal in wealthier houses. Hosts began providing knives and spoons for their guests by the seventeenth century, with forks also appearing but not fully accepted until the eighteenth century (Mason). These silver utensils were usually marked with the owner’s initials to prevent their theft (Flandrin). Cookbooks as Objects and the World of Publishing A thorough examination of the manuscript or printed cookbook can reveal their physical qualities, including indications of post-publication history, the recipes and other matter in them, as well as the language, organization, and other individual qualities. What can the quality of the paper tell us about the book? Is there a frontispiece? Is the book dedicated to an employer or a patron? Does the author note previous employment history in the introduction? In his Court Cookery, Robert Smith, for example, not only mentions a number of his previous employers, but also outlines that he was eight years working with Patrick Lamb in the Court of King William, before revealing that several dishes published in Lamb’s Royal Cookery (1710) “were never made or practis’d (sic) by him and others are extreme defective and imperfect and made up of dishes unknown to him; and several of them more calculated at the purses than the Gôut of the guests”. Both Lamb and Smith worked for the English monarchy, nobility, and gentry, but produced French cuisine. Not all Britons were enamoured with France, however, with, for example Hannah Glasse asserting “if gentlemen will have French cooks, they must pay for French tricks” (4), and “So much is the blind folly of this age, that they would rather be imposed on by a French Booby, than give encouragement to an good English cook” (ctd. in Trubek 60). Spencer contextualises Glasse’s culinary Francophobia, explaining that whilst she was writing the book, the Jacobite army were only a few days march from London, threatening to cut short the Hanoverian lineage. However, Lehmann points out that whilst Glasse was overtly hostile to French cuisine, she simultaneously plagiarised its receipts. Based on this trickling down of French influences, Mennell argues that “there is really no such thing as a pure-bred English cookery book” (All Manners 98), but that within the assimilation and simplification, a recognisable English style was discernable. Mennell also asserts that Glasse and her fellow women writers had an enormous role in the social history of cooking despite their lack of technical originality (“Plagiarism”). It is also important to consider the place of cookbooks within the history of publishing. Albala provides an overview of the immense outpouring of dietary literature from the printing presses from the 1470s. He divides the Renaissance into three periods: Period I Courtly Dietaries (1470–1530)—targeted at the courtiers with advice to those attending banquets with many courses and lots of wine; Period II The Galenic Revival (1530–1570)—with a deeper appreciation, and sometimes adulation, of Galen, and when scholarship took centre stage over practical use. Finally Period III The Breakdown of Orthodoxy (1570–1650)—when, due to the ambiguities and disagreements within and between authoritative texts, authors were freer to pick the ideas that best suited their own. Nutrition guides were consistent bestsellers, and ranged from small handbooks written in the vernacular for lay audiences, to massive Latin tomes intended for practicing physicians. Albala adds that “anyone with an interest in food appears to have felt qualified to pen his own nutritional guide” (1). Would we have heard about Mrs. Beeton if her husband had not been a publisher? How could a twenty-five year old amass such a wealth of experience in household management? What role has plagiarism played in the history of cookbooks? It is interesting to note that a well worn copy of her book (Beeton) was found in the studio of Francis Bacon and it is suggested that he drew inspiration for a number of his paintings from the colour plates of animal carcasses and butcher’s meat (Dawson). Analysing the post-publication usage of cookbooks is valuable to see the most popular recipes, the annotations left by the owner(s) or user(s), and also if any letters, handwritten recipes, or newspaper clippings are stored within the leaves of the cookbook. The Reader, the Cook, the Eater The physical and inner lives and needs and skills of the individuals who used cookbooks and who ate their meals merit consideration. Books by their nature imply literacy. Who is the book’s audience? Is it the cook or is it the lady of the house who will dictate instructions to the cook? Numeracy and measurement is also important. Where clocks or pocket watches were not widely available, authors such as seventeenth century recipe writer Sir Kenelm Digby would time his cooking by the recitation of the Lord’s Prayer. Literacy amongst protestant women to enable them to read the Bible, also enabled them to read cookbooks (Gold). How did the reader or eater’s religion affect the food practices? Were there fast days? Were there substitute foods for fast days? What about special occasions? Do historic cookbooks only tell us about the food of the middle and upper classes? It is widely accepted today that certain cookbook authors appeal to confident cooks, while others appeal to competent cooks, and others still to more cautious cooks (Bilton). This has always been the case, as has the differentiation between the cookbook aimed at the professional cook rather than the amateur. Historically, male cookbook authors such as Patrick Lamb (1650–1709) and Robert Smith targeted the professional cook market and the nobility and gentry, whereas female authors such as Eliza Acton (1799–1859) and Isabella Beeton (1836–1865) often targeted the middle class market that aspired to emulate their superiors’ fashions in food and dining. How about Tavern or Restaurant cooks? When did they start to put pen to paper, and did what they wrote reflect the food they produced in public eateries? Conclusions This paper has offered an overview of Barbara Ketchum Wheaton’s methodology for reading historic cookbooks using a structured approach. It has highlighted some of the questions scholars and researchers might ask when faced with an old cookbook, regardless of era or geographical location. By systematically examining the book under the headings of ingredients; the cook’s workplace, techniques and equipment; the meals; cookbooks as objects and the world of publishing; and reader, cook and eater, the scholar can perform magic and extract much more from the cookbook than seems to be there on first appearance. References Ackerman, Roy. The Chef's Apprentice. London: Headline, 1988. Adamson, Melitta Weiss. Food in Medieval Times. Westport, Connecticut: Greenwood P, 2004. Albala, Ken. Eating Right in the Renaissance. Ed. Darra Goldstein. Berkeley: U of California P, 2002. Beeton, Isabella. Beeton's Book of Household Management. London: S. Beeton, 1861. 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