History

Since no work was permitted on the Sabbath, they prepared Saturday's meal in advance, assembling a stew, a cholent, with potatoes, barley, and sometimes a piece of meat. A sweet and savory pudding made from leftover bread simmered within the stew. Her mother removed the pot from the coal stove and covered it with brown paper, then tied it around several times with string. Sala wrote their name on the paper and carefully carried the large pot around the corner to Shimon the baker, who inserted it on a long paddle into the recesses of his giant oven. together with dozens of other pots from neighbors, each tied and identified, ready to be served hot for the next afternoon's meal.

-Sala's Gift by Ann Kirschner

Bread pudding is both good and weird at the same time. It tastes sweet and filling, yet I sit there thinking that it's a weird texture for bread - but yet again, it's not exactly bread anymore; then I think that it's a weird texture for pudding, but it's not exactly pudding either. It's almost like it is in this in between state of bread and pudding: not quite one or the other. A twilight zone of sorts.

The dinner is delicious, but I pick at my food because at court there is always someone watching you, and I don't want to seem greedy. Our table faces the front of the hall, so it is natural that I look up to see the king at his dinner. In his rich clothes and great collar of gold you might mistake him for one of the old pictures over an altar; I mean, a picture of God. He is so grand and so broad and so weighted with gold and jewels, he sparkles like an old treasure mountain. There is a cloth of gold spread over his great chair, with embroidered curtains hanging down on either side, and every dish is served to him by a servant on his knees. Even the server who offers him a golden bowl to dip his fingers and wipe his hands does so on bended knee. There is another server altogether to hand him the linen cloth. They bow their heads as well when they kneel to him, as if he were of such unearthly importance that they cannot meet his eyes.

-The Boleyn Inheritance by Philippa Gregory

Reading a novel by Philippa Gregory is like eating chocolate. It's so smooth, rich, and delicious that I find myself disappointed every time I finish one of her books. My only consolation is that I still have yet to read all of them - and hopefully she'll never stop writing.

Historical novels need to be written well for me, and hers meet my expectations. This one centers around Henry VIII and three ladies in his court - you know, the one who had multiple wives and killed nearly every one of them. You can almost taste the fear of the women who surrounded him, and wonder how any of them wound up surviving.