Step lively, good friends, and gather round my pot, for I have a warm and winning dish to share. Mortrews of Pork and White Pease is a velvety pottage that clings to the spoon and hums with quiet luxury. It is the kind of medieval food that brings cheer to a chilly night and contentment to a busy day. The pork turns tender as a kiss from the hearth, the white peas melt into cream, and ginger with saffron lend a noble glow. A splash of verjuice, which is the tart juice of unripe grapes, brightens the finish and keeps the richness playful rather than heavy.

If you fancy historical cooking and the charm of medieval recipes, this old English treasure will make your kitchen feel like a bustling fair. It is hearty yet refined, rustic yet courtly, and it welcomes modern cooks with open arms.

Here are reasons this dish deserves a place at your table.

• It is gentle and soul warming, perfect for family supper or a quiet evening.
• It offers a true taste of medieval food while using easy pantry staples.
• It teaches real historical cooking methods without fuss.
• It is economical, nourishing, and deeply satisfying.

This mortrews keeps company with roast apples, dark bread, and a merry heart.

What is Mortrews of Pork and White Pease?

Mortrews of Pork and White Pease is a thick, velvety English pottage from medieval times. Pottage means a stew like dish that lies between soup and porridge. The pork is simmered slowly with white peas until both become soft. Then the mixture is gently mashed to a smooth body that clings to the spoon. Ginger brings warmth, saffron brings gold and a light floral scent, and verjuice brings gentle tartness from unripe grapes. The result is rustic and refined at once. It is medieval food at its most comforting, a fine example of historical cooking that fits a modern stove with ease.

History of Mortrews of Pork and White Pease

In the old days of England, when banners snapped in the wind and bells called folk to prayer, mortrews was a beloved pottage. The very word comes from the mortar and pestle used to pound meat and grain into a smooth, rich mass. Cooks served mortrews at halls both grand and modest, for it could be fine enough to please a king and plain enough to fill the bellies of laborers after a long day in the fields.

The dish is recorded in early English cookery manuscripts. The Forme of Cury, compiled by the master cooks serving King Richard the Second in the late fourteen century, gives mortrews as a thick meat pottage that is often pounded and sieved for a velvet finish. Later household manuscripts from the fifteen century, such as the Harleian collections, show the dish in several guises with pork or poultry and with thickeners like bread or ground pulses. The spirit is the same in all of them, a savory blend cooked softly and finished smooth for grace at the table.

As for the peas, English kitchens knew white peas well. Folk called them pease, a staple dried pea that kept through winter. Pease pottage supported villages and towns, while versions favored by the noble tables might be enriched with fine stock, saffron, and pepper. Over time, cooks wedded the two ideas, pairing tender pork with white peas to create a mortrews that is rustic and elegant at once. This kind of blending of peasant sense and noble taste makes medieval recipes such a pleasure to revive today.

Recipe in historic cookbooks

This mortrews is special because it is built on contrast and harmony. The peas bring cream without dairy, and the pork brings savor without heaviness when simmered gently. Ginger offers warmth that feels like sunlight in a mug. Saffron brings golden color and a floral breath, the very whisper of wealth in the medieval pantry. Then comes the little sour kiss of verjuice to brighten the pot and make every spoonful spirited rather than sleepy.

It shines at a feast because it is easy to serve and hard to forget. The texture is spoon coating and lush. The fragrance is cozy yet polished, like fresh straw by a painted chapel. The flavors are clear and honest. You can taste the field in the peas, the farm in the pork, and the far road in the spice. For lovers of medieval food and historical cooking, this dish is a bridge between an open hearth and a modern stove, with every crossing a delight.

Who ate this in medieval times?

Everyone with sense and hunger could love this pottage. Peasants and laborers would have eaten a humbler bowl, made thick with peas and flavored with scraps of pork or a bone rich in marrow. Such a pot stands well on the home hearth, sturdy as a cart wheel and kind to the purse. Lesser nobility and townsfolk might add a better piece of pork and a dash of imported spice for Sunday dinner. High nobility and royalty would expect it smooth as silk, strained and gilded with saffron, and served with soft white bread and bright verjuice to show the cook’s craft.

The clergy had their own customs. On fast days they would set aside meat and make a fish or almond version, still called mortrews, with ground almonds standing in for dairy richness. On lean days the pot spoke softly. On feast days it sang with spice and color. In winter, when fields slept, white peas were a blessing. In spring, when the carts rattled with new goods, saffron and ginger rode in with the merchants and found their way into the finest pots.

Historic substitutions and notes

Here are tips and substitutions to help your modern kitchen hum like a medieval one while keeping comfort and clarity.

• White peas means dried field peas that cook to a pale cream. If you cannot find them, use yellow split peas or marrowfat peas. The texture will still be lovely.
• Verjuice is the tart juice of unripe grapes. Apple cider vinegar makes a good stand in. Start with a small splash and add more if you wish. Lemon juice works in a pinch but tastes brighter and less grape like.
• Saffron adds color and aroma. A pinch is enough. If you must, use a tiny bit of turmeric for color, but know that turmeric will not bring the floral scent of saffron.
• Ginger in ground form is historically correct and easy to use. Fresh ginger can be used if you grate it very fine. The flavor will feel livelier and a touch sharper.
• Lard or bacon drippings give the stew medieval heart. If you prefer, use butter or a neutral oil. Bacon fat adds smoky depth that matches pork well.
• Stock should be unsalted so you can season to taste. Chicken stock works as kindly as pork stock. Vegetable stock makes a gentle base if you prefer less meat flavor.
• Texture is the glory of mortrews. Use a potato masher for a rustic feel. Use a short burst with an immersion blender for a smoother, courtly finish.
• For timing, simmer low and slow for one and a half to two hours until the peas collapse and the pork yields to a spoon. A pressure cooker shortens the time, yet watch the texture and season at the end.
• For American measures, two hundred grams of peas is about one cup. Seven hundred grams of pork shoulder is about one and a half pounds. One point two liters of stock is about five cups. These are friendly conversions for easy shopping.
• Leftovers thicken as they cool. Loosen with a splash of hot water or stock when warming. The flavor deepens on the second day, which is a fine medieval habit.

These notes keep the spirit of historical cooking while making life simple for the busy cook.

How was Mortrews of Pork and White Pease made back in the day?

Picture a wide hearth with a black pot swung over glowing coals. I would set a spoonful of lard in the pot and let it melt, then in would go onion and leek until sweet and shining. Pork would follow, cut in tidy cubes, just enough heat to color the edges. In the old way I would toss in soaked white peas, a bay leaf from the garden, a breath of ginger from the spice box, and a pinch of saffron threads. Then I would flood the pot with mild stock and drop the fire to a gentle simmer.

Skimming was a mark of care. A clean pot speaks well of a cook. I would ladle off the foam that gathers early, then let the stew murmur for a good long while. When the peas softened and the pork turned tender, I would lift away the bay and set to the pith of the method. A wooden masher or a pestle makes the mixture thick and smooth. In grand houses we would pass it through a cloth for a silk finish. In humble homes we would mash just enough to make a hearty spoonful.

To season the pot, I would add salt and a dust of white pepper. A splash of verjuice wakes the flavors and gives the stew a clean goodbye on the tongue. Then I would let it rest off the fire for a few moments. Rest is a gentle cook’s secret. In modern kitchens the steps are the same, only the fire is a knob and the pot a saucepan. The old heart remains the same.

Recipe FAQ

---

Is verjuice essential or may I use vinegar instead

Verjuice is a lovely touch, yet your pot will not sulk without it. Verjuice brings the soft green tartness of unripe grapes, so the sour note is round and not sharp. If you have apple cider vinegar, use a small splash, then taste and add a little more only if the stew asks for it. Vinegar is brighter and more forward, while verjuice is gentle and whispering. A trick from my bench is to stir the vinegar into a spoonful of the hot stew first, then fold that back into the pot. This softens the angle of the acid and keeps the mortrews friendly and balanced.

What are white peas and can I use split peas from the store

White peas are dried field peas that turn pale and creamy when cooked. In English markets of old they were common as coins and kept well through winter. Modern grocery shelves may not name them plainly, yet yellow split peas or marrowfat peas give much the same comfort. Choose split peas if you wish a quicker collapse. Choose whole peas if you like a bit more body after a long simmer. Rinse well, soak whole peas overnight if you can, and cook low and steady. The goal is a soft grain that yields to the pork and lets the ginger and saffron glide through the pot.

How thick should mortrews be and how did cooks test it in the past

Mortrews is meant to be thick enough to coat a spoon and slow enough that it would sit neatly on a trencher of bread. In my fair kitchen I test it the simple way. Dip a wooden spoon, draw a line through the back with your finger, and watch. If the line holds for a moment before the stew drifts back, you have reached the right tenderness. In great halls, servants would strain the pot for a silk finish that mounds softly in the bowl. At a cottage hearth, a rougher mash was prized for strength. Add a splash of hot stock if it grows too stout. Let it rest a breath if it feels thin. The pot will tell you what it wants.