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[[File:Jajecznica na winie 4.jpg|thumb|What dish is this? You're You’re gonna find out at the end of this post.]]

== A &nbsp;Collection of Dishes ==The book in question, first published in 1682, was written by Stanisław Czerniecki (pronounced: {{pron|stah|nee|sWahf}} {{pron|cheR|nyets|kee}}), a&nbsp;steward and chef at the court of the princely house of Lubomirski. He gave it a&nbsp;bilingual (Latin-Polish) title, ''Compendium ferculorum, albo Zebranie potraw'' (both parts meaning ``A “A Collection of Dishes"Dishes”), but the contents were entirely in Polish (contrary to what Ms. Mary Ellen Snodgrass suggested in her ''Encyclopedia of Kitchen History'', where she described ''Compendium ferculorum'' as Poland’s ``Latin standard"“Latin standard”<ref>{{Cyt

}}</ref>). Czerniecki was well aware that his was the first cookbook to be published in his native tongue. ``As “As no one before me has yet wished to present to the world such useful knowledge in our Polish language," ” he wrote in his opening line, ``I “I have dared, {{...}} despite my ineptitude, to offer my {{...}} collection of dishes to the Polish world."”<ref>{{Cyt

Take a &nbsp;hazel grouse or a &nbsp;partridge, small birds or pigeons, a &nbsp;capon or veal, or whatever [kind of meat] you want; soak in water, place in a &nbsp;pot, salt, bring to boil, debone, cover again with the stock, add parsley; and when boiling, add coulis [thick vegetable sauce], vinegar, sugar, saffron, pepper, cinnamon, both kinds of raisins, and limes; bring to boil and serve in a &nbsp;bowl.

[[File:Nowy Wiśnicz z&nbsp;powietrza.jpg|thumb|left|The castle of Nowy Wiśnicz, which once belonged to House Lubomirski; this is where Stanisław Czerniecki worked as a &nbsp;steward and chef, and where he wrote down his recipës in the first cookbook to be printed in Polish.]]Another thing we take for granted is that it’s usually the same person who buys a&nbsp;cookbook, reads it and cooks from it. In the 17th century, though, it was quite normal for these three roles to be separated. The book would have been purchased by someone who could afford it, that is, a&nbsp;rich nobleman or a&nbsp;magnate (the Polish equivalent of an aristocrat). Or, rather, it would have been his wife, the lady of the house. She would have bought the book not for herself, however, but for the head chef (or ``master cook"“master cook”) she’d had employed. It was the head chef’s job to manage the entire kitchen staff, order the necessary ingredients from external suppliers and make decisions about what would be served on the lord’s table (having agreed the menu and the costs with the lady). So the recipës in the cookbook would have been read by the head chef – an experienced professional who didn’t need all the proportions, temperatures and cooking times, because he already kept this knowledge in his head. But here comes another twist: he would have read the recipës aloud – not to himself, but to the kitchen staff, who would carry the instructions out. We can tell this by the grammatical forms used in the book; it’s always the singular second-person imperative, indicating a&nbsp;direct order that you could issue to your subordinate, but never to a&nbsp;magnate or to his wife who actually owned the book. Czerniecki, for example, would have never addressed his own employer, Princess Helena Tekla Lubomirska, by the familiar ''``ty"“ty”'' (``thou"“thou”), but consistently called her ``Your “Your Princely Grace, my Most Charitable Lady and Benefactress"Benefactress”.

Beat the eggs, pour onto butter in a &nbsp;clay skillet and, having fried them, serve in the skillet; you may also chop up finely some young green onions or parsley.

Beat eggs together with milk and some flour, grease a &nbsp;clay skillet or pan with butter, pour small amounts [of the mixture into the pot], fry into thin [pancakes] and serve drenched with [melted] butter.

And here’s one more egg-based recipë; this one is for a&nbsp;kind of sweet omelette, which Czerniecki refers to by a&nbsp;now old-fashioned Polish term, ''``grzybek"“grzybek”'', or literally ``a “a little mushroom"mushroom”:

Beat eggs with milk; if you want, you can add some flour too, but it's it’s better without the flour; add small raisins and cinnamon, pour onto hot butter in a &nbsp;clay skillet, fry and flip, and once fried, dust with sugar and serve.

There’s a&nbsp;breakfast dish popular with Polish college students that is known under the fancy name, ''``jajecznica “jajecznica na winie"winie”'', which literally means ``scrambled “scrambled eggs on wine"wine”. This is a&nbsp;joke name, of course; which college student would waste good wine (or even not so good wine) by adding it to scrambled eggs? The name actually comes from the expression ''``co “co się nawinie"nawinie”'', meaning ``whatever “whatever is at hand"hand”, which is exactly what ingredients are added to the dish (other than the mandatory eggs, that is).

And yet, we can find in Czerniecki’s cookbook, beside the ``simple “simple scrambled eggs"eggs”, a&nbsp;recipë for ''``jajecznica “jajecznica z winem"winem”'', or ``scrambled “scrambled eggs with wine"wine”. This time, it’s no joke; it’s an egg dish made with actual wine. Here it goes:

Melt butter in a &nbsp;clay skillet, break eggs into wine and beat together with sugar and cinnamon; pour onto hot butter; once fried, serve in the skillet and do not stir.

The last instruction (``do “do not stir"stir”) indicates that it’s not really scrambled eggs after all, but again a&nbsp;kind of sweet omelette; apparently, the word ''``jajecznica"“jajecznica”'' had a&nbsp;broader meaning in Czerniecki’s times than it has today.

[[File:Jajecznica na winie 2.jpg|thumb|left|upright|Egg-and-wine mixture poured onto a &nbsp;pan]]I beat the eggs with the pinch of salt, then I added the sugar, cinnamon and wine, and poured the whole mixture onto a&nbsp;butter-greased pan. The original recipë doesn’t call for raisins, but I figured they wouldn’t make the dish any less authentic and added them as well (Czerniecki cautioned only that raisins ``should “should solely be added to dishes meant to be sweet lest one err against one's one’s culinary training"training”<ref>Czerniecki, ''op. cit.'', p. 14, own translation</ref>).

I fried it just a&nbsp;little more, flipped onto a&nbsp;plate (taking advantage of using a&nbsp;teflon pan rather than a&nbsp;clay pot) and dusted with powdered sugar (or ``sugar flour"“sugar flour”, as Czerniecki would have called it).