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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 Collection of 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"<ref>{{Cyt

}}</ref>). Czerniecki was well aware that his was the first cookbook to be published in his native tongue. "``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 have dared, {{...}} despite my ineptitude, to offer my {{...}} collection of dishes to the Polish world."<ref>{{Cyt

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") 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"''" ("``thou"), but consistently called her "``Your Princely Grace, my Most Charitable Lady and Benefactress".

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"''", or literally "``a little mushroom":

There’s a&nbsp;breakfast dish popular with Polish college students that is known under the fancy name, "''``jajecznica na winie"''", which literally means "``scrambled eggs on 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 się nawinie"''", meaning "``whatever is at 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 scrambled eggs", a&nbsp;recipë for "''``jajecznica z winem"''", or "``scrambled eggs with wine". This time, it’s no joke; it’s an egg dish made with actual wine. Here it goes:

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

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 solely be added to dishes meant to be sweet lest one err against one's culinary 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", as Czerniecki would have called it).