“Imagine a knock at the door, and when you answer, the caller hands you a package. It contains a package. It contains a wrapped packet of biscuits tied with a black ribbon. Instantly, you know there’s been a death, and this is your invitation to the funeral.”
While searching for cookies popular in the mid-to-late 19th century, for my September release, Caroline’s Challenge (Westward Home and Hearts), a link to funeral cookies popped up. Having never heard of this concept, my interest was piqued for two reasons. First, the topic sounded so unusual that I wondered if any readers of Petticoats & Pistols might have knowledge of it, and second, maybe I could use it for a scene in the book! And while it might appear a bit creepy at first, I came to understand that it was a way the family and mourners honored the deceased.
Funeral biscuits were part of the ritual of a funeral in the mid-to-late 19th century in the United Kingdom and America. These were not made at home, but by a confectioner, or baker, as this was considered a sign of status. They varied in size, shape, and consistency, but carried a message of mourning, honor, and remembrance. Between two and six biscuits were bundled in wax paper, sealed with black wax, and tied with black ribbon. Sometimes, this wrapping bore a design with the usual hearts, cupids, and (gasp!) skulls. At other times, the wrapper was the death notice of the deceased, a poem, or a Bible verse.
At the height of the Victorian Age — around the same time as the U.S. Civil War — the Victorian poetry on funeral biscuit wrappings was as maudlin and overwrought as the Victorian garden cemeteries to which the dead were dispatched.
While surviving recipes are rare, those that do exist suggest a sweet similar to shortbread or a molasses cookie. The shortbread style was often pressed into a wooden mold that bore a design such as an hourglass, heart, cross, or cupid.
The ingredients chosen for these biscuits were laden with symbolism. Anise, known for its soothing properties, was often included for its calming effect on the mourners. Caraway seeds, with their slightly bitter taste, symbolized the bitterness of loss. And a touch of rosewater added a delicate floral note, evoking memories of the departed.
Funeral biscuits were common among British and German Americans from Virginia to Pennsylvania, and some traditions even included the practice of consuming them with wine or spirits.
Sometimes, the biscuits were delivered to mourners in advance, acting as a death announcement and invitation to the funeral, similar to the opening quote above. Some were given out when people went to the house to pay their respects. One account from Montgomery County near Philadelphia stated that mourners going from the church to the graveyard would first stop by a young woman holding a tray of biscuits, and then again at a young man inviting them to sip on spirits, ending up with a mouthful of each. Other biscuits were handed out at the viewing, to be opened and eaten at home, with the printed wrapper as a memento, or mailed to those who couldn’t attend the funeral.
Prior to the oh-so-hygienic funeral homes of today, family members awaited burial in the home–in the parlor, if the house had such a room. (Author’s Note: My late mother-in-law owned a quintessential two-story Victorian house on Cape Cod with a wrap-around porch, a borning room upstairs, and a dying room downstairs, just inside the front door.)
In the end, Victorian Mourning Biscuits remind us that food has always played a role beyond nourishment. It has the power to connect us with our past, express our emotions, and provide comfort in times of sorrow. So, next time you enjoy a biscuit, take a moment to appreciate the rich history and heartfelt sentiments that can be woven into every bite.
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“Next stop, Pine Ridge. Twenty minutes lay over only,” the conductor bellowed as he passed through the car.
Soon, the train began to slow, the brakes screeching in protest as Pine Ridge came into view. It was larger than Caroline had expected, a proper town rather than the cluster of rough buildings she’d imagined. A church steeple rose above the pines, and a main street lined with wooden buildings stretched to meet the horizon. In the distance, the mountains loomed with their peaks still capped with snow.
Caroline smoothed her hands down the front of her dress and collected her belongings with trembling hands as the comfortable routine of the journey came to an end and reality awaited her on the platform ahead. Jane Trahern had disembarked in North Platte, Nebraska, leaving her to face the final moment alone.
“Watch your step, ma’am,” the conductor advised, providing a wooden block for passengers to make the transition from the train to the platform. “I had the porter put your trunk near the ticket office. Enjoy your stay in Pine Ridge.”
The station was considerably smaller than Boston’s, but no less busy. Miners, cowboys, and farmers crowded the platform, calling out greetings and searching for familiar faces. Caroline scanned the crowd anxiously, looking for the face that matched the daguerreotype she held in her reticule. But as the minutes ticked by and the crowd dispersed, she saw no sign of James Murdock.
Ignoring the niggling panic running down her spine and the unexpected afternoon heat, Caroline made her way to the ticket office. The man behind the counter never looked up as his pencil scratched across the paper in front of him. Finally, she cleared her throat.
“Excuse me, sir. I’m looking for James Murdock. He was supposed to meet me here.”
The clerk stopped his scribbling long enough to look up. His expression shifted from annoyance to something uncomfortably close to pity. “Murdock? The mercantile owner?”
“Yes, we’ve been corresponding for some months regarding a matrimonial arrangement. ”Heat burned in her cheeks at the admission to a complete stranger.
The man cleared his throat, suddenly returning with great interest to his ledger. “Miss, perhaps you should speak with Sheriff Landers in the morning. I believe there’s been a situation with Mr. Murdock.”
Something in his tone made Caroline’s stomach lurch. As the other passengers found their parties and left, she remained on the platform watching her dream of a new life and family fade into nothingness. The weight of her decision to seek out Millie Crenshaw, to accept James Murdock’s proposal, and travel to Pine Creek pressed down on her shoulders like a millstone.
Her fingers found her cross, gripping it as if it were a lifeline, her lips moving in silent prayer. Though she had coins in her reticule, it certainly wasn’t enough for a return ticket, nor did she have any connections in Colorado.
She stepped off the platform onto the street, shading her eyes with one hand against the sun and dust motes swirling in the air. The main street of Pine Creek stretched out before her, a mixture of wooden boardwalks and false-fronted buildings that reached toward the wide Colorado sky. Women in practical dresses hurried about their errands while cowboys lounged outside the saloon, their spurs catching the late afternoon sun. Going up on her toes, she stretched her neck toward the horizon as if the movement might produce her intended groom.
As the sun began its descent, painting the sky in brilliant hues of purple and gold, Caroline returned to stand alone on the platform. She breathed deeply of the pine-scented air, straightened her spine as she had done so many times at St. Girard’s when facing challenging tasks. Whatever came next, she would confront it with courage and faith.
Little did she know that the Lord’s plan for her life was about to change in ways she could never have imagined.
