The Heritage Table: The Barons Mustard Soup with Saxon Silk Seasoning.

michel1492
3 days ago
3 min read

I first encountered mustard soup decades ago at an East Kingdom Twelfth Night event, deep in the bustle of a Society for Creative Anachronism feast hall. I still remember the hum of voices, the glint of pewter, and the air heavy with anticipation as Baron Salaamallah the Corpulent presided over the kitchen like a benevolent alchemist. When the bowls of steaming golden soup emerged—thick and fragrant with mustard and cream—the room seemed to pause.

Even then, I knew this wasn’t a strictly medieval recipe. It was something more affectionate—a tribute to history through flavor. The Baron’s Mustard Soup was part feast dish, part performance, and entirely joyful. Its warmth and spice carried the spirit of fellowship that medieval feasts were meant to evoke: indulgent, communal, and fleetingly perfect.

Years later, I wanted to capture that memory through my own work at Oak City Spice Blends. When I revisited the Baron’s recipe from the old Florilegium archives, I found its heart still beating in the balance of mustard, butter, and cream. To honor it, I added a touch of my Saxon Silk seasoning—a blend that feels at home in the same imagined century of spiced comfort and golden light. The result is a soup that may not come from the pages of Le Ménagier de Paris, but lives entirely within the spirit of medieval hospitality.

Flavor Profile

Mustard Soup with Saxon Silk is rich and velvety, layered with aromatic spice and the subtle warmth of prepared mustard. The butter and cream soften the edges, while Saxon Silk—with its hints of ginger, herbs, and gentle pepper—adds an almost candlelit perfume. The peas offer a bright, festive contrast, like emeralds against gilded fabric.

This is not a peasant’s fare; it’s the kind of dish one might imagine served in a noble household on a cold winter’s night, when the hall is full of laughter and lanterns flicker against the stone walls.

The Recipe - Mustard Soup with Saxon Silk

Ingredients

2 Tbsp unsalted butter
2 Tbsp flour
2½ cups chicken stock
1¼ cups whole milk
½ cup heavy cream
2 large eggs
3 Tbsp Dijon or spicy brown mustard
1 tsp Oak City Spice Blends Saxon Silk, plus a pinch for garnish
½ tsp salt (or to taste)
Dash of white pepper
1 cup fresh or frozen peas, lightly blanched

Instructions

In a heavy saucepan, melt the butter over medium heat. Add the flour and stir constantly for about 2 minutes to form a roux.
Gradually whisk in the Saxon Silk, and chicken stock until smooth. Add the milk and simmer gently, stirring, until slightly thickened.
In a separate bowl, whisk together the eggs, cream, and mustard.
Temper the mixture with a ladleful of hot broth, whisking to prevent curdling, then slowly stir it into the soup.
Cook gently over low heat—never allowing it to boil—until the soup thickens and coats the back of a spoon (about 5 minutes).
Season with salt and white pepper.
Serve hot, garnished with peas and a light dusting of Saxon Silk.

Optional medieval flourish: Float a small slice of toasted bread brushed with mustard in the center of each bowl.

Spice Significance

Mustard has a long and storied presence in medieval European kitchens. By the 13th century, it was so popular that entire guilds in Dijon and Paris specialized in its preparation. In England, mustard seeds were ground with wine, verjuice, or vinegar, forming the fiery paste that accompanied meats and pottages.

The combination of mustard, milk, and spice would have been understood by late medieval cooks as both restorative and indulgent—a tonic for cold weather and a gesture of hospitality.

Adding Saxon Silk returns a sense of period resonance to Baron Salaamallah’s recipe. The seasoning’s blend of warm spice and subtle herb echoes early English and Norman flavor traditions: ginger for heat, pepper for vitality, and savory herbs for balance. It’s as if the soup now wears its medieval ancestry proudly, without losing the joy of its SCA origins.

The Spicekeeper’s Reflection

Sometimes history reaches us through joy rather than accuracy. That evening at Twelfth Night, I didn’t care whether the soup came from Taillevent or from the imagination of a kind Baron with a ladle in hand. What mattered was the warmth of the bowl, the laughter at the tables, and the sense that, for a brief winter night, we had stepped together into another century.