Object: Posset Pots

When I hear of a combination of milk and beer or wine, I have to tell you, I think of a hangover remedy -- something to soothe the stomach with a little dash of hair of the dog to ease a pounding head.

Posset pots were drinking vessels usually made from tin-glazed earthenware, sometimes made from silver or glass, to drink the milk and alcohol mixture from. They had two handles and a spout and were very popular in England and Holland from the sixteenth through the eighteenth centuries.

Bristol Delftware Posset Pot, circa 1690; Sotheby’s NYC January 20, 2006; Realized Price: $12,000


Sometimes an egg and spices like cinnamon were added. Sometimes a sweet sherry was used instead of ale or wine. The alcohol would cause the mixture to curdle and separate and the drinker would sip the concoction through the spout.

Dutch Delft Polychrome Posset Pot 18th Century (painted in imitation of Batavian ware); Sotheby’s, Amsterdam, Netherlands, December 4, 2006; Estimate : €800 - €1,200


A little protein post a bout of too much drinking the night before is always recommended. However, I would opt out of drinking this recipe. I am covering my lips with one finger right now as my stomach turns a bit.


George II Delftware Posset Pot circa 1730-40; Christies’ London January 20, 2009; Realized: £1,625


Posset was a popular drink at celebrations such as weddings or Christmas feasts and the posset pot was passed from guest to guest each one sipping from the spout. I wouldn’t have liked to be the last one to sip this mixture. Some people tend to leave a bit of warm, thick backwash.

Posset Pot, ca. 1710 Bristol, England, Nelson-Atkins Museum of Art in KC.


A really good posset was said to have three different layers: the upper having foam; the middle a smooth custard; and the bottom the alcohol. The custard portion was eaten with a spoon and the leftover liquid mixture sipped through the spout. At weddings a wedding ring was sometimes thrown into the posset pot. It was thought that the person who fished it out would be the next to get married.

It was also commonly used for those in bed sick to slowly sip this milk and alcohol mixture from one of these pots. In some rural portions of England, this was practiced even up until the mid twentieth century.

English Delftware White Posset Pot, curca 1700; Sotheby’s NYC, October 20, 2003; Estimated Price: $6,000 - $8,000; failed to sell.


Some seventeenth-century recipes called for bread crumbs, eighteen yokes and three-quarters pound of sugar. (My bottom is spreading from just reading about it.) This recipe sounds similar to a bread pudding I make -- but it has a whiskey sauce mixed with butter and sugar on top. There is no curdling. There is no communal sipping sludge from the bottom. And everyone has their own portion from their own plate nibbling from their own fork.

I must not judge. Times have changed. And I am sure an eighteenth-century English woman would have thought eating a rice cake that tastes similar to Styrofoam was unappealing.

English Delftware Polychrome Posset Pot and cover, Circa 1770; Sotheby’s NYC; October 6, 2006; Estimated Price: $18,000 - $22,000; Realized Price: $66,000 !

Something about these spouts makes me feel a little uncomfortable. Anyone else?

Top image: Posset pot, Netherlands, Late 17th or early 18th century ; Victoria and Albert Museum .

This poison will linger in all our veins even when, the fanfare returning, we are delivered again to the old disharmony. Oh, we now so worthy of such tortures, let us fervently grasp this superhuman promise made to our created bodies and souls: this promise, this madness!

~ Rimbaud

'Drunken Morning’

From Les Illuminations

I’m rebounding from the echoes of last night. Non-stop I had to work, hour after hour, day after day, for weeks I labored over my computer. I had an enormous project to turn in which had been weighing heavily on my mind since the start of the year. In the wee hours of each night, I would waddle to bed stiff from the permanent C-shape my body had formed as I hunched over my old, outdated laptop. My hand developed the form of a claw that ached from hours and hours each day grasping my mouse. At night, I was barely able to hold a toothbrush to drag it across my teeth. And when I finally completed the project, I didn’t take time to celebrate. I had baskets of laundry to do and tumble weeds of dog fur to clean which had collected underneath the furniture from three weeks of neglect. I was also overdue making dinner for my understanding husband. It seemed a good idea to open a few bottles of wine while I tackled these tasks. So I began to sip the dark red contents of my glass and felt it slide past my throat and into an empty and growling stomach while I stuffed the chicken breasts with a particularly tasty Caribbean recipe.

As I cooked I sipped and my shoulders began to lower. They had been at the level of my ears for some time. My back was in less pain. I felt circulation in my legs again. By my third glass, I let out a few giggles. By the fourth glass, I recall myself shrieking in laughter at “Kathy Griffin My Life on the D List” which ran in the background. And by the end of the bottle, I decided to take my dog for a midnight walk. I believe at this point I was skipping down the street and humming a tune, my kitchen apron still on. My dog and I decided to take a detour through a neighbor’s yard running through their sprinklers.

It was hot out last night. The steamy air was too stagnant for even insects to fly through. We needed to cool ourselves off. And it seemed like a good idea at the time.

Poets such as Baudelaire and Rimbaud believed in the “disarrangement of the senses”-- a practice which would inhibit the natural filtration and categorization of information we are methodically taught how to do in school. They did this with the aid of alcohol (and later music performers such as John Lennon and Jim Morrison exercised this through other types of chemicals….). Although I am a believer in the deconstruction of information and finding one’s own methods of relaxation, I am sorry I didn’t stop after my second glass.

I never finished cleaning the floors last night and I am having difficulties completing that task today. My eyelids are as heavy and gritty as sandbags and my brain feels like a dried nut rattling noisily against the insides of my head. My skin dry, my hair flat and my tongue thick. But the worst of all is that I am guilt ridden. I have wasted time today too worthless to do much. I have more work due and I have put people off. I didn’t even benefit from an evening out spending time with friends. Instead I cooked, drank, walked my dog then lost my head. Not a morsel of significance to the evening. The after effects of alcohol are unfair, but it certainly feels so right at the time.

Celebrating the Cellarette

Pardon me as I cannot seem to get off this alcohol theme. Holidays are around the corner and I must subconsciously be thinking about spending time with the family -- which means lots of alcohol. (I'm part Irish, you know.)

A few centuries ago, there was no Two Buck Chuck. In this country and in Britain, wine was a luxury. Such issues as weather, disease, weak grapes and aphids could not be controlled. Even though Franciscan missionaries had established vineyards in California, it was not until the nineteenth century that wine was really produced in America. People prized their wine and stored the bottles tightly away in lavishly decorated containers called cellarettes. They had lids and could be locked. They were usually made in the form of a wooden chest, lined with wood or lead and fitted with individual compartments. (Not to be confused with a wine cooler, which is open and metal lined, and often the terms are interchangeable.)

How convenient these things might have been, especially if on rollers. Wouldn't it be nice today to have a cellarette wheeled out to you to choose a bottle of wine? Isn't anyone curious about what the labels look like when you order off a menu?

Cellarettes existed in the late seventeenth century, sometimes made from marble or a solid metal, but it wasn't until the end of following century and into the first quarter of the next that they reached their heyday. The most common form is a hexagonal or oval body made from mahogany and often banded together with two or three brass bands.

Above is a George III figured mahogany cellarette. The lid opens to reveal a lead-lined divided interior. This failed to sell at Sotheby's in October 2007. Perhaps I'm reading into it too much, but I love the radiating heart-shaped form in the veneer. It is as if the little cellarette is saying 'I love wine'.

This example is the most common form. This British version is hexagonal in shape and banded in brass with carrying handles. Made from mahogany which was a popular wood used during the Regency period. It sits on three molded legs. Sold at Brunk Auctions this month.

Most cellarettes were predominantly mahogany, but other woods such as satinwood, rosewood or padouk were used.

Circa 1830, this American mahogany one is D-shaped with brass stringing inlay on the top and body. The body conforms in shape and decoration to the lid. It is raised on turned legs terminating in casters, which can be wheeled about. Sold at Charlton Hall Galleries, Inc. in June 2000.

An English mahogany sarcophagus form cellarette. With a renewed verve for all things Roman, the sarcophagus shape was very trendy during the first quarter of the nineteenth century. The rectangular top has canted corners over a conforming case with lead lining and supported by carved paw feet. Northeast Auctions, Ronald Bourgeault Auctioneer in May 2008.

Cellarettes fell out of fashion with the importance of the sideboard during the Victorian times. Often a cellarette type drawer was included in many of the massive pieces.

However, they remained popular in the American South even as late as the end of the nineteenth century. Drinking a little vino or spirit was seen as a healthy way to escape the dripping summer heat.

Brunk Auctions characterized the above cellerette as "An important North Carolina cellarette". Made of walnut with hinged top, it opens to reveal a fitted interior. It has a drawer underneath to tuck away utensils. This cellarette has blind dovetailing at all four corners. Note the sweet pierced brackets. This one was attributed to "WH" cabinetmaker, from the Roanoke River Basin in North Carolina, and dated around 1790-1800.

In January of this year it had an estimated value between $15,000 to $30,000. It fetched over $97,000. My my, an important cellarette indeed.

The Cocktail Cabinet was...

… a fashionable novelty to have in one's house in between the world war years. It brought a soupçon of sophistication into life of the bourgeois. The cocktail cabinet was not like its ancestor, the cupboard, which was a place to tuck away one's fancy wares. It was in response to the cocktail drink which became increasingly popular in nightclubs during this time.

The origin of the "cocktail" is fragmented. Allegedly it emerged from a variety of folklores. One story claims it was named after the Mexican Princess "Cocktel" another says it was after the Aztec goddess "Xochitl". Regardless, special alcohol concoctions were said to have been swigged by both. Other tales include a custom of putting a feather, specifically a cock's tail, into a drink to warn the teetotalers not to take a sip. But that sounds rather messy and unappealing. Another claims it was named after the act of docking a horse's tail to signify the horse was not a thoroughbred. Somehow the idea of "mixed breed" of a horse was adapted to the mixing of alcohol with other ingredients. Honestly, I don't like associating sipping a toddy with a horse's derrière.

After Prohibition, the "bright young set" were fans of the cocktail cabinet. It meant emancipation and freedom to drink, smoke and drive cars fast. But to the older generation, it was offensive to values of class and taste. Middle class home manuals warned against the vulgar display of liquor in the home. It was too much like a public bar. No self-respecting home would present itself like a private bar welcoming unsavory types.

During the interwar years, the cocktail party was popular and quite a stylish shindy to throw instead of a dinner party. Buffet style – one could serve themselves with much more time to drink. The cocktail cabinet became a symbol of modernity.

The cabinet took on a variety of forms from a two-tier arrangement of a cabinet over cupboard to a simple cabinet resting on a stand. Doors would open to reveal a fully fitted array of cocktail shakers, stemmed glasses, cherry picks and lemon squeezers. Sometimes discretely built into a wall or rolled out on a trolley to wheel about.

Lately, the cocktail cabinet has been reintroduced, mainly in smaller versions or a tray placed on a sideboard or chest to hold bottles and decanters. Even if people don't stock it full of their favorite spirit, it nevertheless alludes to bygone day.

In 2007 Skinner sold this circa 1930 cocktail cabinet accompanied by a cocktail shaker and three chrome pitchers.

From High Style Deco in NYC, is this circa 1935 bookmatched burled elm cabinet with reverse painted mirrored design. The tambour doors below offers storage for additional bottles of liquor.

Although English, TFTM in Los Angeles has this cocktail cabinet also from the 1930's. Satinwood and walnut. The center doors lock for those unruly teenagers at home. The doors open to reveal a mirrored back and glass shelves. There is also a pullout mirrored shelf in the middle for convenient mixing of your favorite potion.

Shaken, Not Stirred

Have you ever wondered why some drinks require a cocktail shaker while others need only a simple turn of the spoon?

Why did James Bond prefer that his martini was shaken and not stirred? How would one know the difference?

Nick Charles said: “The important thing when making a cocktail is the rhythm. A Manhattan you shake to fox-trot time, a Bronx to two-step time, a dry martini you always shake to waltz time.”

Alcohol concoctions have been around forever. Even certain recipes have been recorded as far back as the sixteenth century. But the cocktail shaker, as we know it today, was finally perfected in the 1920s.

After World War I was over, the mood was marked by optimism and bliss. And what better way to celebrate this than to get pickled. During the roaring 20s martinis were served in sterling silver shakers to those of high society. The less high-brow had to do with glass or nickel-plated artifices.

The manufacturing of cocktail shakers exploded after the repeal of Prohibition in 1933. Manufacturers began turning them out in droves. They were featured on the silver screen. Shakers and martini glasses were almost a character themselves. Stars were glamorously sipping cocktails and the cocktail shaker was depicted as a symbol of sophistication.

As the following decades unfolded, the cocktail shaker retained its vogue. A popular wedding gift for newlyweds throughout the 40s, 50s and 60s. It was the ultimate kind of elegance and only the skilled knew just how long to shake it. The sound something similar to an orchestra playing maracas.

This year Sotheby's NYC sold this 1934 silver plated cocktail set made by International Silver Company. It was part of the "International Giftware" series and sold as a set comprised of five cups, a shaker shaker and tray. The hammer price was over $10,000. Second thoughts on serving Pavlova in a plastic bottle in that one.
Norman Bel Geddes designed this "Manhattan" bright chrome cocktail shaker which was produced from 1936-1940. Note the raised vertical ribs for ease of gripping. In 2003, Rago auctions sold this one well under its estimate.

For those into the nautilus theme, Brunk Auctions sold this a cocktail shaker in the form of a Boston lighthouse in 2004. Circa 1920 Meriden Silver Plate produced it.

There were rooster and penguin-shaped shakers, zeppelins and airplanes, and even golf bags. The penguin with its tuxedo suit symbolized the good life.

But sadly, as we know, all good things must come to an end . . .

Tantalizing Tantalus

For the dipsomaniac who fancies the finer things in life . . . a tantalus: a decorative case or box that holds cut-glass decanters. It is usually for two or three decanters, but sometimes can be large enough to hold up to six. Some even occupy room for crystal cordials for a convenient nightcap.

They were very fashionable from the mid-nineteenth century until the beginning of the twentieth and used in many of the grandest houses.

The name "Tantalus" comes from the word "tantalize". They are lockable not allowing anyone except for the one who has access to the key. The tantalus would store the owner's finest brandy and other whiskey from the eager attention of their butler, who might once in a while treat himself to a little swizzle or two after the owner has retired to bed.


In June of this year, Cowan's in Ohio sold this Continental gilt bronze and beveled glass tantalus for $1,725.
J'adore l'alcohol . . . a fine French inlaid burlwood tantalus. It has brass, copper and silver inlays and opens to reveal a brass-mounted tray with four engraved bottles and eight cordials. C'est magnifique!

Charlton Hall Galleries sold this one is September for $1,955.

This George III mahogany tantalus chest opens to an interior compartment that is fitted with a stemware caddy and two cut glass decanters. It went up for auction this month at New Orleans Auctions for an estimate of $ 2,500 - $ 4,000, but failed to sell. Blimey!

Neal Auction Company sold this English oak for $780 in October 2007. Circa 1890, it has a lock and key safely securing three square crystal decanters.

Freeman's in Philadelphia sold this Napolean III tantalus in December 2006 for a mere $478. Barely over its lowest estimate, it has boulle and tortoiseshell with gilt bronze mounts.

For the thirsty bookworm, a simple raise of a paddle and this could have been yours for $272.