Generations of Germans believe Frederick the Great brought potatoes to Germany. It's a myth
The legend is this: King Frederick II of Prussia wanted his subjects to eat potatoes, introduced to Europe in the 16th century from South America. But the people of Prussia, which later became part of a united Germany , wouldn't touch the tuber.
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Tourists leave potatoes on Frederick the Great's grave. They're perpetuating a German myth
POTSDAM, Germany (AP) — Generations of Germans believe Frederick the Great brought the beloved potato to Germany. The legend is this: King Frederick II of Prussia wanted his subjects to eat potatoes, introduced to Europe in the 16th century from South America. But the people of Prussia, which later became part of a united Germany, wouldn't touch the tuber. So the 18th-century monarch resorted to trickery. He placed royal guards and soldiers along the edge of his palace garden — thus creating the illusion that potatoes were a rare and valuable crop reserved for the royal family and its aristocratic friends. But the guards withdrew from their posts each night, creating an opportunity for enterprising locals to sneak in and 'steal' the spuds. Thus began Germany's love affair with the humble Kartoffel and Frederick's rebranding as Der Kartoffelkönig, the potato king. Except it's all fake. Bogus. Phony. Falsch! as the Germans would say. And debunking it is a royal pain for Jürgen Luh, historian of the Prussian Palaces and Gardens Foundation, even when history has receipts. Archives of royal menus show the king instead had a penchant for Italian food and French wine. 'He never ate it,' Luh said. 'Any potato. Not boiled, not fried.' The unexciting truth is that the potato has been cultivated in Germany's Bavarian region since 1647, Luh said. Frederick's great-grandfather, Elector Frederick William, introduced it to the Brandenburg area of Prussia in the 1650s, but only because he liked the aesthetics of the plant's leafy greens. By the time Frederick the Great took the throne in 1740, the potato was grown in gardens throughout Prussia but not on a large scale. The king did actually issue royal decrees promoting the farming and production of potatoes, but his people ignored them. Potatoes did not become widespread in Prussia, in central and eastern Europe, until after the Napoleonic wars ended in 1815, after Frederick II's death in 1786. The guarded garden story, Luh said, is nonsense. And Frederick was more of a wannabe potato king than an actual one. But the fable has deep roots, and the myth makes money. To this day, visitors to Frederick's summer home of Sanssouci Palace in Potsdam, outside Berlin, leave raw potatoes and paper crowns on the king's grave. The palace's gift shops sell potato merchandise, from postcards and children's books to a 35-euro ($40) apron proclaiming the wearer as a Kartoffelkönig. Luh used to correct tour guides and visitors to the palace, but he's largely given up. Besides, he said, at least it means people are coming to Sanssouci and experiencing its rich history. 'The fact is that the legend has beaten the truth and the legend is just too beautiful,' he added. Whatever its roots, the potato is undeniably part of the German cultural identity. At Biohof Schöneiche, an organic farm outside Berlin, workers will harvest roughly 2,500 metric tons (5.5 million pounds) of potatoes come the annual September harvest. 'In most parts of the world, potatoes are considered a vegetable. In Germany it's a staple food,' general manager Axel Boehme said. 'People cannot imagine to have a meal without potatoes.' Regional recipes, passed down from every Oma (grandmother) to each new generation, debate the merits of a vinegar- or mayo-based Kartoffelsalat. From boiled (Salzkartoffeln) or pan-fried (Bratkartoffeln) to dumplings and pancakes (Kartoffelklösse and Kartoffelpuffer), the versatile vegetable is intertwined with the country's emotional heritage. Anke Schoenfelder, project manager for German potato marketing company Kartoffel-Marketing GmbH, says her favorite tuber tradition is rooted in making Kartoffel-Karotten-Gugelhupf (potato and carrot Bundt cake) for family gatherings. 'Taste is memory, right? And when this is related to your family, this is even more part of your identity,' she said. Plus, Schoenfelder added, the potato can be used as a beauty product — the juice can be good for your skin, she says — or a household cleaner, for stubborn stains on the bottom of your oven. For now, Der Kartoffelkönig's legend lives on. As Luh was speaking to The Associated Press in front of the king's grave, two tourists placed their offerings of potatoes on the tomb. One even took a selfie as she did so. 'I always think I should go here in the evening when I have no potatoes at home,' the historian joked. 'I could take them away and have a good meal afterwards.' Kartoffel-Karotten-Gugelhupf (potato and carrot Bundt cake) From Kartoffel-Marketing GmbH, a German potato marketing company. The measurements provided refer to weight, not volume. You will need a 10-cup Bundt pan. Serves: 12 Ingredients 9 oz (250g) high-starch potatoes (such as Russets and Maris Pipers) 9 oz (250g) carrots 1.7 fluid ounces (50 mL) carrot juice 1.7 fluid ounces (50 mL) sunflower oil 4 eggs (medium-size, room temperature) 7 oz (200g) sugar 1 packet vanilla sugar 4.5 oz (125g) almonds, ground 4.5 oz (125g) flour melted butter to grease the mold 2 tablespoons breadcrumbs Directions Wash the potatoes and boil them in salted water for about 20 to 25 minutes, until tender. Let them cool slightly, peel them, and then press them through a potato ricer into a bowl. Wash and peel the carrots and grate them finely with the potatoes, using a vegetable grater or a mandolin. Generously grease the Bundt pan with oil or butter. Coat the pan with some breadcrumbs. Preheat oven to 392°F (200°C) on the fan setting. Add carrot juice, sunflower oil, eggs, vanilla sugar, sugar, flour, baking powder and ground almonds to the mashed potatoes and grated carrots and mix with a hand mixer for about four minutes until a dough forms. Pour the potato-carrot cake batter into the prepared Bundt pan. Place the pan in the oven and bake for about 50 minutes until cooked through (if necessary, cover the pan with aluminum foil after half an hour to prevent the cake from burning). Let the cake cool completely (you can also do this on a balcony or terrace) before decorating it with icing. This is important, because otherwise the icing will seep into the cake. In a bowl, combine the powdered sugar and a little lemon juice until thickened. Pour the icing over the cooled cake and decorate with your preferred toppings like chocolate chips, for example. Let it rest a bit to allow the icing to set.
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The roar of the arena crowd, the bustle of the Roman forum, the grand temples, the Roman army in red with glistening shields and armour – when people imagine ancient Rome, they often think of its sights and sounds. We know less, however, about the scents of ancient Rome. We cannot, of course, go back and sniff to find out. But the literary texts, physical remains of structures, objects, and environmental evidence (such as plants and animals) can offer clues. So what might ancient Rome have smelled like? Honestly, often pretty rank. In describing the smells of plants, author and naturalist Pliny the Elder uses words such as iucundus (agreeable), acutus (pungent), vis (strong), or dilutus (weak). None of that language is particularly evocative in its power to transport us back in time, unfortunately. But we can probably safely assume that, in many areas, Rome was likely pretty dirty and rank-smelling. Property owners did not commonly connect their toilets to the sewers in large Roman towns and cities – perhaps fearing rodent incursions or odours. Roman sewers were more like storm drains, and served to take standing water away from public areas. Professionals collected faeces for fertiliser and urine for cloth processing from domestic and public latrines and cesspits. Chamber pots were also used, which could later be dumped in cesspits. This waste disposal process was just for those who could afford to live in houses; many lived in small, non-domestic spaces, barely furnished apartments, or on the streets. A common whiff in the Roman city would have come from the animals and the waste they created. Roman bakeries frequently used large lava stone mills (or 'querns') turned by mules or donkeys. Then there was the smell of pack animals and livestock being brought into town for slaughter or sale. 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One was made by boiling golden thistle root in fine wine to induce urination (which was thought to flush out odour). The Roman baths would likely not have been as hygienic as they may appear to tourists visiting today. A small tub in a public bath could hold between eight and 12 bathers. The Romans had soap, but it wasn't commonly used for personal hygiene. Olive oil (including scented oil) was preferred. It was scraped off the skin with a strigil (a bronze curved tool). This oil and skin combination was then discarded (maybe even slung at a wall). Baths had drains – but as oil and water don't mix, it was likely pretty grimy. The Romans did have perfumes and incense. The invention of glassblowing in the late first century BCE (likely in Roman-controlled Jerusalem) made glass readily available, and glass perfume bottles are a common archaeological find. 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Enhancing the scent of statues (particularly those of gods and goddesses) with perfumes and garlands was important in their veneration and worship. The ancient city would have smelt like human waste, wood smoke, rotting and decay, cremating flesh, cooking food, perfumes and incense, and many other things. It sounds awful to a modern person, but it seems the Romans did not complain about the smell of the ancient city that much. Perhaps, as historian Neville Morley has suggested, to them these were the smells of home or even of the height of civilisation. Thomas J. Derrick is a Gale Research Fellow in Ancient Glass and Material Culture at Macquarie University This article was originally published by The Conversation and is republished under a Creative Commons licence. Read the original article
