Skip to main content

It All Started with the Pie

In reading about the history of pie, I discovered an amazing story, the life and times of Jeffrey Hudson.

Jeffrey Hudson was born in England in 1619 with a birth defect—he was born a pituitary dwarf and would grow to be tiny but perfectly proportioned, "a rarity of nature." As a seven-year-old boy who stood only 18 inches tall, he caught the attention of the Duke and Duchess of Birmingham, and his family basically handed him over to them.

In those days with royalty wanting to find amusement in every little thing, kitchen staff would bake big pies and stuff the crusts with living things like birds and bunnies that would fly or hop away when the crust was ceremoniously cut at the table—four and twenty black birds baked in a pie and all that. Not long after Jeffrey came to live with the Duke and Duchess, he was presented in such a pie at a dinner to honor Queen Henrietta. Being one to collect oddities like giants and monkeys, the Queen added Jeffrey to her menagerie and made him her mascot, calling him Lord Minimus.

Jeffrey grew in age if not in height and lived with the Queen for several years being amused and amusing. He was educated and raised as a Catholic, and having fought in a civil war between the Royalists and the Parliamentarians, Jeffrey proved he could be more than a court jester. When it seemed the Royalists were going to lose the war, he followed his Queen to France and took on a more serious role. He would not be the jester anymore, and he would not take crap from anyone cracking jokes about his height.

Someone had a laugh at Jeffrey's expense, and during the duel that followed, he shot his opponent in the head. Because duels were illegal in France, the Queen was forced to dismiss her sidekick from her household as punishment. Jeffrey ended up at sea where his ship was attacked by pirates. He was sold into slavery in North Africa, and he worked as a slave there for the next 25 years until he was rescued in a negotiation.

Sometimes people with pituitary issues suddenly grow, and Jeffrey grew 45 inches while in captivity. Now back in England at his new height, he was no longer a marvel or oddity. He was just short and unremarkable, and no one cared if he was amusing or smart or well-traveled or had been through hell. They did care that he was a Catholic, though, and put him in prison for it. Jeffrey died penniless and unknown.

And it all started with the pie.

Comments

dive said…
Wowee! Your research is as always impeccable, Robyn! What a startling story!
Alas for poor Jeffrey. And alas that in this world we still have heightists, the disgusting aristocracy, parasitical royalists, religious bigots and slavery.

Hoorah for pie, however!
9:08 AM
Shan said…
Veeery interesting indeed!
5:49 PM
MmeBenaut said…
OMG, I hope that they baked the pie crust separately and didn't put the animals and poor Jeffery in the oven!
5:10 AM
Alifan said…
Robyn as usual a great tale from history......I learn something everyday...

Yes hoorah for pies from me as well!!!
5:32 PM
Cheltenhamdailyphoto said…
Blimey, Birmingham had a Duke and Duchess?

Great research. How interesting Robyn - and sad.

I'm about to cook myself. Er, well, you know what i mean. Not a pie, but a bread pudding. Do you have that there Robyn?
8:57 AM
Anonymous said…
I can see this story with a modern day twist. Jeffrey won't be a victim of his pituitary glands, but stunted by a rare disease caused from ozone depletion. Think it will fly?
9:10 PM
Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

No More Mr. Nice Guy

It's good to be a nice person--to say nice things, to do nice things, to write nice things--but I declare an end to the use of the word nice. Nice is what you say when you can't think of any other adjective. Someone shows you a picture of their back yard--that's nice. Someone tells you about their afternoon adventure--that's nice. Or someone describes their childhood in great detail and sometimes with painstaking effort--that's nice. It's a lazy word, and it's non-descriptive. Nice is like mashed potatoes with noodles and chicken gravy all in a big pile on one plate with some canned corn for garnish. Everything is the same color and texture and base substance--starch (this is a favorite Amish dish). Nice is like a partly cloudy day in April when outside feels like inside, and you can't tell a difference between the lighting and the temperature of your living room and the lighting and temperature of your front yard. Nice is a glass of lukewarm water. ...
20 comments
Read more

Long Live Anita Bowser

You know I occasionally check my hometown newspaper's website to scan the obituaries (morbid, I know, but I'm at that age). Over this past weekend, I read the obituary of Indiana State Senator Anita Bowser . She was a noted Democrat who championed causes protecting the neediest in the state's population. She was respected on both sides of the aisle for her intelligence and plain and outspoken approach to law making. The picture on her senate page is lovely. I remember none of those things about Anita Bowser . My first year or so in college was spent at a branch of Purdue University, and in the early 80s, Anita was a political science professor. She taught my American Government class my freshman year, and she was a mess. Somewhere in my old text book, I have a sketch of her drawn on a particularly dull day in class--her hose sagged at her ankles, her slip showed at least half an inch all the way around, her hair had been slept on but not brushed, and her bright red lip stic...
18 comments
Read more

My Sitemeter is All Bloated and Not Quite Itself

I'm tempted to let it sit on the couch with its feet curled up under a blanket, a hot cup of coffee in hand, a block of cherry almond bark Chocolove within reach, and An Affair to Remember spinning in the DVD player. I'm one of those obsessive bloggers, the kind who checks her sitemeter as often as possible throughout the day, the kind who gauges the quality of her writing by the number of readers who regularly stop by. I've become less interested in the overall number of hits and more interested in the number of repeat hits. The return visitors are the ones I long for. When my sitemeter reads forty at the end of the day, and the majority of those hits are webpals who have conversed, I'm happy. Forty may seem low to many of you, but I've only been at this since August. To me, forty is a jackpot. A few days ago, I sat down at my laptop and discovered a number somewhere in the eighties. Eighties! Yippee! Yeeha ! Hoo-rah ! I've been discovered by the webworld , o...
18 comments
Read more