“Oscar bait” and “period piece” aren’t exactly synonymous, but there’s certainly a lot of overlap. Biopics and historical dramas tend to feature prominently throughout awards season, and this year has been no exception.
Only four of the 10 Best Picture nominees at the 2026 Oscars take place in the present day (Bugonia, F1, One Battle After Another, and Sentimental Value), while two are set in the past but aren’t exactly historical (Guillermo del Toro’s take on Frankenstein and Ryan Coogler’s superlative vampire flick Sinners).
The historical dramas nominated for an Academy Award this year, including but not limited to Best Picture, take place everywhere from 16th-century England to 1970s Brazil and tell an equally wide range of stories. Here are all six of them.
You might not know Lorenz Hart by name, but you’ve almost certainly heard his music. The famed lyricist is the wordsmith behind “My Funny Valentine,”“Manhattan,” and “Blue Moon,” among many other tunes; he disliked being known for the last of these, which is part of why Richard Linklater cheekily named his biopic about Hart after the classic song.
Ethan Hawke earned a Best Actor nomination for his portrayal of Hart, while screenwriter Robert Kaplow is up for Best Original Screenplay. The entire movie unfolds over one night in 1943 as Hart is forced to endure the success of Oklahoma!, which his former writing partner Richard Rodgers wrote with Oscar Hammerstein II — a development our protagonist doesn’t exactly greet with joy for his longtime friend and collaborator.
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One of the year’s most celebrated films, Chloé Zhao’s adaptation of Maggie O’Farrell’s novel is nominated in eight categories: Best Picture, Director, Actress, Adapted Screenplay, Casting, Costume Design, Production Design, and Original Score. It’s a speculative tearjerker about the relationship between William Shakespeare’s son Hamnet, who died in 1596 at a tragically young age, and the Bard’s best known work, Hamlet, which was written a few short years later.
Most historians agree that the connection between the two isn’t as strong as the novel and movie would have you believe, but Zhao, who already won Best Director for Nomadland, wrings every possible bit of emotion out of an inherently moving premise. Jessie Buckley is considered the front-runner for Best Actress, but Zhao will have to sneak past One Battle After Another helmer Paul Thomas Anderson to take home her second directing trophy.
A massive success in Japan, where its $128 million in box-office receipts have made it the country’s highest-grossing live-action movie of all time, Kokuho is up for Best Makeup and Hairstyling. (It also made the shortlist for Best International Feature Film but failed to land a nomination.) Lee Sang-il’s period piece about a pair of post-World War II kabuki actors is operatic in scope and feeling. It’s a testament to both the power of theater and the pain of a back-and-forth relationship that ends up defining two lives.
Josh Safdie’s Ping-Pong period piece — try saying that five times fast — both is and isn’t a typical awards contender. It’s inspired by a mid-20th-century athlete who revolutionized his sport, but it’s also fraught with the same nervous energy as the movies Safdie made a name for himself with, along with his brother Benny: Uncut Gems, Good Time, and Heaven Knows What, to name a few.
Marty Supreme takes place in the 1950s and stars likely Best Actor winner Timothée Chalamet in the title role, a pugnacious table-tennis star whose skills bring him to the world championship in Tokyo — but not before a number of strangely enjoyable narrative detours. It’s nominated in nine categories: Best Picture, Director, Actor, Original Screenplay, Casting, Cinematography, Production Design, Editing, and Costume Design.
It would be quite the understatement to describe 1970s Brazil as “a time of great mischief,” which is exactly why Kleber Mendonça Filho does it. The Brazilian director has always had a certain ne’er-do-well playfulness to his filmmaking,and so it is in his exploration of what it means to be an enemy of the state simply by not conceding to its increasingly oppressive demands.
The Secret Agent is up for four awards: Best Picture, Actor, Casting, and International Feature. Wagner Moura, who’s superlative in the title role, is the first Brazilian and South American leading man to be nominated for the top acting prize — making The Secret Agent historic even if it leaves the ceremony empty-handed.
Covering eight decades in the life of a railroad worker in and around Bonners Ferry, Idaho, from the end of the 19th century until America’s first crewed space flight, Clint Bentley’s elegiac drama is another literary adaptation. He has more than done justice to Denis Johnson’s novella, with Train Dreams picking up four Oscar nods: Best Picture, Adapted Screenplay, Cinematography, and Original Song for Nick Cave and Bryce Dessner’s aptly titled “Train Dreams.” Anchored by a never-better Joel Edgerton, it’s probably the quietest, most contemplative of this year’s Best Picture nominees, but it’s also one of the best.
For similar articles, subscribe to our sister brand Movie Brief, brought to you by our resident film critic Michael Nordine. You’ll receive a weekly review and recommendation of a new movie, whether in theaters or available to stream, as well as a list of 25 must-see movies when you first sign up.
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A Victorian Guide to Sleeping Well
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AuthorKristina Wright
March 4, 2026
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It’s easy to assume that earlier generations slept more easily than we do today, untroubled by modern stress, artificial lighting, and digital overload. But people in the Victorian era — living at the dawn of industrial modernity — would have recognized much of our anxiety. They worried intensely about sleep, and advice on how to obtain it filled newspapers, magazines, and medical manuals.
In 1900, British neurologist William Broadbent wrote, “Sleeplessness is one of the torments of our age and generation.” Meanwhile, the popular Cassell’s Family Magazine frequently ran articles with titles such as “On Sleep and Nervous Unrest” and “Why Can’t I Sleep?”
For many Victorians, sleep was not just a biological process. It was also understood as a moral, emotional, and mental discipline, shaped by religious beliefs and emerging medical theories about the nervous system. Good sleep, experts argued, depended on calm habits, emotional restraint, and mental order. Restlessness, anxiety, and overstimulation were seen as obstacles to both health and character.
Yet while Victorian worries about sleep feel familiar, their sleeping habits might not. Indeed, closer examination reveals that what we now consider normal, uninterrupted rest is largely a modern invention. Here’s a look at how people slept in the Victorian age.
Photo credit: Image courtesy of the Brooklyn Museum
They Went to Bed Early
The Victorian era stretched across more than 60 years (Queen Victoria reigned from 1837 to 1901) and encompassed wide differences in class, occupation, and geography. Naturally, sleep habits varied between rural and urban households, between working families and the wealthy, and across the seasons. But for most people, natural light was the primary regulator of daily life, and Victorian daily schedules followed daylight far more closely than our modern routines.
Before electric lighting became common in the late 19th century, evenings tended to end early, not long after dark. Oil lamps, candles, and gaslight were expensive, dim, and labor-intensive, encouraging households to wind down after supper, typically eaten between 5:30 p.m. and 7 p.m. Evenings were spent reading, sewing, writing letters, or in quiet conversation before bed. In working- and middle-class households, bedtime commonly fell between 8 p.m. and 10 p.m., often earlier in winter. Among the upper and upper-middle classes, urban social life could stretch later, especially for formal dinners and parties, but these late nights remained occasional rather than routine.
Morning schedules were shaped by work and daylight. Rural laborers often rose before dawn, especially during planting and harvest seasons, while urban workers and domestic servants typically began their days early as well, with shifts starting between 6 a.m. and 8 a.m. As a result, most Victorians rose between 5 a.m. and 6:30 a.m., depending on the season and their occupation. For many families, especially outside major cities, this rhythm produced nights of roughly eight to nine hours in bed, even longer in winter — though these extended nights were not designed for uninterrupted sleep.
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Instead of a single, uninterrupted stretch of rest, many Victorians followed what historians call segmented or biphasic sleep. After going to bed, they slept for roughly three to four hours — known as the “first sleep.” They then woke naturally around midnight and remained awake for an hour or more before returning to bed for a “second sleep,” lasting until morning.
This pattern is well documented in diaries, medical texts, and literature from early modern Europe through the 19th century. Historian Roger Ekirch, who pioneered the modern study of segmented sleep, found hundreds of references to “first sleep” and “second sleep” in English-language sources alone.
This waking interval was not treated as insomnia. In fact, it was widely regarded as normal and even beneficial. People prayed, reflected, talked quietly, read by candlelight, checked the fire, or tended animals and household tasks. Religious writers saw it as an ideal time for spiritual contemplation, while physicians believed the mind was less overstimulated and more receptive during these hours.
It was only in the late 19th and early 20th centuries — as artificial lighting, factory schedules, and later bedtimes compressed the night — that the concept of eight uninterrupted hours of sleep became the cultural expectation. In total, Victorians likely slept seven to eight hours a night, much like today, but it was divided into two distinct phases.
Victorian bedrooms were designed to support longer nights in bed. Rather than heating entire rooms, people focused on warming the bed. Fireplaces often went out overnight, and coal or wood was expensive. Instead, heavy quilts, layered blankets, and featherbeds trapped body heat while the surrounding air remained cool.
Fresh air and sunlight were widely believed to be essential to health. Advice of the era recommended bedrooms be bathed in sunlight and well ventilated during the day, and windows were often left partially open even in cold weather and at night. While people’s understanding of germs and disease was incomplete at the time, these recommendations likely helped improve quality of sleep.
Beds themselves reinforced rest, marking a clear boundary between daytime activities and sleep. Many featured curtains or partial enclosures, which reduced drafts, conserved warmth, and created a protected sleeping space within the larger room. In contrast to modern bedrooms that double as offices, media rooms, and gyms, the Victorian bedroom served a singular purpose: preparing the body and mind for rest.
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5 Scientific Discoveries Born From Self-Experimentation
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AuthorTony Dunnell
March 4, 2026
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Throughout history, some bold scientists have taken the ultimate research risk when it comes to proving the efficacy of their work: experimenting on themselves. Due to constraints of time, funding, or available alternatives, these brave — some might say reckless — individuals chose to become their own test subjects, exposing themselves to diseases, vaccines, invasive techniques, and new technologies in the name of scientific progress.
While most modern ethics committees would likely never approve such experiments, these acts of courage sometimes led to breakthroughs that have saved countless lives. Here are five major discoveries that came about when experts put their own bodies on the line for science.
In the 1950s, polio outbreaks ravaged the United States. Tens of thousands of cases across the country left hundreds of people paralyzed or dead, and thousands of children disabled. During the crisis, American virologist and medical researcher Jonas Salk developed a vaccine that he believed could prevent infection. In 1953, after successful tests on monkeys, Salk made the audacious decision to test the vaccine on himself — and his family. He boiled needles and syringes on his kitchen stove, then vaccinated himself, his wife, and their three young sons. Thankfully for all involved, the family developed antibodies against polio without any adverse effects.
It may seem reckless today, but Salk’s willingness to inject his own children was based on his complete confidence in the vaccine’s safety. His actions helped convince the medical establishment to support large-scale trials. By 1961, the vast majority of American schoolchildren had received the vaccine, all but ending the polio scourge. Salk famously, and altruistically, decided not to patent the vaccine, saying in a TV interview with Edward R. Murrow, “There is no patent. Could you patent the sun?”
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In 1921, Evan O’Neill Kane, chief surgeon at the Kane Summit Hospital in Pennsylvania, was in the operating room waiting for his own appendectomy to begin. To the surprise of his staff, who were ready and waiting to operate, Kane announced that he would remove his appendix himself. Reluctant to go against the wishes of their boss, the staff obeyed and stood back.
This wasn’t some kind of bizarre whim on Kane’s part. He had performed more than 4,000 appendectomies in the past, using general anesthesia, which was standard practice at the time. But general anesthesia was considered dangerous for people with heart conditions and other serious ailments, complicating (or ruling out entirely) many basic surgeries for high-risk patients, including appendectomies.
Kane believed that general anesthesia wasn’t necessary in these circumstances, and that local anesthesia was the solution. To prove his point, he removed his own appendix using only local anesthetic. With his assistants standing by, he made an incision in his own abdomen, located his appendix, and removed it while fully conscious. While undoubtedly extreme, his self-appendectomy demonstrated that local anesthesia was viable for abdominal surgery, leading to a wider acceptance of local anesthesia and a reduction in surgical mortality rates.
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Effects of Deceleration on the Body
When Air Force Colonel John Paul Stapp set out to discover the precise effects of deceleration on the human body, he went all in. With airplanes increasingly flying higher and faster after World War II, pilots were being placed under ever-greater stresses, and bailouts and crashes were becoming far more dangerous. To help counter this and protect pilots, Stapp and his team began strapping themselves into extremely fast rocket sleds in the name of science.
In one such test, carried out in December 1954, Stapp strapped himself into a sled called Sonic Wind No. 1. Powered by nine solid-fuel rockets, the sled hurtled along a custom-built track, and in just five seconds Stapp reached 632 miles per hour — faster than a .45-caliber bullet fired from a pistol. When the sled’s brakes engaged, Stapp reached a standstill in just 1.4 seconds, experiencing a deceleration force of 46.2 g (46.2 times the force of gravity) — momentarily making his body weigh more than 6,800 pounds. The effect cracked his ribs and burst all the blood vessels in his eyes, making him temporarily blind.
Stapp’s experiments provided invaluable data regarding human tolerance to extreme forces, and disproved the prevailing medical belief that pilots couldn’t survive forces above 18 g. As well as paving the way for improved safety features in airplanes, his work and advocacy led to the automobile industry adopting stronger safety belts and harnesses, saving countless lives.
In 1929, 25-year-old surgical trainee Werner Forssmann saw a picture in a book that showed a tube inserted into a horse’s heart through a vein. Forssmann believed that such a process could work just as well in humans, but his superiors dismissed the idea as far too dangerous, forbidding him to test the procedure on any patient. So Forssmann, assisted by his operating room nurse Gerda Ditzen, carried out the procedure on himself.
He anesthetized his arm, then cut into his antecubital vein, through which he inserted a catheter for 65 centimeters. He then calmly walked to the X-ray department, where he advanced the catheter until it reached his right atrium, taking X-rays of the whole process. As toe-curling as the whole thing may seem, Forssmann’s self-experiment paved the way for many different heart studies and procedures to come — and earned him the Nobel Prize in 1956.
For a long time, stomach ulcers were blamed on stress, poor diet, or eating too many spicy foods (or a combination of all three). The prevailing wisdom rejected the idea that bacteria could be the cause, as it was believed that bacteria couldn’t survive in the stomach’s acidic environment. Then, in the early 1980s, Australian physician Barry Marshall and pathologist Robin Warren discovered spiral bacteria (Helicobacter pylori) in the stomachs of patients with gastritis and ulcers. Yet the medical establishment dismissed their findings.
So, in 1984, Marshall took matters into his own hands — and into his own stomach. He drank a whole petri dish of H. pylori cultured from a sick patient. Three days later, he began experiencing nausea, vomiting, and halitosis. An endoscopy confirmed the bacteria had colonized his stomach and caused inflammation. Marshall then treated himself with antibiotics. He soon recovered, proving conclusively that H. pylori bacteria can cause acute gastritis, which in turn can cause ulcers that can then be treated with antibiotics. The discovery revolutionized treatment, and in 2005— when the significance of their work was properly recognized — Marshall and Warren were jointly awarded the Nobel Prize.
Medieval warfare conjures up images of knights charging on horseback, archers raining down hails of arrows, armored infantry clashing in the chaos of battle, and prolonged sieges lasting for months. These were all part of the conventional tactics that dominated battlefields in the Middle Ages. But military commanders also employed some genuinely unconventional — and at times bizarre — tactics that reveal a stranger, often darker side of medieval combat.
From catapulting odious projectiles to getting the enemy drunk, these unusual methods demonstrate how deception, ingenuity, and sheer audacity sometimes trumped standard military doctrine. Here are some of the strangest battle tactics employed by cunning commanders during the medieval period.
On April 5, 1242, the frozen surface of Lake Peipus (between modern-day Estonia and Russia) hosted one of history’s strangest — and certainly most slippery — battlefields. When the Teutonic Knights prepared to face Prince Alexander Nevsky’s Russian forces, Nevsky used the terrain to his advantage: He took up a strong defensive position on the shore of Lake Peipus and waited for the approaching knights — around 2,500 of them — to cross the ice.
The ice made it hard for the approaching crusaders to maneuver. The Russian forces, meanwhile, were lightly armored and familiar with winter warfare, and could more easily hold their defensive position. When the two forces engaged, the knights began slipping on the ice, and the precarious terrain sapped their strength. When the knights were exhausted, Nevsky unleashed his cavalry to finish them off. According to some accounts, many Teutonic Knights died in the retreat when the frozen surface cracked, further contributing to the chaos of the so-called “Battle on the Ice.”
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Medieval commanders always looked to gain an advantage, and some discovered that one particular type of biological weapon could be quite effective: bees. In the 11th century, when England’s Henry I was besieged by the French Duke of Lorraine, the English defended their fortifications by launching beehives at the enemy’s horses, causing such chaos that the siege was abandoned.
The insects were deployed again when King Richard I, better known as Richard the Lionheart, began the Third Crusade in 1189. His ships didn’t carry just soldiers and horses — they also carried beehives and their keepers. When Richard confronted the forces of Saladin, sultan of Egypt and Syria, during the Siege of Acre, the English used trebuchets to catapult the beehives into the city, causing total mayhem. It was an unusual but highly effective tactic — the city surrendered the next day.
The Battle of Brémule in 1119 was one of the rare occasions in the high medieval period in which reigning kings fought each other directly in battle. The encounter between Louis VI of France and Henry I of England is also one of the least deadly major medieval battles on record. About 900 knights participated, and three men were killed.
Some accounts attribute the low number of casualties to the fact that both sides consisted of Christian knights who shared a kind of brotherhood despite being foes in battle, and so did not wish to engage in mass bloodshed. Others point out that these knights could earn fortunes by capturing enemy nobles and demanding ransom for their release — often enough money to set up a family for generations.
The tactics involved were therefore very odd, with economic incentive overshadowing military objectives, and the knights fought carefully, trying to disable and capture opponents rather than kill them. When it ended, 140 French soldiers had been captured, providing the English victors with substantial ransom payments. The three casualties were likely accidental deaths — or possibly peasant soldiers whose capture held no financial value.
Beehives, large stones, and flaming barrels of tar ranked among the more sanitary projectiles launched during medieval battles. But siege warfare in the Middle Ages reached peak revulsion when defenders and attackers began catapulting biological horrors at each other. Dead horses, cattle, and other animals were hurled over castle walls to spread disease and demoralize defenders with a truly awful stench. In 1340, attackers hurled dead animals by catapult at the castle of Thun L'Eveque in Hainault (present-day northern France). The defenders soon negotiated a truce, citing the unbearable stink as the reason.
The strange and putrid tactics didn’t stop there. Animal dung and human excrement were also seen flying through the air, with the aim of contaminating water supplies and spreading dysentery. Most horrifying of all, dead prisoners — sometimes diseased, sometimes executed — were catapulted as both biological weapons and a form of psychological warfare.
Alcohol was typically used to celebrate victory in battle, but St. Olga of Kiev used booze for a far more nefarious act in the 10th century. After the Drevlians — an East Slavic tribe that inhabited present-day Ukraine — brutally killed Olga’s husband Prince Igor, the princess embarked on a systematic campaign of vengeance. Having already killed a slew of Drevlian ambassadors, she then sent a message requesting a funeral feast for her husband — to be held in Drevlian territory, with the Drevlians themselves in attendance.
Olga made sure that copious amounts of mead were on hand at the wake, and then waited until her enemies had drunk themselves into a state of torpor. In a brutally blunt yet highly effective tactical ploy that wouldn’t have been out of place in Game of Thrones, she then ordered her retinue to massacre the drunken soldiers. The battle was swift and bloody, with some 5,000 Drevlians killed. Curiously, the Orthodox Church later canonized Olga as a saint in recognition of her services to the faith, which included building churches and feeding the poor.
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Why Is Table Salt Iodized?
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AuthorBess Lovejoy
February 26, 2026
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It’s probably sitting in your kitchen cabinet right now: a container of salt, maybe the familiar blue Morton Salt canister with the little girl carrying an umbrella, with the word “iodized” somewhere on the label.
The curious fact that most table salt contains iodine — a trace mineral — is the result of a long chain of historical discoveries. The story begins with seaweed ash and gunpowder, runs through a scientific priority battle, and ends with one of the most effective nutritional interventions ever devised. Adding iodine to salt helped vanquish a problem that had plagued humankind for millennia — and the effects occurred within a single generation.
The story of iodine starts in 1811, toward the end of the Napoleonic Wars, when French chemist Bernard Courtois was searching for a new way to make saltpeter, or potassium nitrate, a crucial ingredient in gunpowder. France was running out of wood — the traditional source of saltpeter via wood ash — and the government urgently needed alternatives. Seaweed, abundant along the coast of Normandy, seemed promising.
Courtois used sulfuric acid to clean his tanks, and one day, after a particularly strong batch of acid had been applied, he noticed something unusual: a billowing of violet vapor. When the vapor condensed, it left purplish-black crystals that gleamed on the sides of the vats. Courtois had unknowingly isolated a new element.
He reported his discovery in 1813 in the Annales de chimie, in a paper titled “Découverte d’une substance nouvelle dans le vareck” — vareck being the French word for washed-up seaweed. On the second page of that paper, Courtois labeled the new substance iode, the French form of “iodine,” after the Greek word for “violet-colored,” ἰοειδής (ioeidḗs).
Within months, two major scientists — English chemist Humphry Davy and French chemist Joseph-Louis Gay-Lussac — independently studied Courtois’ samples and claimed to have isolated and identified the element. A scientific priority quarrel followed, but a surprisingly polite one. Both men ultimately credited Courtois as the true discoverer.
It was Davy who suggested “iodine” as the English term, aligning with elements such as chlorine (both belong to the same group of elements, the halogens). The element was officially ushered into the chemical pantheon in 1813, and its biological importance became clear almost immediately.
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Only a few years after Courtois announced his discovery, Swiss physician Jean-François Coindet found that small doses of iodine could shrink goiters — often dramatically. Goiters are enlargements of the thyroid gland, located at the base of the neck, caused most commonly by a lack of iodine in the diet.
Goiter was endemic in many parts of Switzerland, and Coindet suspected that the old folk remedy of using dried or ashed seaweed (or sponges) to cure it might indicate that iodine would be an effective remedy. He was right. Rarely had a new element made such an immediate medical impact.
Courtois and Coindet jointly won an award from the French Academy of Sciences in 1831 for their contributions to medicine. At the time, no one realized how widespread iodine deficiency truly was, nor how crucial iodine would prove for brain development and general health.
Goiters develop when the thyroid cannot make enough hormones due to lack of iodine. To compensate, the gland enlarges, sometimes dramatically. Iodine is present in seawater and coastal soils, but glaciation, flooding, and leaching stripped it from many inland regions. The result was a global patchwork of iodine-deficient zones.
In the United States, this included the Great Lakes, Appalachia, and parts of the Pacific Northwest — regions that became known collectively as the “goiter belt.” During World War I draft exams, Michigan physician Simon Levin found that more than 30% of local registrants had enlarged thyroids, sometimes severe enough to disqualify them from service. Around the same time, Ohio physician David Marine demonstrated in a landmark study that iodine dramatically reduced goiter rates in school-age girls.
Iodine is essential not only for preventing goiter but also for producing the thyroid hormones that regulate metabolism, support heart and digestive function, and play a critical role in fetal and infant brain development. For public health officials, the question quickly became how to supply iodine cheaply and universally. Salt — inexpensive, widely consumed, and used at predictable levels throughout the seasons — was an ideal candidate.
Switzerland adopted iodized salt in the early 1920s. In the United States, University of Michigan pediatrician David Cowie pushed for a similar approach, arguing that fortifying table salt could eliminate simple goiter (the kind caused by iodine deficiency) nationwide. His effort succeeded: Iodized salt appeared on Michigan shelves on May 1, 1924.
There were occasional setbacks, including outbreaks of iodine-induced hyperthyroidism among adults with long-standing nodular goiters, but the public health benefits were overwhelming. Within a generation, goiter rates plunged across former deficiency regions.
More than 120 countries now require iodization of all food-grade salt. Globally, the percentage of households consuming iodized salt rose from about 25% in 1990 to roughly two-thirds today. (Though the health benefits of iodine had been known for decades, uptake was slow in certain parts of the world, due in part to public relations battles.) It remains one of the cheapest and most effective nutritional interventions in the world.
The United States takes a voluntary approach. Most table salt is iodized, but many processed foods rely on non-iodized salt, and labeling iodine content is not mandatory. Even so, iodine intake is supported by dairy (where it occurs thanks to cleaners used on teats and milk cans; iodine is also a disinfectant), seafood, grains, and eggs, and widespread deficiency has been largely prevented.
Still, an estimated 2 billion people worldwide remain iodine deficient, especially where iodized salt is scarce or costly. Some countries fortify bread instead or distribute iodized oil capsules.
Courtois set out to make gunpowder more efficiently and ended up uncovering an element that transformed global nutrition. The violet vapor rising from a seaweed vat in 1811 eventually led to a simple solution — adding iodine to everyday salt — that has prevented goiters, improved cognitive health, and safeguarded generations against a once-common deficiency.
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When Did Companies Start Designing Products To Fail?
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AuthorNicole Villeneuve
February 26, 2026
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When our gadgets slow down after an update or come with batteries that are impossible to replace, it’s hard not to wonder if they’re designed to fail in order to force us to buy something new. This is known as planned obsolescence — the idea that products are intentionally made to wear out and be replaced quickly. And while it may feel like a recent phenomenon, companies designing products with a built-in limited lifespan began much earlier than you may think.
One of the earliest examples of what we now know as planned obsolescence involved a seemingly mundane object: the light bulb. By the early 1900s, incandescent bulbs were capable of lasting up to 2,000 hours (or roughly 83 full days). That durability, while impressive, was bad for business. So in 1924, several major light bulb manufacturers including General Electric, Philips, and Osram formed a secret group known as the Phoebus cartel.
Together, they agreed that the bulbs they manufactured shouldn’t last longer than 1,000 hours; shorter-lived bulbs meant more frequent replacements and therefore steadier sales. The cartel disbanded during World War II, and was later uncovered by antitrust investigations that revealed the extent of its coordination. But the idea had been planted: Companies didn’t have to simply respond to the natural wear and tear of a product — they could decide how long it should last.
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Annual Upgrades
The automobile industry adopted a similar strategy. In the mid-1920s, General Motors began rolling out annual changes to its cars. Unlike Ford, which offered little variation on the Model T for nearly two decades, GM introduced annual updates to its multiple brands, including Oldsmobile, Pontiac, Cadillac, Buick, and Chevrolet.
The updates were mostly cosmetic: new grilles, different fenders, or fresh color options, all of which caused the previous year’s model to look dated even if it still ran perfectly. GM president Alfred P. Sloan called his idea “dynamic obsolescence,” and the strategy to get people to buy more cars worked. In the 1930s, the average length of car ownership was about five years; by the mid-1950s, it was down to two or three years.
The term “planned obsolescence” first appeared in 1932. In the depths of the Great Depression, New York real estate broker Bernard London published several works on economics and industrial recovery, including a paper titled “Ending the Depression Through Planned Obsolescence.” In it, he proposed that consumer goods including shoes, homes, and machines, as well as all products from manufacturing and agriculture should have government-imposed expiration dates. Once these products reached the end of their legal lifespans, they would be turned in and destroyed.
That same year, industrial designers Roy Sheldon and Egmont Arens released their book Consumer Engineering: A New Technique for Prosperity. Like London, they wanted to boost U.S. manufacturing and saw an opportunity with products that were built to be used, disposed of, and then replaced. The idea was intended to keep factories and the economy running by requiring people to buy new things, and the concept set the stage for turning the replacement of goods into a deliberate part of product design — making planned obsolescence a key part of American manufacturing.
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Postwar Consumerism
Some 20 years after London’s pitch, postwar prosperity saw U.S. consumerism soar, and planned obsolescence began to proliferate in American household goods. Appliances such as refrigerators, washing machines, and televisions flooded the market — as did profit incentives to keep people buying new ones. Companies wasted no time coming up with new shapes, styles, and colors that made older appliances look dated — changes made more for appearance than mechanical necessity.
In 1954, famed industrial designer Brooks Stevens (whose products include everything from the Oscar Mayer Wienermobile to wide-mouthed peanut butter jars) spoke about planned obsolescence at an advertising conference, defining it as “instilling in the buyer the desire to own something a little newer, a little better, a little sooner than is necessary.” Today, both functional limits and design and marketing plans continue to shape how we buy and replace the products in our lives.
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The Short-Lived Republic of West Florida
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AuthorKristina Wright
February 26, 2026
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In the early 19th century, as the United States pushed steadily south and west, the nation’s map was far less settled than it is today. Borders shifted, treaties were creatively interpreted, and distant empires claimed lands they could barely govern.
On the American frontier, settlers often lived in a gray zone — technically under a nation’s flag, but more or less governing themselves. Out of that uncertainty emerged one of the strangest chapters in U.S. history: a republic that survived for just two and a half months.
The Republic of West Florida’s brief existence began in the fall of 1810, when Anglo-American and British settlers in Spanish territory staged a revolt and declared independence from Spain — only to see their fledgling nation absorbed, almost immediately, by the United States. Here’s a look at the strange story of West Florida.
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It Wasn’t the Florida We Know
To understand West Florida, you have to set aside modern geography. This was not the western half of today’s Sunshine State. In fact, none of the short-lived republic’s territory lies in modern Florida. West Florida was a narrow strip of Gulf Coast land stretching from the Mississippi River east to the Perdido River — territory that now falls mostly within Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama.
The name Florida dates back to Spanish exploration in the 1500s, when Juan Ponce de Leon named the peninsula La Florida — referring to Pascua Florida, the Spanish Easter season during which he first sighted the land. By the 18th century, the Perdido River served as the boundary between West Florida and East Florida, with the latter encompassing most of the peninsula that later became the modern state of Florida.
The region’s political identity shifted repeatedly during the 18th century. Originally claimed by Spain, it passed to British control in 1763 after the French and Indian War. Britain divided its holdings into East Florida and West Florida, establishing administrative borders that outlived British rule. When Spain regained the territory after the American Revolution, it kept those British-era boundaries and governed East and West Florida as separate colonies.
By 1810, both East and West Florida remained Spanish colonies, but in West Florida the empire’s grip was weak. Spain was strained by wars in Europe and independence movements across Latin America. Out on the Gulf Coast, Spanish officials were underfunded and undermanned — and settlers in the region, whose cultural and economic ties leaned toward the United States rather than distant Spain, were ready for change. East Florida, which was centered on St. Augustine and more dependent on Spanish military support, remained comparatively loyal to Spain.
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The population of West Florida was diverse. English-speaking settlers — many from the American South — dominated politically and economically. They lived alongside Spanish and French officials, enslaved people, free people of color, and Indigenous communities. Trade flowed north toward American ports rather than south toward Spanish ones, and cultural ties to the United States grew stronger each year.
Spanish governance frustrated many settlers. Land policies were slow and inconsistent, legal systems unfamiliar, and trade regulations restrictive. Spain also lacked the ability to protect the region from lawlessness or external threats.
Complicating matters further was the Louisiana Purchase of 1803. The United States assumed that the western portion of West Florida had been included in the deal, but Spain rejected this interpretation outright. American officials argued that Louisiana’s eastern boundary reached the Perdido River, while Spain insisted it stopped at the Mississippi River. The resulting stalemate left West Florida in political limbo, governed by Spain but increasingly claimed by the United States.
By 1810, patience had run out. A group of local settlers, many of them prominent landowners, decided to take matters into their own hands. On September 23, they launched a brief uprising, capturing Fort San Carlos in Baton Rouge from Spanish forces. The takeover was swift and largely bloodless, reflecting how little resistance Spanish authorities could muster.
The Republic of West Florida declared independence a few days later. Although the uprising took place in Baton Rouge, the new republic established its capital in the nearby town of St. Francisville, reflecting the rural character of its leadership and support base. The Republic of West Florida was complete with a constitution, elected leaders, and a blue flag bearing a single white star. The new government insisted it was orderly, lawful, and deserving of international recognition.
Photo credit: Image courtesy of the Library of Congress
74 Days of Nationhood
For 74 days — from September 23 to December 6, 1810 — West Florida operated as a self-declared sovereign state. Its leaders spoke earnestly of self-government and local rights, borrowing language from the American Revolution. But the reality was more precarious.
The republic had few resources and no powerful allies to defend itself. On October 27, 1810, President James Madison issued a proclamation that West Florida already belonged to the United States as part of the Louisiana Purchase and ordered U.S. forces to take possession. The announcement asserted American authority at once, but troops did not enter the republic’s capital at St. Francisville until early December. For several uneasy weeks, West Florida existed in a political limbo.
Governor Fulwar Skipwith, speaking for the fledgling government of West Florida, formally protested the U.S. takeover. Armed resistance was briefly discussed, but without outside support it was certain to fail. In the end, the leaders chose not to fight. On December 6, 1810, American troops entered St. Francisville, and by December 10 the republic had disappeared into U.S. control.
Unlike other independence movements within the United States, West Florida left little lasting mark on the national memory. The land was eventually divided among several states, leaving no single region to preserve a distinct identity. In Louisiana, however, the former West Florida territory became known as the Florida Parishes, a regional label that still echoes the short-lived republic today.
Spain treated the episode as a minor inconvenience rather than a major diplomatic crisis. For the United States, annexation was promoted as a straightforward correction of territorial boundaries based on the contested interpretation of the Louisiana Purchase. While the United States had annexed and divided much of West Florida into Louisiana, Mississippi, and Alabama soon after 1810, Spain did not formally cede East and West Florida until the Adams-Onís Treaty. It was signed on February 22, 1819, and took effect in 1821, ending Spain’s legal claims to the territory and transferring the Floridas to U.S. control.
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How Was Mail Delivered Before House Numbers?
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AuthorTimothy Ott
February 19, 2026
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Though mail is almost an afterthought today with the amount of correspondence conducted online, we can still count on bills, holiday cards, and various other goodies to arrive with the mail carrier’s visit.
The daily post enabled the exchange of information before radio, television, or the internet — and it wasn’t always an easy feat. Mail trucks and planes do the heavy lifting now, but delivery once depended on the pace of trains and steamboats, and before that the physical capabilities of equestrian and human carriers.
Another complicating factor was the lack of an established street address system for a good chunk of U.S. history. Given all these complications, one could be forgiven for wondering just how mail ended up in the right hands without an exorbitant number of mistakes in the olden days. Here’s a look at how the Post Office Department, the precursor to the United States Postal Service (USPS), found its way.
Credit: Image courtesy of the National Archives
Early Mail Service Required a Trip to the Post Office
The first post office in the American colonies was established in a Massachusetts tavern in 1639, with the first intercolonial systems surfacing in the 1670s. In this era of sparse settlements, mail delivery was often handled by enslaved people or Native American carriers who knew the terrain well.
By 1789, when a Congressional Act under the brand-new U.S. Constitution placed the postmaster general under the power of the executive branch, there were 75 post offices and some 2,400 miles of post roads spread along the Eastern Seaboard. While this ensured mail access for most Americans, people needed to travel to the nearest post office to retrieve it.
There were exceptions to this rule. Benjamin Franklin, who became deputy postmaster of the colonies in 1753 and later the first postmaster general of the United States, established the “penny post” home delivery service in Philadelphia for a fee.
Several of the private mail companies that materialized in the 1800s also would deliver mail to a recipient’s door, while a postmaster in a smaller town, such as a pre-presidential Abraham Lincoln, might find time to stop by the homes of those unable to retrieve their mail. By and large, however, home delivery service was not a reality for most Americans before the Civil War.
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Philadelphia Introduced the First Street Numbers
Meanwhile, the first systematic attempts at numbering buildings surfaced shortly after the United States was formed. In 1791, Philadelphia created a city directory in which odd numbers, increasing in chronological order, were assigned to buildings on the north and east sides of a street, and even numbers to those on the south and west sides. Other major urban centers such as New York City soon followed suit.
However, there were inconsistencies with these numbering systems that magnified as cities grew. Because the numbers were assigned only to existing buildings, those that popped up later on previously vacant lots were given digits that threw the sequencing out of whack. Cities with curvy, winding streets produced even more chaotic results, with buildings on different streets but in otherwise close proximity often stuck with starkly different numbers.
A solution to this mess arrived in the 1850s, again in Philadelphia, where city council member John Mascher pushed for a system in which street addresses corresponded with the numbers of the nearest cross streets. For example, a building with the number 220 was located on the block between Second Street and Third Street, a building numbered 440 would fall between Fourth and Fifth, and so on. As for the stretches between streets with names instead of numbers, the numbering would continue at evenly spaced intervals, only jumping to the next 100 on a new block.
Of course, this required renumbering in places that already had existing street addresses. While the “Philadelphia system,” also known as the “decimal system,” eventually became commonplace throughout the country, the change was not always welcomed by those attached to their old address numbers for personal or professional reasons.
The confluence of the expanding postal system and coherent system of house numbering arrived when the U.S. government announced the start of home mail delivery in select northern cities, effective July 1, 1863. Citizens intending to send mail directly to a recipient’s residence were required to include a street address. But the street numbering system remained very much in flux at the time, and many letter senders simply ignored the requirement in lieu of more creative descriptions. A mail carrier might find a note addressed to, say, the residence halfway between Third and Fourth with the two broken windows and a crumbling chimney.
As described in Devin Leonard’s Neither Snow Nor Rain: A History of the United States Postal Service, a prime example of this came from Mark Twain, who was seeking to mail a draft of one of his stories to a friend but didn’t know the address. As a result, Twain wrote on the envelope: “For Mr. C.M. Underhill, who is in the coal business in one of those streets there, and is very respectably connected, both by marriage & general descent, and is a tall man & old but without any gray hair & used to be handsome. Buffalo N.Y. From Mark Twain. P.S. A little bald on the top of his head.”
The draft found its way to C.M. Underhill, and indeed, mail carriers were generally successful at their jobs in spite of the limited instructions they were often required to work with. Exceedingly difficult cases with vague address or illegible handwriting were sent to the Dead Letter Office in Washington, D.C., where they were sometimes deciphered and rerouted to the right place, but otherwise were opened and recycled, with the more unusual contents uncovered placed on display in the office’s museum.
Even with the occasional snag in service, mail delivery quickly proved an effective endeavor. By 1864, 685 postal employees were carrying mail to homes through 65 U.S. cities, those totals jumping to 2,628 carriers and 104 cities by 1880. Following a test run involving three remote West Virginia communities in 1896, Rural Free Delivery (RFD) became a permanent postal feature in 1902.
As evidenced by the continued growth and reach of the Post Office Department, the reshuffling of street addresses in some areas and the lack of them in others didn’t present a major obstacle for determined postal carriers. New numbering systems were introduced with the plethora of subdivisions that appeared across the country in the aftermath of World War II, although the arrival of ZIP codes in 1963 further streamlined the delivery process.
While street addresses are now a ubiquitous feature of developed nations, California’s Carmel-by-the-Sea managed to resist the trend that engulfed the rest of its municipal neighbors. Founded in 1916, the coastal city retained its old-time appeal for decades with residents required to retrieve mail from the post office and get creative when providing directions. However, in July 2024, the city council voted to end the long-standing nostalgic practice.
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5 Things Movies Get Wrong About the Medieval Era
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AuthorMichael Nordine
February 19, 2026
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There’s a reason you’ve never heard Nicole Kidman say, “We come to this place for a history lesson,” in her AMC commercials. Movies don’t have the best track record when it comes to historical accuracy, especially where the Middle Ages are concerned. Some dubious medieval tropes show up more than others, of course, and these are five of the biggest offenders.
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Prima Nocta
In one of Braveheart’s most upsettingly memorable scenes, Edward Longshanks invokes prima nocta (Latin for “first night”): the right of a feudal lord to sleep with any female subject he so desires, especially on her wedding night. Not only does Hollywood often get the name wrong — it’s more accurately known as either droit du seigneur (“right of the lord”) or jus primae noctis (“right of the first night”) — but the practice most likely never existed. Braveheart is (in)famous for its historical inaccuracies, few of which have seeped into the collective imagination quite like this one. The tradition has been referenced in everything from Avengers: Age of Ultron to The Office, always as prima nocta — a sign that the writers in question first heard of it from Braveheart rather than any historical source.
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Despite what just about every depiction of the period would have you believe, from Monty Python and the Holy Grail to Kingdom of Heaven, medieval people weren’t always dirty. The misconception is especially prevalent in regard to the peasantry, who are almost always portrayed in rags and a thick layer of grime as they eke out a meager existence under the yoke of a cruel lord. In reality, many people bathed and brushed their teeth on a regular basis, with most settlements built either near fresh water or in proximity to a functioning well. They even had soap, which has been available in Europe since the ninth century CE.
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Pitched Battles
When imagining medieval warfare, a very specific image comes to mind: two massive armies meeting on an open field and charging directly at each other until one side emerges victorious (known as a pitched battle and seen in such films as Braveheart and Henry V). Despite its frequent depiction in film and television, this was actually quite rare, and for a very good reason. Such conflicts were incredibly risky affairs whose outcomes were nearly impossible to control. Raids, sieges, and skirmishes were far more common, with one army targeting the other’s lands and terrorizing its people on a smaller scale rather than putting all their eggs in one basket.
According to nearly every fictionalization of the medieval period, not a lot was going on in the worlds of art, literature, and science. This misconception earned the era its long-standing nickname: the “Dark Ages.” The Hollywood-fueled myth would have us believe that medieval people were ignorant, few scientific or cultural developments were made during these decades, and it was generally a bad time to be anything other than a king or noble. The truth is much more nuanced than movies such as Tristan & Isolde and Black Death would have you believe. The Christian church didn’t completely stifle science and art in medieval Europe; in fact, much of the era’s most beautiful art was actually sponsored by the church. Many of these myths trace back to Petrarch, a 14th-century poet, whose complaints about the Italian literature of the time being subpar were misinterpreted as relating to the entire era.
Like prima nocta, chastity belts are a myth — though Hollywood is not entirely to blame for this one. The concept predates the movies by several centuries, as these restrictive items have been depicted in art since at least the 1500s. Even then, they were mostly satirical — meaning that in the 16th century people found the idea as laughable as we do today, though it seems some took the jokes found in supposed illustrations of the device by military engineer Conrad Kyeser seriously and believed they were based on actual practices. None of this makes Robin Hood: Men in Tights any less funny, of course.
For similar articles, subscribe to our sister brand Movie Brief, brought to you by our resident film critic Michael Nordine. You’ll receive a weekly review and recommendation of a new movie, whether in theaters or available to stream, as well as a list of 25 must-see movies when you first sign up.
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5 Forgotten Desserts Your Grandparents Loved
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AuthorNicole Villeneuve
February 12, 2026
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Americans’ eating habits have changed a lot throughout the country’s history, and not unlike breakfast, lunch, and dinner staples, dessert choices tend to look very different today than they did a few generations ago.
In the late 1800s and early 1900s, desserts were shaped by the ingredients and circumstances of the era. Until the mid-20th century, most of the U.S. didn’t have year-round access to fresh foods; economic downturns, food rationing, and periodic shortages during certain seasons were a normal part of life. Home cooks thus had to be thrifty and creative, turning whatever was affordable, seasonal, or already on hand into something tasty. Here are a few dessert dishes from your grandparents’ era that have all but disappeared today.
For much of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, a custardlike dessert known as junket was a mainstay on American tables. Junket originated as a European dessert in the Middle Ages, made by gently warming milk and setting it with animal rennet, an enzyme traditionally used in cheesemaking. It required no baking, no eggs, and very little sugar, along with a little nutmeg or vanilla. The result was a softly set dessert with a texture somewhere between a pudding and a jiggly gelatin.
Junket’s rise in the U.S. started around 1886. That’s when Danish company Chr. Hansen’s Laboratory began marketing rennet tablets, sold in a box that included a recipe for junket. By the early 20th century, rennet tablets and presweetened, flavored powdered mixes that eliminated the need for additional sugar, vanilla, and nutmeg were widely available. Recipes and advertisements appeared regularly in newspapers, calling the dessert nutritious and easily digestible; it was pitched as ideal for children or anyone recovering from illness.
By the 1970s, junket custard had largely faded in popularity. Refrigerated desserts such as Jell-O and boxed puddings replaced junket as a staple, though the dessert does survive today — mostly as a specialty item at select stores.
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Luckily, potato candy doesn’t actually taste like potatoes, even though the starchy vegetable is indeed the main ingredient. Potatoes (preferably russet) are cooked, mashed, cooled, and mixed with powdered sugar to form a pliable dough. The dough is then rolled thin, spread with a filling, and rolled up into a log before being chilled and sliced into sweet, soft, pinwheels.
It’s tough to pinpoint the exact origin of this resourceful treat. It was most likely passed down through families of Irish and German descent; from there, Pennsylvania Dutch settlers likely introduced it to the U.S., where it became especially popular across the wider Appalachia region.
Though it predated the Great Depression, potato candy was a recipe that was ripe for proliferation during that time: potatoes were plentiful, filling, and nutritious, and confectioner’s sugar was cheaper than granulated sugar. The classic filling is peanut butter, although depending where your grandparents grew up, they might have enjoyed it with walnuts (a Kansas tradition) or coconut (for New Englanders).
Mayonnaise in cake may sound unusual, but it makes perfect sense in context. The first known recipe for a chocolate mayonnaise cake appeared in a 1927 edition of the Oakland Tribune, but it wasn’t until 1940s wartime rationing hit that the dessert became an American staple.
Mayonnaise is essentially a mixture of egg yolk and oil. When fresh eggs or butter weren’t available, home cooks found that substituting mayonnaise didn’t just do the trick, but even improved the cake, making it quicker to put together and more moist than the original.
In the late 1930s, Hellmann’s parent company Best Foods printed a recipe for chocolate mayonnaise cake in a promotional booklet. After World War II, the recipe became familiar enough that Hellmann’s printed it directly on mayo jars in 1961 — not unlike Campbell’s did in 1960 for the famed Tomato Soup Cake recipe that flourished during the Depression.
During the Great Depression, when food ingredients were scarce and pockets were bare, an array of make-do desserts known as “desperation pies” proliferated across the country. Vinegar pie is one of the more familiar ones, but another one known (rather bleakly) as water pie was also a go-to. Recipes for both of these pies actually predate the Depression: Versions of water pie appeared in U.S. newspapers as early as the 1870s and 1880s. At that time, fresh ingredients such as milk and eggs were seasonal due to cows and hens producing less in the cold winter months, so substitutes were useful.
Water pie was pretty much exactly what it sounds like: a pie made primarily from water. It also relied on sugar, flour, butter, and some nutmeg or vanilla. The ingredients could be assembled right inside the unbaked pie shell, but would remain watery and need to be completely chilled before being served. Alternatively, the filling could be mixed and baked into a custardlike texture before being added to the pie shell and baked into a not-too-sweet treat.
Prunes may not get much culinary respect today, but for generations they were an essential ingredient in American kitchens. Although they’ve been grown in the U.S. since colonial times, prunes — otherwise known as dried plums — didn’t become a major crop until the mid-19th century, when French horticulturist Louis Pellier arrived in California during the California gold rush. In 1901, prune growers from the Golden State proudly promoted prune-based recipes — including prune cake — at the Pan-American Exposition in Buffalo, New York, and the fruit spread in popularity from there.
Prune cake was moist, naturally sweet, spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg, and often topped with a boiled buttermilk glaze. It remained a popular cookbook fixture until the start of the 1920s. That’s when plum growers decided to market prunes’ high fiber content as a natural remedy for constipation, and the fruit became relegated to punchlines and the fringes of health food stores.
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