5000 hours and about as many potatoes for Christmas dinner

I'm lucky as far as holiday food prep is concerned. I just have to show up at my in-laws' house with the treats that I'd want to make anyway, regardless of whether anyone asked me to make them: cookies and dinner rolls. It's just handy that I have someone else to eat them because I'm pretty sure I'm wired to make cookies and dinner rolls on Christmas Eve regardless of the circumstances. If we had robot overlords, I'd have to make them cookies and dinner rolls even though I'd hate the damn robots and they couldn't eat anyway.

I somehow doubt that many home cooks in the 1890s felt a similar affection for holiday cooking, at least based on what I see of the expectations placed on them in my 1996 reprint of the 1896 Fannie Farmer Cook Book. The menu looks a bit, shall we say, complicated:

Okay, some items would be a little easier than others. Even though the apple sauce would be homemade, it could be ready waaay in advance. But with 20 items on this list (more if you count individual components put together like lettuce, dressing, and cheese straws), this is a to-do list that would make me want to hide under the bed until, say, April.

Let's start with the first big component: roast goose with potato stuffing.

Even from the beginning, this does not look promising. Cooks have to start with the whole goose: remove pinfeathers and draw out the innards before even getting around to the stuffing, trussing, and roasting.

I hadn't heard of potato stuffing before, but it sounds interesting: a hybrid of regular bread stuffing and mashed potatoes. Mashed potatoes are awesome and so is stuffing, so this might be super-awesome. Or it might be pretty soggy, and heavy to go with such a big meal. Hard to tell.

Whoever put this menu together must really have loved mashed potatoes, too. If you look closely, you'll see the potato-stuffed goose is supposed to be garnished with watercress, cranberries, and potato apples. You may well wonder what potato apples are. Well, they are extra work that wasn't even officially listed on the menu:

They are essentially cheesy mashed potatoes shaped into apples and fried. If I were a guest at this dinner, I might just try to steal all the potato apples while ignoring the consomme and celery and applesauce and cream of Lima beans. I don't think I'd be the only one to feel that way, either. Some of the sides don't take much time or effort and they fill out the table so it looks impressive. I get that. Nobody wants celery, but it doesn't take much effort and everybody knows it's only there for decoration anyway. But cream of Lima beans? That starts with dried beans and takes hours while 5000 other things also need the cook's attention. And nobody will touch it anyway, not with potato apples (or duchess potatoes-- did I mention the author seems to have a potato fixation?) on the table.

More seasoned mashed potatoes made into fancy shapes, although these are baked instead of fried.

I always thought of croquettes as something to make to use up leftovers rather than as part of the main attraction, but just in case there weren't enough dishes (and enough busywork), this menu calls for the special occasion croquettes:

As if cleaning and dressing the goose wasn't enough, this recipe starts with cleaning and dressing a chicken. Then it has to be cooked, chopped up, mixed with a thick sauce, seasoned, shaped, fried, and served with green peas and sauce or wine jelly.

And we haven't even gotten to the desserts yet. For the traditionalists:

A pudding full of finely chopped fruits (and suet! I know it used to be pretty common in recipes, but I can't think of anything except feeding the birds when I see it. Might as well add millet and sunflower seeds while we're at it...) that has to be steamed for six hours.

Those who like their puddings on the cold and extra boozy side could choose one of these:

A frozen dessert might sound easy and reasonable enough until we remember that nobody had an electric freezer in 1896. Even in cold weather, cooks had to pack this in ice themselves and probably keep checking to make sure it was actually freezing. The end result would be this glorious dessert...

...which kind of looks like a package of frozen chicken breasts piled on a fancy plate in this rendition.

Plus assorted cakes and bonbons (homemade fondant candies).

So, yeah. Days and days of work for a spread that is probably only going to be half-appreciated. I wonder how many 1890s cooks just decided to hide under the bed until April or made a double batch of potato apples and called it a day.

Cookies that show who's naughty and nice...

As holiday madness descends, some people are prepared to spend days decorating cookies... And apparently that was as true in the '70s as it is now. (I will admit to preferring the exuberance and eccentricity of the '70s cookies, even if they lack the polish-- no, because they lack the polish-- of their sleek, modern incarnations. I'm a sucker for Charlie Brown's Christmas tree, too.)

But what about the '50s? The Family Circle Cake & Cooky Cookbook (1953) suggests decorated cookies were usually pretty sedate:

If you wanted to get fancy, you could dump a ton of sprinkles on them...

Or roll them in powdered sugar...

Or add a pool of jam...

Or shoot them through a spritz gun...

Or spread them with icing and add a few dragees if you wanted to be really classy.

The fanciest decorating seemed reserved for the families that wanted to scare kids away from the cookie (I'm sorry, cooky) jar:

The gingerbread man with the enormous raisin eyes protruding from his forehead and into his hat could make anyone back away slowly... very slowly... 

But a little more searching showed me that decorated cookies had some traction. They seemed more reserved for occasions outside of Christmas, though. (Maybe '50s cooks were too busy making fruitcake and Jell-O molds to make too much of a fuss over cookies?)

So what did '50s decorated cookies look like? 

Some were pretty straightforward:

Animal cookies would be easy for a birthday party: top cookie with icing, animal crackers, and coconut "grass," et voila! Quickie kid treat.

And this was clearly the game that kids played in the margins of their notebooks when they weren't paying attention in class.

I always thought the spelling was "tic-tac-toe," though. I guess anything goes in a book that considers the singular form of "cookies" to be "cooky."

People who wanted to get really fancy might break out the candies to make Goldilocks:

Or a very... uh... rustic flag.

I just love this one: the blobby blue field in the corner with a dozen dragee stars. (The top two rows do NOT seem to trust that bottom row, either.) And look at the cinnamon stripes: another three rows (with the bottom one in exile) and one of the candies ready to fall off the edge while others are half-buried in icing.

This one makes me wonder about the selection process too. Did the cooks just make one example of each cooky and take its picture, saying, "Good enough," or was this the best sample out of a series of attempts? I'm not sure which answer would amuse me more.

Some of the cookies were just puzzling:

I looked at this one for a while. My best guess was that it was a bug's face. The three dark bulges are its eyes and nose? beak? pincers? mandible? labrum? That third bump is whatever bugs have slightly beneath and between their eyes. The pair of candy strips forms the antennae, and the other blobs beside the strips are unexplained. Maybe the bug is wearing barrettes on its antennae? Or maybe those are just in the background and completely unrelated to the bug head?

Okay, so maybe it is not a particularly festive bug:

The halved cherries make this a George Washington Cooky. This seems oddly specific. Presidents' Day must have been a much bigger deal in the '50s.

And, of course, a cooky that reminds me why I am happy not to exist in the '50s:

A sure way to make friends in the '50s: Bring over a plate of cookies that screams, "Please enjoy this edible racist caricature!"

Tupperware Party!

Happy Cookbook Wednesday! I thought I'd write about a slightly newer-than-usual cookbook today, just because this book makes me nostalgic for childhood and this is the season to be nostalgic. Today's book is from 1981:

See the orange canisters in the background? We had those, and we were constantly digging them out in December for flour and sugar to make cookies: cutouts (of course), molasses cookies (so soft and delicious!), butterballs, marzipan cookies, and some oatmeal cookies stuffed with candied fruit that my sister and I found absolutely revolting, even if the grownups liked them.... So those orange canisters are completely responsible for today's pick.

One of the gimmicks of this cookbook (besides requiring Tupperware for everything) is that it gives instructions for making one's own mixes so even fast food will be "homemade." Of course it has recipes for cookie mix! Since I'm dreaming of cookies anyway, let's look at some of Tupperware's offerings:

It looks as if this is being sold as an easy gift idea, too. Give recipients some instructions with the mix (in a Tupperware container, of course!) tied with flowered braid like the kind my mom used to sew on my sweatshirt to personalize it when I was little. (I got picked on a LOT as a kid... I think the two might somehow be related.)

The cookies themselves look lovely: a bar with crumbles on top, something orangey, something chocolatey!

Before anything else, though, we need the recipe for the mix:

I like that it specifies to store it in the 14-cup Large Canister. You wouldn't want to accidentally store your cookie mix in the incorrect Tupperware (or some bastard non-Tupperware container!).

The streusel-covered bars that look so inviting to me sound less so when I see the recipe:

My grandma always made mince pies and I was never sold on them, so mince cookies sound no better. (Of course, it didn't help that when I was little I thought everyone was saying "mints," not "mince." The two taste NOTHING alike, and mince is particularly horrifying to a little girl hoping for peppermint.)

What about the orangey ones? Are they better?

Orange and coconut! I know that probably sounds good to those of you who would like to eat pencil shavings mixed with sunblock, but (as you may be able to gather) I am not a fan of coconut.

But what about those delectable chocolatey looking cookies?

They are double chocolate drops! Chocolate cookies! With chocolate pieces! And it's a Christmas miracle: I found a recipe that actually sounds good, even to my picky ass.

So happy Cookbook Wednesday! Thanks again to Louise for organizing it!

My (super-lame) fantasy

As you have probably gathered by now, I am a wild child. Just today I was thinking about the thing my college roommate and I used to fantasize about doing.

Are you ready for the big revelation?

We used to imagine (wait for it)... opening a soup and bread restaurant together.

Crazy, right?

Okay, probably not the kind of female college roommate fantasy situation that gets lots of traffic from people Googling on private browsers... but if you've read this blog long enough, it's probably about the revelation you were expecting.

My roommate and I considered steamy soup with a hunk of homemade bread the perfect meal, especially in the months and months of the year that are freezing, so we imagined someday having a soup bar right next to a bread buffet so everyone could enjoy our favorite pairing. 

I was thinking of our imaginary restaurant today when I browsed Better Homes and Gardens Soups & Stews Cook Book (1978). I wanted to find a recipe to serve as my fantasy specialty and then saw this:

Puffy cheese noodles? As in fluffy, home-made noodles full of cheese flavor? Yes, please! It combines my love of noodle soup and cheese in a single step! (And maybe the cheese would stay in the noodles instead of simply coating the spoon like cheese sprinkled on top of soup tends to do? Dare I fantasize some more?) (Yes, I am really this lame...)

The colander full of noodles sending out their cheese-scented steam looks as happy as I feel about the thought of this creation.

So what could I put puffy cheese noodles in? I didn't see any recipes that specifically called for them, but here is an interesting noodle soup recipe (from the same book):

It's not just regular chicken noodle soup, what with the tomatoes, creamed corn, and zucchini. It sounds like a soup made for people who are trapped in winter but fantasizing about summer... (Hmmm... That could be me! If I weren't wary of canned corn, I might be tempted to vegetarian-ize it and try it.)

If you're more interested in the plain homemade noodles the recipe recommends (Why, when there are puffy cheese noodles?), here it is as a bonus:

Here's hoping your fantasies don't come true!

(I know, we're supposed to hope they WILL, but have you really thought about it? I wouldn't want an actual restaurant with health inspections to pass and pain-in-the-ass customers to ask me which soups are gluten, soy, and dairy-free whether the corn in the cornbread was free-range.... Forget it!)

Holiday spit-takes

Now that we learned how fudge was made in the '30s, I started wondering about newer convenience recipes. In the '90s I used to make an easy "fudge" recipe I found on the back of a powdered sugar box. What about the halfway point: the '60s?

One answer is in the Jell-O Pudding Ideabook (1968). It looks as if my '60s counterparts were just as eager to avoid the failure that often accompanies making genuine from-scratch fudge, and given the book's name, I'll bet you can guess the "secret" ingredient for easy fudge:

This (and most of the variants) look awesome! Pistachio creams! (Note that cooks had to add their own pistachios and food coloring to a recipe based on vanilla pudding mix. Pistachio Jell-O pudding wasn't introduced until the '70s.) Peanut butter creams! Peanut fudge! And though I'm not thrilled about coconut cream confections or raisin rum creams, I'm sure they have their fans.

The last recipe though, the one relegated to its own space on the following page, sounded just plain weird. Maybe that's why it had to sit at a table all by itself.

Sure, at first glance layered fudge doesn't sound too surprising: a layer of light-colored fudge covered by a layer of chocolate mint fudge. If it's made with vanilla pudding mix, it is probably fine. But look a little more closely: cooks can use banana cream pudding too. The instructions don't say to omit the mint for this option; in fact, they seem to forget that using vanilla pudding is even an option after the instruction to add mint extract to the chocolate layer.

I can get behind chocolate mint fudge. Even though I'm not a fan of fake banana, I can see the appeal of chocolate banana cream fudge. But minty chocolate banana fudge? I don't think so.

Apparently surprise fruit and mint combos were a thing in the '60s, though. As a final treat, here's a recipe from Magical Desserts with Whip 'n Chill (1967):

The title of candy mint pie sounds innocent enough. It would look innocent too: a nice, pink mousse studded with bits of crushed peppermint. It would look great on a holiday table. And what would a guest at a holiday party expect from a pretty little pink slice? Pure cooling holiday peppermint. What would the unsuspecting guest get? Strawberry cream with peppermint pockets! It makes my whole mouth feel funny just thinking about it.

Hopefully the host has supremely tactful guests and/or a washable tablecloth because I can only imagine the spit-takes....

Cooking Calendar for Cookbook Wednesday!

I have been intending to enter Cookbook Wednesdays, but my teaching schedule for fall has been crazy-- especially on Wednesdays and all the grading meant I couldn't work ahead. But things are slowing down, so today I can finally join. Yay! Since Louise suggested it, here is my first entry: Betty Crocker's Cooking Calendar (1962).

You can see I got it at Half Price Books! I tried to take the tag off, but it didn't want to come and I didn't want to make a mess, so I tell myself it will look pretty retro in 30 years or so. ;-)

I've been exploring this book on the first post of the month for the past year. In case you want to see more, here's

• January
• February
• March
• April
• May
• June
• July
• August
• September
• October
• November
• December

Enjoy! I hope to see you next week as part of Louise of Months of Edible Celebrations's Cookbook Wednesday!

Goodbye to the cooking calendar

I have to admit, I'm feeling a twinge of loss. We're starting December, so it's my last day for Betty Crocker's Cooking Calendar (1962). We've spent a whole year exploring the cookbook, and I will miss having a list of "red-letter" produce and a seasonally-appropriate recipe to start every month.

So what fruits and vegetables does Betty recommend for December?

Cauliflower, cranberries, and avocados!

At first I kind of wondered why cranberries were the December fruit when I really associate them with Thanksgiving in November, but then I read the menu for the December Ladies' Luncheon, and felt a little slow that I hadn't figured it out earlier:

I'm not going to say what the reason is right away so you can figure it out too. So what else can I say about the December Ladies' Luncheon?

• I picked it partly because I like ending full circle. I started the year with a different ladies' luncheon menu. Apparently poultry with dairy was a requirement for these menus, along with a fruity dessert.
• I guess the souffle makes the menu pouffy enough to be sufficiently feminine, and the cranberries are bright enough that cooks won't have to break out the red food coloring so everyone will know it's lady-food.
• I love the late fall/early winter fruit bowl full of pears, apples, grapes, and citrus. It's even in harvest gold!
• The recommendation for serving cranberry ice as an appetizer combines TWO of the produce-of-the-month selections: cranberry ice in avocado shells! Now if we served cranberry Santa in an avocado sleigh on a snowdrift of mashed cauliflower-- it would smell revolting and Santa would melt all over, but we'd hit the trifecta!

And in case you still haven't figured it out-- even with the cranberry's pairing with pistachio ice cream or an avocado shell-- it's December's pick because it works so well in the red-and-green color scheme. I guess cranberry is the flamboyant cousin on the staidly brown Thanksgiving table anyway. Moving it to December so it can really party only makes sense.

So this is it-- goodbye to Betty Crocker's Cooking Calendar, freer of oppressed cranberries and friend to avocados.