Another edition of "I do not think it means what you think it means"!

You might wonder why I'm posting this perfectly fine-sounding recipe for homemade pizza from the July 1975 issue of Women's Circle Home Cooking. 

I specialize in recipes that are usually head-scratchingly weird and/or only slightly more appetizing than whatever the cat left in your shoes the time you tried to give it a flea dip. (Yeah, the pair you had to throw away.) And here is a recipe for a simple yeasted dough, topped with a tomato sauce that contains actual flavoring ingredients! Alliums! Oregano! Red pepper! Parmesan cheese! So why did I pick this? The answer is like real estate: Location! Location! Location! You see, the recipe appeared directly under this heading:

Now, I realize ideas about what constitutes a fast-and-easy recipe changed as kitchens got things like microwaves, Insta-Pots, and air fryers, but I have a hard time believing that even in 1975 anyone thought a recipe that took two hours minimum-- and that's only if you're working REALLY fast and the yeast is cooperative-- counted as "Instant Cooking." But then again, the '70s were a crazy time when a guy could cast a fishing line in the same pool that a woman was about to dive into (at least if this graphic is to be believed), so maybe I don't understand the time well enough to judge. Maybe back then, 2+ hours was nothing...

A miraculous bird!

I'm not sure I'm THAT impressed by the concept of chicken, but my booklet The Miraculous Broiler-Fryer Chicken sure is. That's probably because it was put out by the Poultry and Egg National Board. (The pamphlet is undated, but addresses don't include zip codes. That means it probably from before July 1, 1963.)

I'm not entirely sure that whoever owned this before me was all that impressed either. Of the two notes I found in this recipe collection, one was simply "NO." (I thought it was a scribble at first, but then I realized it was a reaction.)

The writer did not elaborate on what the problem with "PRETZEL-FRIED CHICKEN (Deep-fat)" was. Most people love fried chicken, and I'd think pretzels would give it a nice, salty crunch, but the recipe reviewer was clearly not a fan. The other note I found was somewhat more enthusiastic.

There is no follow-up to the "Try" note, though, so I don't know whether this person actually tried hot chicken salad or what they thought of it if they did. Based on the black-and-white photo of said salad, I would never have guessed these things are supposed to be topped with cheese and crushed potato chips. Looks more like chopped egg or maybe avocado.

A lot of the recipes are, as one might expect, pretty standard. Barbecued chicken, roast chicken, chicken pot pie, chicken cacciatore. There are a few somewhat more surprising preparations. You might suppose these are the mid-century version of chicken enchiladas if you didn't look too closely.

But then you'd notice all the greenery and orange slices around the carb-coated chicken tubes. These are actually Chicken Pancakes Imperial. 

I'm still not really sure why the oranges are there, as the pancakes are just wrapped around plain chicken moistened with a milk-based gravy, then topped with more of the gravy. It's giving me bizarre orange-and-cream vibes. 

But then again, orange chicken is pretty common now, and it was back then too.

And just look at the cute half-orange filled with (Cranberries? Grapes? Marbles?) for serving.

Less cute is this chicken mound on the opposing page.

Looks like chicken and wallpaper paste, but it's actually Chicken Cantonese.

I would have assumed this "Cantonese" recipe was Hawaiian Chicken, considering how much pineapple is in it, but this booklet associates coconuts and curry (rather than pineapple) with Hawaii.

Honestly, the thing that sounds best to me out of all this is the pretzel-fried chicken, but the original cookbook owner probably thinks I'm wrong about that.... There is no accounting for taste.

Mashed potatoes can be your friend

I know my initial post about Betty Crocker's Dinner Parties (7th printing, 1978) focused on how lazy an entire menu could be, but the book also recommends ways to make easy mixes more complicated than simply following the instructions on the back of the box. My favorite examples of this show how to make pre-packaged potato products into "fancier" foods. For instance, if you want to serve New England clam chowder but want to be fancier than just reheating a can of Progresso, you can turn a box of scalloped potato mix into Quick Trick Clam Chowder.

It's basically making the scalloped potatoes on the stovetop and then dumping in canned clams and a bunch of extra milk. I imagine this would need some salt given how much the milk will dilute the mix's flavor, but it's an interesting use of packaged potatoes.

The recommendation for instant mashed potatoes is even more work (and more puzzling): turn them into a cold mashed potato salad.

And then stuff that mixture of cold mashed potatoes, hard-cooked eggs, pickle relish, instant minced onion, minced pimiento, and vinegar into small (and apparently raw) green peppers to serve at a picnic. Sounds gross AND hard to eat! The perfect combination if the cook doesn't want to be coerced into catering a picnic again...

At least Betty put more work into these recipes than into the one for onion rolls. I'm not sure what this suggests, exactly, except maybe that she tried drugs in the '70s just like everyone else?

Bust out the margarine! Gotta control that cholesterol

Today, we're looking at one of the less-exciting titles in my collection: Dietary Control of Cholesterol (Fleishmann's Margarine, 1969).

Since it's from a margarine company, it obviously tries to push margarine. There's actually a two-page spread trying to convince readers that margarine can easily be transformed into a lovely "sauce."

"Sauce" is code for simply melting the margarine and adding some kind of flavoring. This "sauce" looks kind of like it's filled with lawn clippings.

But at least it's flavored with fresh parsley. Other recipes call for using dried herbs. Dried herbs are fine in other applications that cook for a little while, but I can't help but think that margarine full of dried oregano would be kind of overwhelming in an unpleasant way (and probably musty tasting, considering how slowly people back then tended to go through their herbs...).

And it would be even worse with dried rosemary. 

No matter how "crushed" it is, you're going to wind up with a piece stuck in a molar and making everything taste strongly of rosemary for hours.

I was surprised to find a few recipes that didn't call for margarine at all-- perhaps as a counterbalance to those "sauces"? Or maybe they just had to fulfill the quota for weird gelatin recipes and (thank goodness!) couldn't figure out a way to work margarine into them?

This one almost sounds good at first. I am honestly a fan of fruity gelatin with cottage cheese-- it has a low-rent cheesecake vibe. But why would you throw in horseradish, mayo, and chopped onion?

If you can't resist the seafood-and-Jell-O combo (which, apparently, few people could do back then, for reasons that remain a mystery), there's a Cucumber-Salmon Ring.

Again, margarine-free! (You might notice that both recipes call for Royal gelatin, though. The same company sold Royal and Fleischmann's, so it's not like the recipe developers forgot their mission to sell the company's products.)

The booklet also includes another of my favorite recipe genres: sandwiches with seemingly-random fillings. The Fresh Garden Sandwiches focus, unsurprisingly, on fresh veggies.

I'm just not sure anyone ever looked forward to a slice of bread slathered with margarine, then topped with watercress-flavored cottage cheese and thin slices of radish...

And while I've seen peanut butter paired with a lot of things, I'm not sure tomato is its best companion.

Still, I didn't think the combination by itself was that weird. I personally wouldn't want peanut butter and tomato, but I don't like raw tomatoes. Maybe somebody who likes raw tomatoes would find the combo more interesting than the typical sugary PB&J? I almost didn't feature this recipe until I actually read through it. The peanut butter is combined with margarine for some reason, and each sandwich gets a heaping three tablespoons of the mixture. Then after the tomato, there's an additional thick smear of margarine mixed with oregano. (WHY?) In the end, this massive load of peanut butter and margarine is less than 50 calories away from a quarter pounder with cheese, though it definitely has less cholesterol. But is it worth the trade-off, especially since you're likely to experience dusty old oregano?

In short, "cholesterol control" is about as appetizing and exciting as the title suggests it will be. This one is not a surprise.

But have you ever thought of your zucchini-seller's religious preferences?

Today's recipe is from Cooking Without a Grain of Salt (Elma W. Bagg, orig. 1964, but mine is the 1972 Bantam edition), but I didn't choose it for its notably-low sodium content, or even for its suitability to help you finish off a bounteous harvest of zucchini. It's just got a really weird headnote.

Headnotes often provide extra information-- perhaps advice on where to find an ingredient that wasn't common at the time the book was written or what to sub in if you just couldn't find it. Maybe a brief anecdote about the first time the cook tried this food on vacation and knew they needed to figure out how to make it at home or about a time when the cook served the recipe and got a particularly favorable reaction. But this is the first time I've ever seen a headnote about the cook discussing the religious experiences of Italian immigrants who sell zucchini. I have no idea why Bagg thought this was a good note to include for the recipe... which is, oddly enough, exactly the thing that made me so interested in it. So, well-played, Ms. Bagg! You got my attention. Still not sure what that adds to the recipe, though.

Bready party!

What do you think of when you think of a party? (I usually think of cringing in the corner and waiting for it to be over because I am an introvert. Or if it's VCR Party Live, then I'm watching weird shit on YouTube and enjoying an alcoholic beverage on Joe's behalf since the host gave up drinking.) Well, What Kind of a Party Shall I Give? (1939) is from Wolf's Extra Fine Bread and Quality Bakers of America, so they think parties are distinguished by "unusual bread combinations."

I wasn't sure what that meant, exactly. Would the recipes somehow involve slices of rye, whole wheat, white, and sourdough sandwiched inside a croissant, or something like that? That would be an unusual combination of breads. Of course, that's not quite what the bakers had in mind. These recipes mostly involve putting kinda-weird fillings into regular bread. Like American cheese, mayonnaise, and marmalade.

Or slathering slices of toast with Boston baked beans mixed into a white sauce.

I assumed we were in trouble when I saw scare quotes in the "Tasty" Sandwiches.

But these are just open-faced sandwiches topped with ham and slices of pork or chicken, then topped with white sauce and cheese before being broiled. I'm not sure such a sloppy concoction is the best thing to serve at a party, but at least it sounds better than the Boston baked beans in white sauce!

Alternatively, if you want a "sophisticated tidbit" to serve as an appetizer, you might turn your toast into "chariots" loaded with "fluffy, golden, scrambled eggs"...

...and drawn by a team of animal crackers. You know, sophisticated.

It's not all bread with weird-ish toppings, though. Good party foods could instead be loaded full of breadcrumbs, like this Kidney Bean Loaf.

Nothing says "party" like a solid chunk of kidney beans held together by American cheese, bread crumbs, and eggs. Mmm-mmm!

But surprisingly, the book does sometimes seem to forget its premise, and the recipes don't bother with bread at all, like the Hobo Picnic. (Of course, "hobo" is not really a title we would use anymore!)

Yes, most of this "recipe" consists of a plan to trick your friends into peeling potatoes, hiking outdoors, and building a fire. Their reward, in the end, is potatoes and frankfurters boiled in a bucket and served on a stick. Woo-eee! The end of the description-- "Maybe your friends won't enjoy a meal like this after the exercise they have had! If you think they won't, you don't know them" frankly makes me wonder if the people who wrote this book personally know any humans. I can't imagine too many people would be in high spirits after being bossed around all afternoon only to receive a skewered plain boiled hot dog and a skewered plain boiled potato in return. (Even if the host does remember the mustard, I don't think this will significantly shift the mood.)

So, in short, while I realize I have no real sense of what makes a good party, I may have Wolf's Extra Find Bread and Quality Bakers of America beat. At the very least, I have some sense of what is unlikely to work. Maybe.

Recipes without the main ingredient

I know to expect plenty of typos and mistakes in old recipe collections that schools, church groups, charities, etc. sold to raise money. It's not like Gertrude from down the street or Mildred from the church choir was really that concerned about whether anybody else would be able to follow their instructions. Good cooks should have enough sense to figure out what they meant, and if not, well, then nobody else's version of the recipe would be as good as Gertrude's or Mildred's.

I expect at least somewhat more accuracy if I'm getting recipes that are formally published as part of a newspaper's recipe collection. Newspapers are supposed to have proofreaders, after all. The Dispatch Recipe Collection (put together by The Columbus Dispatch (newspaper) in 1933, edited by Bernice Thomas) shows that this was not always the case.

See if you can spot the missing ingredient in the egg cutlets.

That's right-- no eggs, except for the one that's beaten and used to adhere the bread crumbs to the cutlets' exteriors. Instead of the eggs, the recipe just lists the finely cut pim(i)ento a second time. (Maybe Thomas just wanted to try out both spellings?) So much for adding the eggs to the seasoned thick white sauce before "spreard"ing the mixture in a shallow pan to chill until stiff.

Okay, now guess what is in the pear macaroni salad.

If you unimaginatively guessed "pears" and "macaroni," you were only half right. The pears are saladified not with macaroni, but with macaroons. So, yes, pears slathered in cream cheese, rolled in cookie crumbs, and topped with a maraschino cherry half counted as a salad as long as they came atop a lettuce leaf with a spoonful of mayonnaise.

I guess this all suggests that the "women's pages" in 1930s weren't considered worthy of having a proofreader. Or maybe the proofreader just got so distracted by the prospect of macaroons and mayonnaise that proofreading became impossible? 

I know the explanation is probably just Occam's razor-- nobody really cared enough to notice-- but it's fun to speculate.