It would seem that Zero Mostel was a sucker for foot jelly -- a veritable fiddler on the hoof. And it must be said that there's a tremendous visceral appeal in having a trotter all a-bubble on the stovetop for the better part of a day. For goodness sakes, many a savory pie or festive aspic demands it, and heaven forfend that boeuf go sans gelée.
It's the "pleasant gas" part of this recipe that perplexes. Sure, Sammy Davis Jr. was all peppy for petrol in this early '60s Shell Oil ad, but it's not especially likely that the Candy Man was tapping out "What a Gas!" in celebration of cholodetz. Seeing as I had a Styrofoam tray full of cow feet in the freezer on this past, rain-drenched Saturday, it seemed written in the stars -- or by the stars assembled by Ms. Dinah Shore in her 1966 "The Celebrity Cookbook" -- that I find out for myself.
Read on for highlights from 'The Celebrity Cookbook' and see how the Calf's Foot Jelly recipe turned out after the jump.
In this weekly series, home cook Bruce Watson works his way through a decades-old family cookbook, adapting the best recipes exclusively for Slashfood.
In my family cookbook, there is a recipe for "Mabel's Spinach Spread," a gelatin-thickened dip that was developed by one of my Aunt Evie's foodie friends. Although the original concoction contains a startling quantity of mayonnaise and a lot of added salt, the basic idea of a molded-gelatin dip was somewhat compelling. Gelatin, after all, is basically a fat-free, sugar-free protein that is, allegedly, great for hair and fingernails. Best of all, it can help a dip to stiffen up without the introduction of cream cheese or some other dense fat.
This recipe combines a basic spinach spread with some Greek flavor notes. The yogurt base is creamy, yet fat free, and the feta greatly reduces the need for added salt. Best of all, the fresh flavors of this dip make it a great, easy-to-prepare snack for long summer afternoons. The recipe after the jump.
I'm not gonna lie -- I'm rough on my books. There's a school of thought treating the physical manifestation of the written word as a sacred object, and I fully respect that. However I, for one, shove an old copy of "How to Cook a Wolf" into the bottom of my bag with the notion that at some point it'll sustain me on an overextended subway ride. I read "The Devil in the Kitchen" in the bathtub, A.J. Liebling over a lunchtime reuben, and good gosh a-mighty are my cookbooks covered in schmutz.
But hey, it's thematic goo; "Molto Italiano" is spattered in tomato sauce, "Pie" -- seen above -- is all a-smear in lard, "Charleston Receipts" in Otranto Club Punch and "Staff Meals from Chanterelle" slicked with a fine mist of rendered rind bacon. To my mind, these books are being honored, used, proven. Should these books at some point have a subsequent owner, they'll know what's been tested, made and made again.
Still, am I dishonoring the object or the authors when I'm getting the books all mucky? I posed the question to Matthew Lee (whose book "The Lee Bros. Southern Cooking" I've doused in all manner of pickling brine), and he noted that he and his co-author, his brother Ted have debated pre-mucking-up copies of their book to nix the blank canvas factor. The recipes therein are warm of heart and humble of origin, so it's not out of character, but would, say, a gellan-gumming of Grant Achatz's "Alinea" be a crime against the rather expensive and exceptionally lovely object?
Do you keep your cookbooks in pristine condition, or do you just accept page stains as collateral damage?
Scanned from Cooking and Traveling the Cape Cod Way (1953)
Forefather's Day isn't celebrated until tomorrow, but I'm posting this in anticipation of the East Coast's wintry mix blowing up the collective skirt of many folks' salt pork acquisition schedules. I'm a huge sucker for dishes made expressly in observance of regionally significant holidays and events -- especially so when the tenor of the recipe matches the spirit of the occasion. In New Orleans at Mardi Gras, it's all wild-hued, cream-slathered King Cake. On a chilly Christmas Eve in North Carolina, there is sweet, hot Moravian Love Feast coffee, and light potatoey buns, made to be split and shared.
It seems appropriate that a feast in commemoration of the Pilgrims' arrival in a bitter and bleak new terrain would involve some rather hardscrabble fare -- sustenance and utility, rather than sybaritic excess. Then again, I could be projecting 'cause I've never met a succotash I've really liked. Should I be able to get my frozen paws on some pea beans within the next 24 hours, I'll give this one a go.
If you should decide to do the same, please let us all know how it goes in the comments below. All I ask is that you remember to pay for the corn.
Scanned from Time to Entertain by Charlotte Turgeon (1954)
Fifty-four years after this printing, I'm hard-pressed to argue with Ms Turgeon on the import of having a few staple schmancy things tucked around the house, should mid-week meal boredom encroach or a party break out. Can't say I'm especially aligned with her specifics, but that could easily be a function of the 5+ decade divide.
I pride myself on being able to entertain at a moment's notice, due to the presence of these just-slightly-left of my central (olive oil, stock, Parmesan, fish sauce, double-black soy, tomato paste, rice/red wine/balsamic vinegars, fresh herbs) everyday ingredients.
Scanned from Be Milwaukee's Guest, Recipes Collected and Tested by the Junior League of Milwaukee - 1959
I could scarcely be crankier at myself for muffing the opportunity to present this comb-bound recipe gem on a particularly Wisconsin-centric holiday, such as the recently passed St. Nick's Day, but hey -- any day is a great day for pork cake!
I'm a big fan of the melding of meat and sweet (mmm...bacon candy...), and surely have been known to savor a sumptuously larded crust, but I can't swear that I've ever seen a baked good quite so aggressively piggy as this. Pinwheel rolls studded with flecks of seasoned ground beef, yes, but those were generally presented as a savory, hand-wielded Wellington sort of course rather than spiced, as this seems to be, in the manner of a dessert or breakfast sweet. I'm pleading woeful ignorance about the pastries of the Badger State here, so might someone be so kind as to enlighten me -- is this a traditional Wisconsin breakfast or dessert treat, or a relic of the cookbook's era? If the former, I'm booking a trip on Midwest Airlines posthaste. If the latter -- who's up for a bake-along this weekend?
Lo these many years ago, a UK-born boss of mine attempted to wheedle me into swifter production by offering me a small mincemeat pie if I finished a pressing task by 4 p.m. I begged to be allowed to take only half if I knocked it out by 3, and remain fully un-minced if I had everything squared away by 2.
In theory, I should love traditional mincemeat. I'm a huge fan of a meat 'n sweet one-two punch -- especially when there's cookin' booze involved -- but I've never been able to wrap my head around the flavor of suet. It's the hard fat from around the loins and kidneys of sheep and cows, isn't especially full and meaty like lard, and is possessed of a particularly high melting point, making it the perfect base fat for many classic British steamed puddings. It seems to be the definitive flavoring agent in all the mincemeat I've had, but I've not been able to convince myself to care for it. I tend to be a stickler when it comes to ingredient lists for traditional dishes from my vintage cookbooks, but I'm wondering if there's a fat I can sub in that would render a texture that would cleave closely to the original. Most suet-centric recipes I've come across warn that the use of butter, margarine, lard, shortening et al leaves the whole dish overly greasy and flat, but if any of y'all have met with a successful swap, I'm all ears. There may even be a bit of Spotted Dick in it for you.
Other Cooking and Traveling the Cape Cod Way highlights include Forefather's Day Succotash (look for that recipe on December 21st), Beach Plum Jelly, Irish Moss Pudding, Scootin'-Long-The-Shore, Skully Joe and a wicked lot of mouthwatering Portuguese cookery. I'm more than happy to share if there's any interest.
I found this adorable retro cooking-and-lifestyle book from 1965 in a vintage store in Wisconsin. Enchanted by the title, I picked it up (for fifty cents) and have never regretted it.
Written by two Stanford roommates, this book is hilariously frank and provides great tips the modern Bachelorette can still use.
Example: Here's an excerpt from the Table of Contents:
4. Food fit for a...
Man in a Brooks Brothers Suit
Man's Man
Man in a Garret
Lover with a Leica
Man in the Gray Flannel Lederhosen
The list goes on. It's not misogynistic, it's hysterical. Other chapters include "Deadly Little Dinners" and "Happiness is a Very Dry Martini." Each includes an introduction, usually with an anecdote, and often with a warning about putting plastic bags over your head or something silly. I'm certain that Jinx and Judy would have been girlfriends of mine.
I recommend this book. And guess what a simple Googling told me? In 2006, they updated the book! Same gals, still funny. Visit saucepansandthesinglegirl.com to read about it and see where to buy!
I added this volume to my ever-growing collection of vintage cookbooks while I was in Chestertown, MD over Labor Day weekend. It was sitting on the shelf, a burst of vibrant, mid-century color amidst a row of brown and mustard-colored spines from the seventies. As you can see from the price tag on the cover (I couldn't get it off without ripping the dust jacket), I paid $3 for it. That's more than I typically pay for interesting old cookbooks, but I just couldn't let this one slip away.
Written by the Spice Islands Home Economics Staff, The Spice Islands Cook Book was published in 1961 and offered housewives a comprehensive guide on how to incorporate a full spectrum of spices into their cooking.
In addition to offering 150 pages of recipes (everything from appetizers to main dishes to drinks), the authors also incorporated a comprehensive glossary of herbs, so that those cooks who wanted to learn more about the rosemary they were sprinkling into their meals would have easy access to information. There is also a table of equivalents that offers tips on how to substitute one ingredient for another so that a recipe wouldn't be ruined by an empty spice bottle.
Some of the standout recipes from the book include Herb Corn Bread (page 128), Hawaiian Bean Pot (page 94) and the Greek Walnut Cake (page 142). Heidi at 101 Cookbooks also has a copy of this volume and several years ago, posted the recipe from it for Gold Coast French Toast. Yum!
From Good Dishes from Tinned Food (1939), Ambrose Heath
Note - admittedly not molded food this time, but too good to keep to myself.
I'm interrupting the semi-regularly scheduled Midnight Sausage series to share molded food images and recipes from my personal collection of early-to-mid 20th century cookbooks. There will be aspic. There will be mousse. There will be various gelatins. All will be semi-solid and of debatable degrees of edibility.
Please feel free to shimmy and shake your way to the comments section to share your very own magical, masticable molds of yore.
From The Heinz Book of Meat Cookery (1930), HJ Heinz Company
I'm interrupting the semi-regularly scheduled Midnight Sausage series to share molded food images and recipes from my personal collection of early-to-mid 20th century cookbooks. There will be aspic. There will be mousse. There will be various gelatins. All will be semi-solid and of debatable degrees of edibility.
Please feel free to shimmy and shake your way to the comments section to share your very own magical, masticable molds of yore.
From The Silent Hostess Treasure Book (1931), Knox Gelatine
I'm interrupting the semi-regularly scheduled Midnight Sausage series to share molded food images and recipes from my personal collection of early-to-mid 20th century cookbooks. There will be aspic. There will be mousse. There will be various gelatins. All will be semi-solid and of debatable degrees of edibility.
Please feel free to shimmy and shake your way to the comments section to share your very own magical, masticable molds of yore.
From Dainty Desserts for Dainty People (1915), Knox Gelatine
I'm interrupting the semi-regularly scheduled Midnight Sausage series to share molded food images and recipes from my personal collection of early-to-mid 20th century cookbooks. There will be aspic. There will be mousse. There will be various gelatins. All will be semi-solid and of debatable degrees of edibility.
Please feel free to shimmy and shake your way to the comments section to share your very own magical, masticable molds of yore.
From The Best of Taste: The Finest Food of Fifteen Nations (1957), The SACLANT-NATO Cookbook Committee
I'm interrupting the semi-regularly scheduled Midnight Sausage series to share molded food images and recipes from my personal collection of early-to-mid 20th century cookbooks. There will be aspic. There will be mousse. There will be various gelatins. All will be semi-solid and of debatable degrees of edibility.
Please feel free to shimmy and shake your way to the comments section to share your very own magical, masticable molds of yore.
From Cooking with Soup (1968), A Campbell's Cookbook
I'm interrupting the semi-regularly scheduled Midnight Sausage series to share molded food images and recipes from my personal collection of early-to-mid 20th century cookbooks. There will be aspic. There will be mousse. There will be various gelatins. All will be semi-solid and of debatable degrees of edibility.
Please feel free to shimmy and shake your way to the comments section to share your very own magical, masticable molds of yore.
I found this adorable retro cooking-and-lifestyle book from 1965 in a vintage store in Wisconsin. Enchanted by the title, I picked it up (for fifty cents) and have never regretted it.
I added this volume to my ever-growing collection of vintage cookbooks while I was in Chestertown, MD over Labor Day weekend. It was sitting on the shelf, a burst of vibrant, mid-century color amidst a row of brown and mustard-colored spines from the seventies. As you can see from the price tag on the cover (I couldn't get it off without ripping the dust jacket), I paid $3 for it. That's more than I typically pay for interesting old cookbooks, but I just couldn't let this one slip away. 
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