Happy Secretary's Day! How's Your Vag?

Care for a side of horrifying along with your morning coffee? Yes?! Your non-wish is my command.

When you were preparing for your career, what kind of advice did you get? Take some courses? Dress for the job you want, not the one you have? Learn Photoshop already and stop depending on MS Paint to relay all your visual thoughts?

Well, if it was 1959 and you were a secretary (that's old timey for "Administrative Professional") and were reading the career advice book, The Executive Secretary by Marilyn C. Burke, you'd learn that you could gain an important professional advantage by keeping the lady bits in check.

I shit you not:

"Now that we are smartly dressed, our hair and nails well-groomed, and our faces at their best, we can ruin the entire effect in ways that even our "best friend won't tell us about" ... perspiration odor, unpleasant breath, or the telltale scent of carelessness about our feminine hygiene. So many of us are careless about unpleasant odors about our persons. We have a tendency to feel that "if I can't smell it, it isn't there." Unfortunately, unpleasant body and breath odors are like an unfaithful mate - the possessor thereof is quite frequently the last to know!"

 ...

"Women must be even more careful about the unpleasant and very obvious odors that may accompany "that time of the month." A frequent changing of sanitary napkins and the use of any of the deodorant powders that are available for the express purpose will do away with any chance of offending during this period of the month."

Luckily for secretaries concerned about "feminine daintiness", help is around the corner - one need only ask the building's janitor for a helping hand.

Amazing.

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The Way Things Were a.k.a. Holy Fuck, 1965

If you know this blog, you know I loves me some vintage living. But what I like to explore - however ridiculously at times - is how a chapter in history was reflected in its media (and, in turn, the ideals and values that were impressed upon the culture). Well, that, and disgusting retro recipes. This is not, however, entirely reflective of reality. If you were to go purely by the 1950s women's magazines I own, you'd think, "race relations? What race relations? Shouldn't we be busying ourselves with a Jell-O mold right now?"

But come 1963-ish, magazine cover stories became less about "Soups Men Love!" and more about stuff like this (you'll know it when you see it):

"When A Negro Family Moves Next Door", written by Suzanne Hart Straight for Parents' magazine, January 1965. Oh, cringe.

I debated posting this entry because, well, it's totally horrible. That, and I'm a giant pussy whose intellect is more on the level with topics of Marshmallow Fluff than racism. But seeing as Martin Luther King Jr.'s life is celebrated today, it seems appropriate to remind people (and in some cases, educate people for the very first time) what he and those who fought for civil rights and dignity were up against.

Despite the unfortunate opinions expressed by some of the people interviewed in this article, I'm quite thankful for it, as it provides a look into what people really were thinking and feeling at the time without a PC-filter. It shows how far we've come, but it can also, perhaps, allow us to connect a few dots between those attitudes and how we view other groups and minorities in society today.

Isn't it weird to see those words in a magazine? It startles me that an article like this was relevant just 47 years ago and during my parents' lifetime (Barrack Obama would have been four years old, and my mom - whose birthday is today! Happy Birthday, mom, sorry to hijack it with this hate crime! - would have been eight.). It is downright strange to read what "normal" people once (?) were concerned about when it came to black people and all kinds of horrifying to read the vile things less-than-normal people were proud to express to a nationally-read magazine.

What's more, as I was reading, I had to keep reminding myself that this discussion wasn't about some weirdo town in the South that we all figure was full-on batshit racist, but was instead a middle-class neighbourhood in New Jersey. Yeah, buddy.

Let's not kid ourselves, there are still plenty of shitty things going on out there, said and done by people who weirdly claim it's not hateful (it's free speech! It's my religious belief! It's a genuine threat! It's hilarious! It's against my vision of America! The founding fathers wouldn't like it! Their hair products cloudy up my pool!). Give me a fucking break, you fucking fuckstains.

The author of  "When A Negro Family Moves Next Door" does what I clearly can't do (as I just demonstrated); she responds to some really heinous opinions calmly, with facts and without a lot of judgement, possibly because she knew that you win more flies with honey and that, at the time, Parents' probably had a fair share of readers who related to what was being said by these neighbours.

But that shouldn't stop you or I for letting a "holy fuck!" or a "oh, hell no!" fly out of our mouths while reading this, particularly when you get to the part where "Mr. Heath's" shithead opinion is shared. I mean, just look at what this asshole has to say:

Ugh. Yes, please leave, Mr. Heath.

But the article isn't just a bunch of awful quotes. It shows a turning of a tide, people who were clearly rational and thoughtful and no doubt helped to shape the attitudes of their own neighbours. And - as a lesson for me, they did it without calling anyone a "fucking fuckstain":

So, without further ado, here's the article in its entirety, followed by a "Group Discussion Article" - some questions and information for people to use when discussing this article with friends, family, co-workers, or neighbours (I love that! Gold star, Parents'!). You should be able to open these images into a separate tab where you can expand them to a legible size:

Discussion Prompts:

So, thoughts? Anything surprise you? Can you share any memories (or perhaps stories from your parents) from this time? Does any of it feel familiar when thinking of other groups that are currently marginalized in our society?

And finally, how are you spending Martin Luther King Jr. Day?

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A Holiday Suggestion for the Hysterical

If you're one of those people who believes there is a war on Christmas going on (to which my usual reply is either tackling a Christmas tree or waterboarding anyone with a manger on their yard), I found an ad in my December 1969 Woman's Day magazine that should help you out.

All you need to do is emerge from the kitchen with this flaming turkey in your hands on Christmas Day, and I assure you, you will hear shouts of "Jesus!" and "Oh, Christ!" and perhaps even "Call a priest!":

Brought to you by everyone's favourite gourmet, Wrigley's Spearment Gum.

Hallelujah!

I'll understand if you want to skip the suggestion of singing "Happy Turkey" to the tune of "Happy Birthday" as suggested in the ad; but I'll also respect your beliefs if The Flaming Turkey Song quickly becomes a cherished family tradition as well. The bird, after all, did die for us.

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Guarantees: Because There's Nothing Worse Than Coming Home From School and Finding a Dead Monkey in a Dress at Your Door

Today's random retro find is compliments of the classifieds section of the July 1962 edition of Redbook:

A human-like pet to caress and play with, this golden-haired SQUIRREL MONKEY makes a cherished gift for both adults and children. Brings fun and companionship into your life with its heart-shaped face and very lovable eyes. Easy to train and care for, eats what you eat, needs only understanding and affection. Comes to you 6 months old, grows 12 inches tall. It's an education just owning one. Free cage and instructions with each monkey. Guaranteed Live Delivery.

One day we should compile a list of all the things that fall under the category of "It's an education just owning one." It would be phenomenal.

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Jury Panel ...

... is nothing like this:







Well, no shit. It's at night and there isn't a jury. Why the hell did you think jury panel would be like Night Court? And did you really think Dan would be there?

Quiet, you.

No, if there was a sitcom about jury panel it would be of a waiting room where ... nothing happens. It's a room filled with of a couple hundred people, all bored out of their skull. Someone would turn the page of their book, someone else would cough, someone would get up to use the washroom and everyone would watch them walk by. (Cue the laugh track.) That said, it would still be more entertaining than any Chuck Lorre sitcom.

So far, none of us has seen the inside of a courtroom, with the exception of us all having watched the extremely dated 1982-ish era instructional video on our first day that explained how the court system worked. The only thing I paid attention to was the big hair and shoulder pads of the women in that video. So, in that sense, it has been a little bit like Night Court, in the Markie Post fashion department sense.

Sigh. Why can't civic duty come with wi-fi? Or magazines that were printed after 2002? Or cake? I'd take cake.

No shit.

Quiet, you.

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Let's Not Get Too Smug

The things one can talk about while doing a 50s Housewife Experiment could probably take all year, so every so often, I like to re-explore little bits of it ...

... Like what it's like to be flipping through the 1952 Spring / Summer Sears catalogue and come across this:


Asbestos ... beauty that lasts ... beauty that protects ... beauty that kills! Try asbestos on your home ... watch how it laughs at the weather ... and at that unexplained breathing condition you've developed. All for less than $0.12 a square foot!

Oh dear.

While we all might giggle at the 1950s-ians and their asbestos products, lead paint and strange penchant for marshmallows in entrees, I'm sure our grandchildren will have plenty to mock us with. My bets are on aspartame, toothpaste whitening ingredients and Prime Minister Justin Bieber.

What do you think? What will the 2010s (is that what we're calling ourselves? Maybe, the O-10s? Two-tens? Any word on our brand?) look like fools over?

And speaking about being smug and / or shamed - one person has just won the right to get into the fetal position be very proud - the winner of my draw for the Good Housekeeping Book of Salads. And that person is Pattie - Chicagoland, IL!

Congrats, Pattie! Your dream of wowing friends, family members and evil spirits with tomato aspics and a recipe called "Ice Cream Salad" that actually involves eight radishes (no lie!) is about to come true! Yay!

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That'll Be $2 A Feeling, Ma'am

This is an account of Day 2 of the 50s Housewife Experiment: Husband Obsessed Edition

A key inspiration for this experiment, Mrs. Dale Carnegie (who even had a first name of her very own - Dorothy), was the wife of a very successful self-help author. Dale Carnegie wrote a book you've likely heard of: How To Win Friends and Influence People. This book was written in 1937 and was immediately a huge success. Today, it's still selling well (at the time of writing this post, the latest edition is ranked #162 on Amazon). Apparently, the socially awkward and power hungry are an enduring, timeless lot.

I couldn't help but wonder just how much under her husband's influence Mrs. Carnegie was when she wrote How To Help Your Husband Get Ahead, especially when it came to a section on nagging. Along with driving home the point that nagging could lead to the downfall of marriage, family and society as we know it (all under a section charmingly called "Why Men Leave Home"), Carnegie provided tips for wives to curb their habits of griping (something she referred to as a disease). These tips boiled down to:

• Just stop nagging. Learn to only ask once and forget about it if he doesn't do what you want him to do.
• You catch more flies with honey than vinegar - be sweet and use flattery to get him to do what you want
• Stop being a bitch Get a sense of humour - realize that most things you nag about don't really matter, otherwise, he'd have done them! (OMG)
• On the odd chance you nag about something important, talk about it calmly at a separate time

But the tip I was most convinced to have actually come from Mr. Carnegie was the following:

I simply can't envision any woman in any time in history coming up with such a horrible idea on her own. It's basically punishment for not constantly faking happiness, even when someone does something that deserves your annoyance. If anyone is going to have to pony up, shouldn't it be the person who failed to follow through on whatever chore or obligation he or she was supposed to do (rather than the person who reminds them of it)?

Apparently not. And so to my absolute horror, I present to you, The Nag Jar:

$0.25 in 1953, when this advice was viciously seared into print, is worth about $2 in today's market - and so that's my fine if I'm caught nagging or ... "showing irritation" ... *grits teeth and attempts to turn it into a smile. Fails miserably. Throws two loonies into the jar*

The jingle-jangles from my 'fines' are like Christmas bells to Patrick. He thinks The Nag Jar is the most hilarious thing to ever enter our house - and that includes the time I bought a poncho. He fully envisions a few trips to Starbucks next week will be covered compliments of this jar. I think not, but I'll let you know the damage at the end of the experiment.

Now that you know what's been in play at our home, onto the day's run-down:

Still riding that white cream sauce kick from the day before, I attempted to make something called Eggs a la Goldenrod for breakfast. Basically, you hard-boil a couple eggs. Once they're done, you separate the yolks from the whites. Meanwhile, make liquid heart attack a medium-thick white sauce (butter, flour, milk, salt). Cut up the cooked egg whites and toss them into the sauce. You then pour this sauce over buttered toast and complete the dish by crumbling the goldenrod-hued yolk over it all. Here's a picture of it from my Betty Crocker cookbook:

Ridiculous, no? And yet, mine did not turn out nearly as glamorous (and it's not just the bad lighting of my photo). The lack of enthusiasm(!) that was put into the making of this breakfast is slopped all over the plate: Grilled tomatoes instead of asparagus. A complete disregard for the garnishing power of the mighty radish rose. Toast just strewn there in a manner that says, "Sorry, but I haven't had my Valium coffee yet." Oh, for shame, 50s housewife. Fortunately for me in the context of this experiment, Patrick didn't really care what it looked like and happily ate it.

After breakfast, I did my 1950s cleaning routine, including getting all of the laundry done. Patrick was swamped at work, so he didn't make it back home for lunch; we were just having leftover Ring of Plenty anyway, so it wasn't a big deal. Afternoon was more chores, a quick dash to the grocery store and then I got started on dinner.

My thinking with dinner was two-fold:

1. I didn't want to make anything overly heavy and creamy as Patrick had soccer that evening (envisioned the scene were Michael Scott "carbo loads" on Fettuccine Alfredo for his Rabies Awareness Pro-Am Fun Run Race and later suffers the consequences)
2. Patrick claims to not really care for pie. I'm thinking that if I combine pie elements with something he really loves, namely bacon, I can turn him to the dark side

And so, I took a pork tenderloin, wrapped it in bacon and then wrapped all of that in pastry dough - essentially making a wellington. It was still baking when Patrick arrived home from work.

Emotional! Antennae! Activated! Husband Status: Hungry, pleased to be home

While things were finishing in the oven, I gave Patrick a tomato juice cocktail to tide him over until dinner was ready. You see, according to my Betty Crocker Picture Cook Book "the clever wife has a simple appetizing cocktail ready for her weary husband when he comes home at night." If all it takes to appear clever is to put some kind of liquid in a glass, consider me a Ph.D.

The pork wellington turned out really well - many compliments from the so-called pie hater. I accompanied it with boiled potato and Sweet and Sour Green Beans (from the Good Housekeeping Vegetable Cookbook) - which turned out rather brown looking for a green veg. Ah well.

As mentioned, Patrick had a soccer game later in the night. To "encourage him in his interests", I had washed and laid out his uniform on the bed, gathered his soccer stuff together and put a bottle of water in the freezer so he could have a cold drink during the game. How ever so thoughtful of me (and the gesture was indeed appreciated by the Mr.).

While he was out, it was a good chance for me to foster my own interests. So, for a few hours, I sat on the couch, numb, staring off into space worked on some freelance stuff (not really an interest, I guess, although I am interested in keeping my business afloat), and tried to do a bit of embroidery. If I have the chance to work on it more, I'll show my attempt at craftiness when this experiment wraps up.

And that was that. Onto Day 3!

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It Had To Be Done

I present to you, the Frank N' Bean Bake:

It sparkles like a Twilight vampire. Who would have guessed Edward's secret was bacon grease?

This is the original from Good Housekeeping's 10 P.M. Cook Book, for those who wish to do the erect wiener comparison (and who among us would pass up that opportunity?):

A summary of our findings and overall observations of the 50s Housewife Experiment are coming up very shortly!

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He's a Good Sport

Sorry for the delay in getting Day 13 of the 50s Housewife Experiment up! All will be explained with Day 14's post. ALSO: What is *up* with that man's hat in the picture to the left? Is this a glimpse into what happened once Maid Marian and Robin Hood finally settled down?

Never in my life have I ever thought of weekends as "disruptive" - but, boy, they sure are!

My weekly schedule has come to rule my life and when someone is laying on the couch in the midst of it, throwing newspapers and dirty dishes and socks around, I have a weird inability to do my 50s housewife thing as programmed. Instead, I growl from the kitchen (which is still totally my territory) and peer angrily into the living room that is becoming a mess with every second that passes.

Perhaps that is why I decided to serve my most disgusting dish yet, the Asparagus Meat Mold.

I had failed the dessert gelatin, floundered through two salad gelatin creations and now finally graduated myself to the entree level of jell-o based edibles.

This recipe, found in my Searchlight Recipe Book, sounded revolting, which is why I had to do it. The unflavored gelatin was first mixed with beef broth and placed in the fridge to partially set. Then, in a ring mold, the following were placed:

• Asparagus tips
• Chopped asparagus stalks
• Celery
• Cooked chicken livers
• Cooked ground beef
• Salt

The beef broth jell-o was then dumped on top of everything and all was sent to the fridge to set.

That recipe was all kinds of wrong, just like this article -> I found in one of my magazines. In case you didn't know, the term "gyp" is derived from the ethnic group "Gypsy". It's not entirely unlike coming across an article titled "Selling Your Gold: Tips To Avoid Getting Jewed at the Jeweler" Ugh - just writing that made me feel like the worst scum ever.

Anyway, the mold was taken care of earlier in the day so that it would be ready for dinner. I then went about doing several 50s housewife things like the "light dusting" of rooms (besides the living room - as that was occupied by dear husband and would have been pointless), hit the farmer's market with Jacquelyn and Ewan, planned my final 50s housewife meal for Sunday and made a few phone calls to friends (in lieu of e-mail and Facebook messages, my old standby).

By 6 P.M., my Asparagus Meat Mold had enough time to set and the dinner hour was upon us. I wanted this one mold to be perfect, so I used all the advice I had been receiving on gelatin-based structures from the blog's comment section. From my dad's cousin, Barb, I learned to grease the mold ahead of time. From my aunt, Janice, I received the advice to soak the mold, up to the rim, in warm water and then gently squeeze the mold out using a hot tea towel.

I did all of this, and then it happened.

The mold slipped out of the ring like butter and onto the lettuce-decorated plate as desired. Maybe I was caught up in the moment, but I swear the room suddenly filled with the sound of the Top Gun guitar solo. (P.S. Please watch that song's video - I think that dude in silver has to be my next Halloween costume and I need people to 'get' what I am.)

It was glorious. It was inspiring. It was about to get its hole filled with canned peas, olives and mayonnaise. (A sex joke here crosses every line, so I’ll refrain for once.) But, yes, you heard / read me right: Canned peas, olives and mayonnaise. If any of you ever wish to become bulimic and need a good trigger to keep on path, just keep rereading that last sentence over and over again until you're skinny - or just keep looking below:
As pleased as I was with myself for finally creating a mold that worked, the feeling gave way to the smell of the Asparagus Meat Mold hitting my unsuspecting nostrils. Until smell-i-vision is developed, you can get a sensory appreciation for the dish by going to your grocery store's pet food aisle, cracking open a can of ALPO and inhaling deeply.

It wasn't exactly the first time the food I was about to eat had been compared to dog food. My father, for example, has long attested that Chef Boyardee and Dr. Ballard are in fact the same man. It turns out he wasn't quite right about that one; it's Dr. Ballard and Jenny Craig who are the same person. No wonder Kristie Alley couldn't wait to get off that program.

Anyway - according to my rules of the 50s housewife experiment, Patrick had to try at least one bite of everything I made. I knew ahead of time that this thing was going to be vomit-worthy, so what you don't see off-camera is a stack of hot dogs that I made for him as a reward for suffering through his one and only bite.

For your viewing pleasure, I've documented a bit of the Meat Mold action:
It looked like dog food, it smelled like dog food and while I can't totally confirm it, I'm pretty sure the taste we experienced was also just like dog food. Who knew that there would be a time in my life when hot dogs were being used as the chaser.

Once we had our fill of palate-cleansing lips and assholes, it was time to get going as Patrick and I had a date planned! I had tried to think of something that would have been 50s-era appropriate and with no malt shops or sock hops about or a car to go to a drive-in movie, only one thing came to mind - bowling!

We got to Bathurst Bowlerama around 7:45 P.M. and wow - was the place ever jumping:
Want a quiet, intimate date? Go bowling in Toronto on a Saturday night. By the time we left (around 10 P.M.), the "prime" bowling time, only two other lanes were being used.

But back to us! The 50s housewife was finally freed of her heels and got to wear some bowling shoes - the first flat shoes yours truly has put on since this wacky project started nearly two weeks before. I also had my first beer - a Heineken (with a nod to Betty Draper) - that night. I'm still not sure a 50s housewife would have been caught drinking beer (it seems so unladylike) but I was willing to be gossiped about at the PTA in exchange for the cold loveliness of hops and malted barley.

Now, I've been called many things (amazing, talented, bendy in the right places) - but athletic or coordinated have never been one of them. Check out these disastrous bowling scores:
But you know what? It was fun. It was really, really fun. I think we'll be making a return trip, perhaps with a few friends in tow and maybe we can drum up some business for the poor Bathurst Bowlerama. While I'm not sure if our friends can bowl well, I know they'll exceed at running up the beer tab. Hey, business is business, right?

On the bus ride home, Patrick turned me.

"I like being with you," he said.

"I like being with you, too," I replied.

Not a bad way to end a day.

Image Sources: S.O.S. advertisement, circa 1946 and Today's Woman Magazine, November 1952. "How To Beat The Merchant Gyps."

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Taking Advice On Boys and Babes

Hello, again!

I'll get right to it as I have to get rolling on my day - much to do! Yesterday was a mini triumph in cleaning. I cruised through my daily chores pretty effortlessly. Even the oven, which made me its bitch last week in every manner possible, was barely a blip in my day. I stayed cool, I stayed collected, I stayed clothed.

In fact, I even did something I said I didn't need to do: I cleaned the inside of my off-limits microwave. It was my 50s housewife skeleton in the closet, er, rather, kitchen. I knew what lurked behind its door - an explosion of tomato sauce on all four walls and its 'ceiling' - something that I had somehow been able to ignore forever. Now the microwave is clean and will hopefully start displaying the time instead of scrolling "CLEAN ME ... OR KILL ME" on its LED screen.

Today for dinner, I opted to look in a section of my Bride's Reference Book called "Men Like This Food." I'm guessing the headline editor of the publication was through with coming up with cutesy titles like "Bediquette: From Nighties to Nighty-Night" and was just like, "Ugh, let's just call it what it is, already. This Tom Collins is wearing off."

The intro to "Men Like This Food" explains that we should hope to be married to normal men with "masculine" tastes (so they prefer blue food to pink food? Dog meat to cat meat?):
With this advice in mind, I made Patrick broiled steak, french fried potatoes, corn on the cob and a broiled tomato - served with his favourite beer. Dessert was a banana split with strawberries.
Well, that meal was boring. That wasn't kooky and 50s-sounding at all.

That's true, judgey voice in my head, but there's a reason for that. You want to know what men like?

They like it when you don't eff with their food.

They like it when they don't have to wade through a monstrosity of olives, gelatin, sauce and green-tinted coconut in a supposed chicken dish. They like it when they don't have to ask what's for dinner when it's sitting in front of them on a plate. They like it when they don't feel sexually confused while eating party food.

They just want to eat something hot and identifiable and for the first time since we started the 50s Housewife Experiment, I was pleased to serve it.

I don't think Patrick will be so lucky for the rest of the project, though. I'm pretty sure it will be a parade of freak show dishes from here on out - after all, there are just four more full days of 50s housewifery to go!

After dinner, I went up to Siobhan and Patrick's to babysit Charlotte while they ran errands. People probably think the Dells are our only friends as they're the only people I've mentioned this entire time. I assure you, we have other pals - but in a way - the Dells are the Ethel and Fred to our Lucy and Ricky. Or vice versa. Or, well, who knows - I'm pretty sure, though, that, based on the observations of the people in my neighbourhood, I'm the Ricky Ricardo.

Anyway, being child-free, I didn't have to spend any time researching what the 50s housewife would do with a papoose in tow. So what a perfect opportunity it was to start digging into that mid-century wisdom and experiment with it on someone else's unsuspecting child share it with all of you:

It's compact. It's convenient. It's collapsible. It's My First Death Trap.


Would you like your child to grow up big and strong (or at least able to read books about being big and strong)? There's a product that will help:
Corn syrup! Get them started on it right after they're done with the bottle. It provides them with that pure energy a butchy child needs. Plus, it gives them that adorable crazy-eye / clenched jaw look of a rave-obsessed drug user. Seeing this baby peek over the crib bars would never creep anyone out.


They're not babies anymore, but sometimes they still wet the bed like one:
Want to reduce your child's shame right away? Stop referring to that thing you just put Ronald Reagan Jr. in as a panty.


And finally ...

You know, if the whole family has "constipation worries", you might want to review what you're stuffing them with. Maybe all that gelatin, marshmallow fluff and chicken livers are gunking up the track. And, mom? Stop creeping on train time. Maybe you and your giant head should truck back to the old grocery store and pick up some not-from-a-can fruit.

Alright - enough snark! I must dash. Big day ahead of me!

Image Source: Bride's Reference Book

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Manly Men, Girly Girls and Things in Between

Yesterday, Day 8 of the 50s Housewife Experiment, involved a fair bit of cleaning on account of a) our BBQ Bonanza the day before b) slacking off over the weekend c) both of us being around to muck up the place. The lesson: a week of committed cleaning can go to shit if you relax for more than one day. How depressing.

To my surprise and joy, Patrick took it upon himself to help out with some of the tidying around the house. Sure, he used the modern cleansers, the paper towel and put things where they didn't belong, but a 50s housewife knows not to look a gift horse in the mouth (and she also knows what that phrase means), so I did my best to keep quiet. I did slip up when he was folding t-shirts and towels wrong (and by wrong, I mean not the way miss-know-it-all does it), and he quickly and correctly pointed out that he didn't "have" to help at all. In other words: STFU.

Despite the help, I was rather irritated all day (and no, not because of any "feminine" use of Lysol). I think it was because the TV was blaring from dawn till dusk with one annoying sport show and / or action movie (one starring Steven Seagal of all things!) after the other - and not my usual music.

To set the mood for the past week, I've been listening to hits of the 50s as I get on with chores. I've found that Buddy Holly can do wonders in sweeping the bitterness away (the Big Bopper, on the other hand, somehow induces rage the instant I hear, "Hellooo, bayyyby." That doomed plane ride really did balance out the musical score card.). My 50s soundtrack is my tranquilizer, and without it, all that cleaning is really quite awful!

For dinner, I made something called "Short Cut Tomato Sauce" with spaghetti, green salad and bread for dinner. And just what got detoured for this short cut recipe?
Oh, nothing - just taste. And substance. It was the most watery pasta sauce I've ever made. For Patrick's serving (what's pictured), I had to dredge the sauce three times to pick up some solidness. I probably would have been better off just using "Chef Boy-Ar-Dee" products ("only about $0.15 a serving!"). And, yes, that "bread" on his plate is indeed half a hot dog bun. I discovered too late that my bread had some mold on it and the stores were closed - so I just said "fuck it" and put a hot dog bun on the plate. Barely a week in, and I'm already having "fuck it" moments. Oh dear.

That evening it had been decided that Patrick Dell was going to come down to our place and I was going to go up to theirs (we live in the same building). You see, Siobhan and I have been watching the Bachelor / Bachelorette series since before we met our husbands. Our tradition of mocking beautiful people failing at love wasn't about to get interrupted by a 50s housewife project or an annoyed man in the room saying things like, "How can you guys watch this crap?". It's really best they just leave the house when it's on - and so The Patricks are developing their own tradition of going off together to drink and express disappointment in their silly wives.

As it was a long weekend and the plans were somewhat last-minute, I'm sad to say I didn't have much in the house to offer the boys, but I made do with what I had. Here's what I presented, along with booze, naturally:
Those kabob things look pretty 50s-ish, right? I didn't necessarily use a recipe, but attempted to tap into my burgeoning 50s housewife instincts and put something together that had the right amount of fat, processing and ridiculousness. I think the only thing missing were those sick little pearl onions.

Now, had I had the time - and perhaps if there were more gents around to enjoy it - I would have made a very special dish from my Good Housekeeping 10 P.M. Cook Book from a section called "Strictly Stag." Within that chapter is a picture that causes me to laugh out loud to myself just thinking about it. Behold, the Frank n' Bean Bake:
Apparently, it's not enough that a group of men be served the obvious and childish dish of franks and beans. No, those wieners had to be erect, as if to prove they were every bit the man as anyone else in the room.

How delightfully awkward.

My theory is that the 10 P.M. Cook Book got its name not from when you'd be serving such things, but from the time of night the book was written and photographed - well after everyone at Good Housekeeping had knocked a few cocktails back.

And that was yesterday. Today I have errands to do outside the house - some fun, some not so fun - and you'll hear all about them later.

Toodles!

Image Sources: Pyrex Advertisement, circa 1946 and Good Housekeeping's 10 P.M. Cook Book

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Putting Friendships to the Test

The long weekend presented a great opportunity for the 50s housewife to get out of the kitchen and into the wilds of the rooftop patio for a BBQ with friends.

It also let me explore the 1958 Good Housekeeping's Summertime Cook Book - a collection of recipes that are "easy on the cook" but not exactly easy on the eyes.

That gorgeous "cover mold" surrounded by truly Satanic deviled eggs is Shrimp-Salad Jambalaya. Of all the things you thought that mold could be made of, I'm guessing shrimp wasn't one of them. As my husband is allergic to seafood and since I have a weird thing about not liking to throw up in public, I skipped that experience.

Thankfully, Good Housekeeping gave us plenty of other options - and some of them were even recognizable as food (I highly suggest clicking on the image to get a better look):


Ok, I admit - I had no freaking idea what most of those things were, save for the celery in a cup, that hunk of watermelon, and the cob of corn in a bun (huh?). Some of the lowlights in this picture include:

• Molded Potato Salad on Tomato Aspic (Near the top on the left) If you enjoy the skin that forms on tomato soup after it cools (and who doesn't!), you're going to love ketchup jello.
  
• All-in-one Sandwich Loaf (Top, near the left corner) What constitutes as "all"? Layers of each between bread: chicken salad, egg salad and processed cheese spread with chunks of tomato, olives and pickle throughout. The entire thing is then covered with cream cheese spread and garnished with bologna. I wish I was making that up.
• Sour-Cream Slaw in Cabbage Bowl (Bottom right) Because everything's better in a cabbage bowl!
  
• Chicken Liver Kabob with Pimento Olives (Bottom left toward centre of page) Here's a recipe for instant job creation: Street meat vendors start serving these to post-bar patrons = need for more city street cleaners. Thanks, chicken livers!
  

The rest is really various incarnations of mismatched meats, cheeses and tropical fruit. Mmm, right? I bet you're really salivating from looking at that picture - but not because you want to eat it, but because your body is preparing your mouth for a sudden influx of bile.

In the end, I decided a spread of minted iced tea, hamburgers (from a recipe that called for MSG. Darn, fresh out of it.) and hot dogs with all the fixings, "Best Ever" potato salad and something called Coleslaw Soufflé Salad - a refreshing molded vegetable side that brought together that classic duo, lemon jello and mayonnaise.

Our BBQ mates, our good friends Siobhan and Patrick Dell, brought my very favourite thing, a box of wine their darling daughter, Charlotte. They also came armed with a few alcoholic refreshments and a sense of adventure - both requirements for trying dishes from this cookbook. They were well-aware of my 50s Housewife Experiment and knew something ... interesting ... could be on the menu.

The day marked the first time in a week that Patrick (my Patrick) had to do some cooking. You see, BBQing is "man work." Why? Well, I think Ward Cleaver explains it best:



My favourite part of that Leave it to Beaver clip is when Mr. Cleaver asks for his asbestos gloves. Not because that's the clear joke of the scene, but because they're freaking asbestos.

Not only did I not provide Patrick with asbestos gloves, but I also stupidly didn't arrange for him to wear the classic chef's hat or an apron that says "Chef" on it, as shown in the illustration up top. Why is it that when men cooked then, they needed to get into a full get-up that says "ME COOKING. READ APRON. SEE HAT."? Did they really think it made them look less gay?

The meat turned out just fine, if not a little small. The burgers shrunk quite a bit (I guess that's what happens when you use regular ground beef and not the lean stuff).

The salads were revealed with fanfare that only "rose cut" radishes can draw. Oh, what a fantastic waste of time those were.

My Coleslaw Soufflé Salad (pictured on the left) did not want to come out of its mold so it unfortunately required a bit of scraping to be freed - thus wrecking much of the aesthetic. By Grabthar's hammer, I *will* make a perfect molded object by the time this experiment is over!

Siobhan mercifully ate the coleslaw with a brave face and even offered a lie compliment that once the lemon taste went away, the coleslaw part was nice.

The boys, on the other hand, had a more difficult time disguising how they felt about it:



(Yes, that's my (unmanicured!) hand force-feeding my husband.)

Le sigh.

Dessert went over better, thankfully. I made something called Honeydew Ambrosia (it's actually pictured above in the BBQ spread photo. It's in the top left corner) and atomic rocket popsicles, made with "pure and good" Kool-Aid (... Kool-Aid, Kool-Aid, a five-cent package makes two quarts of ... Kool-Aid, Kool-Aid ...).


At one point, one of the gents suggested that the mint iced tea I made (which was crazy sweet - next time, half the sugar!) would be good with rum. A quick dash downstairs for the bottle later, and yes, it really was quite good with rum ... sort of a Long Island Mojito. It also did wonders to wash away the taste and memory of the coleslaw. Friendship saved!

All in all, a lovely time was had. My kitchen was a total disaster, though. Unlike a 50s housewife, I didn't clean it right away, which means I'll be spending a good part of today doing that. Just how every girl likes to spend a holiday.

Many thanks to Patrick Dell for taking the nicer pictures featured in today's post (the crappy dark ones are, of course, mine)!

Image Source: Good Housekeeping's Summertime Cook Book

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