Dinner With Grandma

Holmes & Edwards ad from the
March 1947 Ladies' Home Journal

Patrick had soccer on Valentine's Day so we instead had a mini celebration on Monday, and on the actual Day of Hallmark's Emotional Exploitation, my good friend Anissa came over for dinner, desserts, and a lot of booze. It was all also the perfect excuse to initiate a very special gift I received from my aunts and my parents.

A few weeks ago, I was delighted to accept the most wonderful package from my Aunt Teresa, my Aunt Janice, and my parents: It was a completed set of my Grandma Price's silver.

My Grandma and Grandpa Price
in 1947.

Four days after she turned 24, my grandmother married my grandfather in 1947. At some point after that (whether it was a gift or something she collected on piece at a time, we're not sure), my grandmother acquired the Youth silver pattern from Holmes & Edwards. It was a very popular pattern, one that some baby boomers might recognize, and retailed for just under $70 in 1947. It's sweet and special and features little flowers that almost anyone with a preference toward the traditionally feminine would be charmed by.

It's a set that has seen decades of anniversaries and parties, family dinners and tea with the girls. Eventually my grandmother acquired another set of silver, her own mother's (my Great Grandma Steffler's), and that set was later gifted with much love to her daughter, my Aunt Teresa, in celebration and in honour of Teresa's wedding. It was a big surprise to Teresa as my Great Grandmother Steffler's silver set was something my grandmother still quite cherished, but Grandma Price felt it was time to hand it off. She wanted to see Teresa enjoy this little inheritance while she was still alive  - and it was a gesture that was met with many tears and hugs.

And that fall, my grandmother unexpectedly and sadly passed away - something that made the early gift of an heirloom that much more emotional and sentimental.

After the funeral, my grandmother's original wedding silver eventually went to my aunt Janice, but she found that she didn't get as much use out of it as she would have liked. She offered it to Teresa, but she, too, didn't use it on account of already owning her Grandmother Steffler's set. And so they thought of who in the family might appreciate it and use it more, and a certain someone with a vintage obsession and disturbing love for dining came to mind. Yay for being a Fatty '50s Weirdo!

My Grandma Price's Holmes & Edwards pattern was typical of a woman who had raised a brood of children (eight kids!) - there were a lot of incompletes. Once, when asked where all the teaspoons went, my grandmother joked (but not) that they were probably in a sandbox. With my Aunt Teresa's work and my parents' help, they filled in the spaces, replacing the pieces that had been lost to sand castles of the 1950s and '60s, and then sent the completed set to me, tagging the forks, spoons, and knives that had been newly bought.

And so, I naturally did what anyone would do with such a thoughtful and sentimental gift:

Image Source.

HAH. You guys have no idea how incredibly and thoroughly dead I would be if I wasn't joking. I'd be murdered so hard by my aunts that my lifeless carcass would actually make Kristen Stewart look like she had an emotional range. I don't even think there would be dental records left to properly identify me.

In reality, to "break in" this beautiful silver, I did something much nicer and life-preserving: I made a special meal that my grandmother might have served, using recipes from the Steffler Family Cookbook (which I've mentioned once before when I went on a bender for prairie foods).

For dinner with Patrick, I adapted my grandmother's recipe for Shrimp Puffs and instead used tuna, so as to not kill my shellfish-allergic husband:

I then made Crispy Parmesan Chicken, whipped mashed potatoes, gravy, and buttered broccoli:

Happy Hubby:

For my ultra romantic dinner with Anissa, I cooked up a vegetable soup and we enjoyed two of my Grandma Price's desserts: Pecan Pie and Almond Cherry Cake.

I know the Almond Cherry Cake looks suspiciously like the dreaded fruitcake, but I promise, it is really frigging amazing. Because Patrick likes chocolate, I added chocolate chips to the mix. Next time I make this, I might replace the candied cherries with sour cherries or maybe even dried blueberries just to see how it compares.

For me, food is a simple everyday way to share and show my love and appreciation for my family and friends, and there's no better way to do that than with the help of someone who was so caring and special, my Grandma.

Thanks again for this beautiful gift, Teresa, Janice, Mom and Dad. I love it.

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Nothing Says 'I Love You' Like A Cow Organ On Your Plate

Looking for a special Valentine's Day Menu for you and your sweetheart? Want to give it a vintage touch? Want to watch him run, screaming in the other direction? Then I have the 1950s Valentine menu for you!:

That's a whole lot of red on one plate. This beauty of a suggestion is from the Searchlight Homemaking Guide and I'm not sorry to say that they didn't include a recipe for the Baked Heart, presumably because they knew no one sane was going to make it. 

"Happy Valentine's Day, darling. I hope you know how much I love you - but if you didn't, here's something you might remember from your high school dissection class. It represents my feelings. Eat up, lover!"

I have, however, included the recipe for the Cranberry Heart Salad which, if you know 1950s cookery, you have likely already guessed that it's yet another testament to the wonders of gelatine:

Yum, yum. Who doesn't love biting into whole cranberries? 

Patrick, if you're reading this and you are about to curl up into the fetal position, let me assure you: My Valentine's gift to you is that I'm not making any of this. That's how great of a wife I am.

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Overheard: How Do You Know You Don't Like It If You Won't Even Try It?

Overheard while walking along Danforth next to two college-aged girls:

Girl in Puffy Jacket: Ooo! When the weather warms up we should totally go to that gelato place! It's supposed to be so good.

Girl in Green Scarf: Isn't that where Sarah found a pube in her cup?

Girl in Puffy Jacket: *genuinely annoyed* Oh my GOD, you are SUCH a picky eater.

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A Whole New World

(Scroll down for the Update!)

When I was in Europe this Christmas, I was surrounded by coffee fanatics. I don't necessarily mean Europeans (although they certainly enjoy their Nespressos) - but the members of my family whom I was holidaying with: The day did not begin until everyone had coffee. I've generally been a take-it-leave-it kind of person when it came to a cup of morning Joe; I've never really been that big on Starbucks and generally I hadn't been bothered to make it, except for maybe on the weekend. But seeing as coffee was being made every morning, I'd help myself to some each day - and since I've been back in Canada, I've been drinking it somewhat regularly. Just a cup in the morning, made with the french press. I've been learning how to make a better brew, by letting the grounds "bloom" first - and it's been weirdly interesting to discover that there really is an art to everything.

But as we all know, art is highly subjective - as demonstrated in Redbook's November 1965 magazine article, "How To Perk Up Your Day With Coffee."

As you can see from the cover stories,
it's just one of MANY great finds in this issue.

The article starts out sane, explaining what roasting the beans does, how long one should allow coffee to percolate and so on ...

... but it's when the magazine goes into the specifics on how one can add touches that make coffee "a bit different" and what "foreign flavours" can bring an "elegant note" to the evening that things take a turn for the worse:

"... coffee with any or all of these: cinnamon sticks, allspice berries, whole cloves, orange peel, lemon peel or sliced oranges."

Hwwwhhahhgh.

Ok, so perhaps I just happen to be someone who really hates when orange flavours are put where nature never intended them - I'm talking to you, Terry's Chocolate Orange - but sliced oranges in coffee? Really?

"It's delightful! You should try it!" says some random crazy person on the Internet.

No, no. I'm going to try another of the magazine's suggested flavour combinations. Prepare to get your elegance on with a dessert that blends coffee with gelatine, peanut butter and - I shit you not - Marshmallow Fluff:

Fuck yeah.

You know when certain religious conservatives get all hysterical about "gay marriage" and start talking about a bizarro world where people can marry dogs and children can marry toasters? They really need not worry about it because the most brutal of combinations has already happened in the above recipe, and God hasn't smited (smitten? Smut? Yes! Smut!) us yet.

I'd like to thank the above recipe for giving me the excuse to do something I have ever done in my life, and that's buy / have Marshmallow Fluff.

I know somewhere in America there's a person connected to an air tank who cannot believe that someone's gone 33 years without Fluff, but it's a fact. I wasn't even sure if the grocery store carried it, but there it was among the ice cream condiments and cones. I'm almost scared to ask where in the store it's found in the US. Please don't say dairy aisle.

In buying this strange little product, I was also introduced to something totally new that I had never heard of; a Fluffernutter:

Fluffernutter: Product of USA.

Oh, we already figured that one out, Fluffernutter.

If I hadn't seen the picture, I would have thought it was something else, but thanks to the label, I take it that a Fluffernutter is marshmallow fluff and peanut butter, in bread. And this is what people eat? For lunch? At school? Why hasn't Michelle Obama mentioned this in, like, every single one of her speeches?

But what's truly sad is that Coffee Gelatine With Peanut Sauce is actually worse than a Fluffernutter, nutritionally (and, probably, spiritually). In each serving of a CGWPS is 1/2 cup of coffee, gelatine, 1.5 tablespoons of sugar, 1.5 tablespoons of peanut butter, 1.5 tablespoons of marshmallow creme, 1.5 tablespoons of milk, half a tablespoon of molasses, and a sprinkling of salt.

Hwwwhhahhgh.


And with that dry heave, let the cooking begin.

Oh Jesus Christ.

The coffee gelatin was easy enough to make. I don't have sorbet glasses, so these highball glasses will do.

In the meantime, I got the topping to look deceptively normal:

I've popped it all in the fridge to chill. I'll update this post with the final product once my Guinea Byck husband is home to try it out. Stay tuned!

UPDATE!

The dessert is complete and the Guinea Byck is standing by!

If you didn't know what was in it, I wouldn't call it a repulsive looking dish:

Since we're talking about an elegant dessert, it should no doubt be accompanied by candlelight, cloth napkin, and an eager gourmet!

Ok, maybe not so eager.

"What's in this, again?" the poor dear asked.

"Coffee. Gelatin. Peanut butter. Marshmallow. Sugar." I said.

"I like all those things," replied the sweet GB optimistically.

I steadied my camera to capture his first reaction.

"Wait. There isn't shrimp in this, is there?" he-with-the-shellfish-allergy asked.

Sigh.

"When has there ever been a dessert that had shrimp in it?" I yelped.

Iron Chef, replied the voice in my head. The voice in my head watches a lot of TV.

"You didn't answer my question," my husband said suspiciously.

"No. I promise, there is no shrimp in that," I sighed.

I held the camera again, ready to take a picture.

"So, do I just eat this, or start with the top or ...?"

"Whatever you want, dear," I said, realizing how rather stupid blogging is.

He put his spoon in and skimmed some of the topping and sniffed it. And then he put some in his mouth.

And then he had another bite. And another.

"Thoughts?" I asked.

"It's good," he said. I just don't get him sometimes.

"I can't finish it all right now, but I'll have the rest later! Don't throw it out!" said the strange man I married. He got up and kissed me on the cheek and I quickly learned of an immediate side effect of eating this dessert: seriously disastrous breath.

Poor GB.

But then I couldn't help it. I decided to become Guinea Byck #2 and give it a try.

I wish I could tell you the taste was a surprise that really did warrant a thumbs-up. It wasn't. It's like having cold, jellied coffee with a fuck-tonne of sweetened peanut butter.

It makes ... no sense.

None.

The topping and the gelatine don't compliment each other, they don't blend together - they are simply two awful things that just happen to coexist in the same container, like as if Josef Stalin and Naomi Campbell shared a limo.

You puzzle me, Redbook. You puzzle me.

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Pinplement

Pinplemented!
(not "Purplemented" as it kind of appears.)

I'm making up a new word:

Pinplement
pin-ple-ment v. pin-pluh-ment
verb
To create, buy, do, or otherwise actualize the things you pin on Pinterest.

I really love Pinterest, but I've quickly realized that I've been pinning and pinning stuff rather than actually doing or making these things that I'm so charmed by.

And so it should come as no surprise to those who regularly read this blog that the first thing I decided to pinplement was a recipe: lemon poppyseed pancakes.

This was the pin, originally from the website, Picky Cook:

And this was the pinplementation:

Not as pretty, but yay!

It was the world's smallest batch of pancakes as Patrick wasn't interested in having any (I just don't get him sometimes), and I really didn't need a load of them, so that's all I made; three little pancakes (that's a bread plate they're on, not a dinner plate).

Making such a small amount sort of felt like that scene in Bridesmaids where Kristen Wiig creates that single, elaborate cupcake; the only difference is that I didn't eat what I made as glumly as she did.

Fact: Never in my life have I ever eaten something glumly - not even the food at a funeral.

Wow. Congratulations, Jen. After all, who could ever wallow in sadness when finger sandwiches* and date squares* are around.

* The Official Refreshments of Funerals since 1894.

Yes. Exactly. Exactly.

Where was I? Oh, right: Lemon poppyseed pancakes. Did these differ much from regular pancakes? Not really. Just a tad crunchier, as if I was eating pancakes with flavourless roe baked into them. But that's not really the point. The point is this: Hurrah for doing something and not just pathetically staring at things that other people on the Internet have done.

... Ooh. I hope that last sentence didn't make you feel awkward, People of the Internet. You're not the pathetic ones - I was totally talking about myself and those other weirdos out there. Every second you spend on this blog actually makes you cooler. It's a fact.

Oh, God. Please don't ever leave me, People of the Internet. I need you.

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Paris Does Everything Better

This blog post is about Paris even though I'm in Spain now; that's partially because my first day in Spain was spent feeling sick and napping and pooping and basically acting like a miserable cow. I think it's my body's way of expressing that it's angry to have left France. I keep telling myself that, because the likely reality that I just can't drink wine and eat cheese like I used to is too sad to accept.

But anyway - Paris!

Even though it isn't snowy, being in the city around the Christmas season has been pretty cool as we've experienced different aspects of Paris we hadn't witnessed before. For example, they have these Christmas villages (Festival Noel) set up all over the place that sell cheap gifts and serve what is the Parisian version of carnival food.

You know how at North American carnivals, everything wrong in the world is combined, cooked in grease and then hilariously called "food"? The Parisian version is like this except made by people who understand the concept of shame. It's still "junk food", it just isn't filled with such obvious self-hatred. For example, the thing that we would call a "cheesedog" at the fair, in France consists of a fresh baguette and a sausage that has been smeared with dijon mustard and topped with melted brie.

Mouthgasm.

I wish I had pictures. We forgot our camera's USB cord at home - but here are some pics from other people on the Internet:

These are all from Soundlandscape's Blog:

Vin chaud! A very tasty hot wine that tastes quite a bit like sangria if you served it piping hot:

Chestnuts roasting on an open fire:

Can you imagine anyone at a country fair serving deep friend Mars bars in a chef's outfit?:

A booth:

The festival isn't the only thing the French do better - they also do 1950s Christmas tackiness better than us.

For example, take a look at this fantastically bizarre "spray tree" from the December 1957 Better Homes & Gardens:

Now take a look at what you can find in Paris - the same idea but in a glorious, over-the-top red!

From Art Girl's Guide to Paris

Le swoon.

We are now in San Sebastián, Spain - the Basque region known as a foodie and party capital of the world. The streets are filled with restaurants that specialize in pintxo, little tapas of every fantastic variety. I cannot speak the language at all, so there will be lots of grunting and gesturing toward things I want to eat. In other words, I'll be acting as I normally do.

Ciao for now!

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And I Would Do Anything For Love ...

I'd run right into hell and back.

I would do anything for love,

I'll never lie to you and that's a fact.

But I'll never forget the way you feel right now,

Oh no, no way.

And I would do anything for love,

Oh I would do anything for love,

I would do anything for love,

But I won't do that:

No, I won't do that:

Image Source: Betty Crocker fruitcake ad (back cover of Woman's Day, December 1957)

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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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Peppermint Patty Is Not Amused

Yesterday I told Patrick that I was going to make something very special and rather traditional on account of American Thanksgiving. I assured him the meal would be not be from one of the vintage Thanksgiving recipes, so he was fairly pumped. Correction: VERY pumped.

He knew something weird was up when he arrived home and I was playing jazz music.

(This is only the tip of the iceberg of how funny and clever I think I am. It's sickening, really.)

Patrick enjoyed it, sort of.

Until ...

"Okay, Okay ... so what are we really having for dinner?" he said after indulging in my silliness for about a minute.

"This is it. I didn't make anything else," I said.

"Are you kidding me? This isn't a real meal."

"Patrick - be grateful. It's American Thanksgiving and I clearly slaved all day to make this," said Mrs. Laugh Riot.

I was too busy enjoying my shit-eating grin to take a picture of his reaction. He refused to "recreate" his expression, but this is pretty much exactly what he looked like:

And then, through the magic of MS Paint, I can show you what Peppermint Patrick did immediately after that:

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