Sweetened and Condensed

No Grocery-Store Sunday Muffins

2012-02-26T11:59:00.000-06:00

Is there a word that means fear of going to the grocery store on a Sunday?

Because I have that. Marilyn had it, too, but her affliction was pretty well spread throughout the week. If something required a trip to the grocery store, and no one was around to make a trip for her, she just made do with what was on hand.

My condition is less serious, but prone to flare-ups on Sundays when it's nice and warm and peaceful inside the house. There's music in here and hot coffee and no imminent reason to change out of my pajamas.

At the grocery store, there are bright lights and muzak. And people. Who might want to make small talk.

Sometimes you just have to say no to small talk.

There are also people in their church clothes in the grocery store on Sundays, making you feel like a heathen for your bedhead and yoga pants.

At home, you don't have to feel judged.

Worst of all at the grocery store on Sundays is a sense of desperation hanging in the air as everyone comes to terms with the fact that another weekend is coming to a close.
No, I'd just as soon not go to the grocery store on Sundays, and instead mourn the loss of the weekend in the privacy of my own home.

I'd just as soon make do with what's on hand.

I looked through Marilyn's recipes for something that didn't require anything that wasn't already in my kitchen, and settled on muffins.

Nothing that needs a mix or a can of this or that.

Just regular ol' muffins with regular ol' ingredients.

I had to improvise a little, which I was glad to do if it meant staying home today.

I didn't have any regular milk, so I used almond milk.

I also decided to sub half of the white flour with wheat flour. Since these already are pretty low in the sugar and fat columns, I figured I might as well go with a healthier theme.

And because I had some strawberries in the refrigerator just waiting to go bad, I thought I'd use those up in these muffins, too.

First, the dry ingredients.

I whisked these together, then formed a well in which I poured a beaten egg, a cup of almond milk, and 1/4 cup melted Earth Balance.

In keeping with today's theme of doing as little as possible, this is a "barely mixed" kind of recipe. I stirred it just until the flour was incorporated, letting the lumps just be lumps.

Then I folded in about a 1 1/2 cups of sliced fresh strawberries. You could use blueberries, apples, raisins, nuts, or chocolate chips at this point.

You could mash in a banana.

You could add cinnamon or nutmeg or ginger.

You could skip the sugar and throw in a couple handfuls of whatever cheese is lurking in your cheese drawer and some dried herbs.

You could even throw in a can of chicken gumbo soup or a jar of baby food, if you happen to have these kinds of things sitting around.

You can put whatever you damn well please in these muffins, just as long as you don't have to go to the grocery store.

I decided to add some lemon zest, too.

Marilyn's recipe card didn't note a temperature for baking, but I decided 375 degrees sounded good. In they went for about 25 minutes, and out they came looking and smelling pretty nice.

I took the liberty of grabbing one straight from the oven to test it out.

It was moist, not too sweet, and a little nutty from the wheat flour. But the best parts were the strawberries, making these almost more like little jam-filled treats than mostly healthy muffins.

Nothing fancy, nothing weird.

Just good and wholesome little muffins--the kind of thing to eat while drinking coffee and listening to music on a day when you have bedhead and absolutely no intentions of leaving the house.

Friday Night Bar-B-G

2012-02-18T06:59:00.003-06:00

Five generations of my mother's side of the family lived in the same Illinois farmhouse over a span of more than 150 years, and apparently they never met a piece of paper they could bear to throw away.

I've spent quite a bit of time--along with my grandmother, mother, sister, and aunt--trying to organize the family history documents into some kind of linear story or scrapbook, which is a nearly impossible task, given the volume of letters and photographs and trinkets that used to be stored haphazardly in my grandmother's attic. A good chunk of the stuff is now stored haphazardly in mine.

I'll dig in to a batch of letters, sort them by date--and then discover an entire box of 19th-century letters and photographs in a shoebox, along with a pair of knee-high pantyhose, my cousin's second-grade school picture, a veterinary bill from 1997, a pack of fossilized Freedent gum, and a letter from the Knox County Farm Bureau appointing my great-grandfather the judge of the county corn husking contest of 1928.

My family is better at saving things than organizing them.

But one of the things I like about the never-ending family history project despite the futility of trying to organize the information is the moment of discovering some piece of ephemera I've never seen before, some artifact from the past that makes me feel connected to people who are no longer here.

It's how I felt when I first looked through Marilyn's recipe box, and how I felt again last week when Chad's dad brought over a box of Marilyn's old cookbooks. Inside was a copy of the Searchlight Recipe Book, a popular cookbook from the first half of the 20th century published by Household magazine.

Inside the well-worn cookbook, I found this.

I actually already had a copy of the Searchlight, but not one that's a family relic passed down from previous generations. Mine probably came from an auction. (Thanks, dad!)

My new copy (to Baby's right), originally belonged to Marilyn's beloved grandmother, G. Haase, who made it quite clear that Marilyn was to inherit it after her death. So then it belonged to Marilyn, and now it belongs to me. This makes me emotional in a way that only a person with a dozen tubs of family history documents in her attic can be emotional.

What I mean is that I plan to hold on to this cookbook forever.

And really, it's a much more practical thing to hold on to than a letter proclaiming my great-grandfather's unusual ability in handling husks, but I'll be keeping that forever, too.

I'm not making anything from the actual cookbook this round. Although, if the images from the inside covers of the book are any indication, I'll come back to the Searchlight soon for some marvels of mid-century cuisine.

Instead, I'm making one of the recipes G. Haase wrote by hand on the flyleaf of the cookbook.

I can't resist the handwritten recipes, and it's been a while since I dipped into the vast reservoir of dishes requiring cans of Campbell's soup, but mostly I picked this recipe because we were in the mood for some simple comfort food after a week of responsibly eating whole grains and fruits and vegetables.

Questions I have: Does the fact that G. Haase misspelled her granddaughter's name in the inscription above--which reads more like an order than a dedication--increase the probability that she also made a harmless mistake in calling this recipe Bar-B-G? Did she mean to write Bar-B-Q (as in crumbled-meat-in-a-slow-cooker-served-on-hamburger-buns Bar-B-Q)? Or did she mean to call this Bar-B-G, as in Bar-B-Gumbo?

We'll never know, but I'm calling it Bar-B-G, because I think that's hilarious.

What we're dealing with here is essentially a Sloppy Joe.

But with the inclusion of chicken gumbo soup, you could also call it a Creole Sloppy Joe, even though the finished product looks and tastes nothing like gumbo.

You could even call it a Sloppy Jean-Baptiste.

Or you could just call it weird.

Because it's kind of weird to cook an onion, brown some ground beef, and then throw in a can of chicken gumbo soup--rice and indistinguishable cooked vegetables and hunks of "chicken" and all.

It's even weirder to squirt in some ketchup and mustard after that, mix it up, and call it dinner.

But that's just what we did last night.

We ate these with dill pickle slices on toasted ciabatta rolls and a stack of Kitchen Cooked potato chips on the side.

They tasted like Sloppy Joes and certainly satisfied our Friday night comfort food cravings.

When we called Chad's dad to let him know we'd be dropping off the leftovers, he said this was Marilyn's favorite way to make Sloppy Joes, and also the way the ladies in the Lutheran church where Dennis and Marilyn were married used to make Sloppy Joes for church suppers.

I never would have known that if it wasn't for my new Searchlight cookbook.

It's not very practical knowledge, but I like having it nonetheless.

GIVEAWAY TIME!

Now that I have G. Haase's Searchlight, I'm giving away my other copy to one lucky reader in the first-ever Sweetened & Condensed giveaway.

Up for grabs is a copy of the 18th edition of the Searchlight Recipe Book (to Baby's left below), published in 1945.

Leave a comment by 5 p.m. CST on Monday, February 20 to enter. Then I'll pick a winner using the random number generator, and ship the book as quickly as possible. I know you all are itching to make the Searchlight versions of chicken mousse and green pea sauce.

A Simple Cure for VD: Heart-Shaped Congo Bars

2012-02-11T12:56:00.001-06:00

I honestly cannot remember what we did for Valentine's Day last year.

Or the year before.

It seems that our love for each other--at least expressions of it on the occasion of a commercially sanctioned holiday--is not stronger than our opposition to crowds (and to commercially sanctioned holidays).

This may be related to the fact that early on in our relationship, we both worked part-time at a flower shop for a couple of years. If you've ever spent 72 hours stripping thorns from rose stems in a leaky flower shop basement, or attempted to deliver 8 bajillion bouquets on a parking-nightmare campus during a snowstorm, your tolerance for VD (some flower shop shorthand there) might be as low as ours.

I do remember one year--a few towns and several years after our flower shop adventures--we picked the least romantic restaurant we could think of, hoping for no wait and an anti-sappy VD experience. We went to this hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint--that, sadly, is now defunct--where the tortilla ships were always fried in lard, the vinyl seats and garish wallpaper were always peeling, the scent in the air was always of smoke-stained carpet and stale onion, and, inexplicably, there was always a refrigerator parked in the dining area.

Not exactly the height of romance--or sanitation.

But when we got to this hole-in-the-wall on that Valentine's Day, the place was packed. The overhead lights were dimmed and each sticky table was aglow with candlelight. Red foil hearts adorned the walls, and all the women were given complimentary red roses and chocolate.

We ate chips fried in lard that night, I'm sure of it. And had a couple of what I like to call One-Eye Margaritas--so stiff with low-grade tequila that you're closing one eye in order to see straight after downing one of them.

I believe there may even have been plastic heart-shaped ice cube lights in the One-Eyes that night, twinkling away next to the greasy burritos on our plates.

This is all just to say, you can't really avoid Valentine's Day--even at a hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint--so you might as well go with it. Just do what you can with it. And if you don't want to be a part of it, you better just stay home and put black construction paper over your windows, because VD is nothing if not insistent.

It's a holiday that will ruthlessly twist anything into the shape of a heart.

Case in point: these pans, which belonged to Marilyn.

Marilyn baked her boys heart-shaped chocolate chip cookie bars for Valentine's Day from the time they were very little to the time they were old and grown and on their own. I remember her dropping off Chad's cookie heart--wrapped in Saran Wrap on a styrofoam plate--on her way to work. Sometimes the words "I Love You" would be written across the top in red gel frosting.

I can't remember if she made one for Chad last year. Or the year before.

It's one of those things you don't really think about until there's absolutely no chance of it happening again.

I do recall us tearing one of the cookie hearts apart on the night of the VD lard chips and One-Eye Margaritas, a fitting end to a very memorable February 14th.

I knew I wanted to recreate them using Marilyn's pans this year, but a scan of her recipe box didn't reveal anything called "Chocolate Chip Cookie Bars," which is what I figured they would be called.

Chad laughed and said, "Look on the back of the bag of chocolate chips. I'm betting that's where she got the recipe."

Unfortunately, the Tollhouse bag currently is featuring some S'mores abomination that, while likely to be welcomed by Simpsons of the male persuasion, would not be historically accurate for these purposes.

So, I searched online for the classic Tollhouse cookie bars, and found a couple references for Congo Bars, and I knew I'd seen a recipe for those in Marilyn's collection.

Why these things are named after a Democratic Republic in central Africa and/or the 1995 action flick based on a Michael Crichton novel and starring Laura Linney and a bunch of gorilla puppets is beyond me, but you might also know them as Blondies.

This is not a complicated recipe.

Not a big, pull-out-all-the-stops ordeal.

Just a small, sweet gesture of love.

And the perfect companion to your lard and tequila this Valentine's Day.

All-American

2012-02-05T12:49:00.001-06:00

My indifference to football has been widely documented, but I woke up this morning feeling the itch to celebrate Super Bowl Sunday like a normal American--with food.

All-American, snacky, junky food.

So in the early-morning, coffee-drinking hours, I pawed through Marilyn's recipe box, in search of a few things I could make for our Super Lame Super Bowl Party of Two (during which I'll probably be finishing up some freelance work and Chad will probably be grading papers, and we might put the game on in the background if we can get that channel to come in).

I settled on three recipes in three all-American categories, so you are in for a Sweetened and Condensed bonanza post today, friends.

First up: The Salty Snack Category

This doesn't have a name, but it's a Taco Chex Mix, and I picked it for several reasons.

First of all, what's more American than coating breakfast cereal with butter and a packet of taco seasoning and calling it a snack?

Secondly, I love Chex Mix, and so does Chad. We hoard the stuff my mom makes during the holidays.

And lastly, in addition to all the typed and handwritten recipes on index cards that Marilyn left behind, there are also many scraps of paper, such as this one, where she had quickly jotted down recipes. These feel so personal.

It's easy to picture her at work in the doctor's office, writing down a recipe from a co-worker or a patient and stuffing it in her purse before filing it away in her recipe box at home. That seems to be the case with this one, since she'd also jotted down the name of some medication at the bottom of the recipe.

And what's more American than an overdependence on pharmaceuticals?

(Note: It is not recommended to include 75 mg of Arthrotec in this Taco Chex Mix.)

In my excitement to begin preparing this feast, I neglected to take a photograph of the ingredients. What I can tell you is that I used the "hot" version of taco seasoning, a whole stick of butter instead of 6 tablespoons, and the kind of Parmesan cheese that comes from the dried pasta aisle at the grocery store, not the dairy section. That seemed most appropriate given the, um, circumstances.

I also subbed two cups of the Corn Chex with pretzels and added a cup of peanuts to the dry mix, before mixing it all with the melted butter and seasoning.

The recipe calls for you to just let this stuff cool after mixing the butter mixture with the dry ingredients, but I wanted it to be toasted like my mom's Chex Mix. So I spread the mixture on a baking sheet, and popped it in the oven at 250 degrees for about an hour, giving the sheet a shake every 15 minutes or so, until it was all crispy and toasted. Then I added the "cheese" and gave it another shake or two.

Just like regular ol' Chex Mix, some of the pieces end up with more of the butter and seasonings. Because I used the hot seasoning, this stuff has some kick, especially on those more drenched pieces.

Also, with the taco seasoning mixed with the corn flavor of the Chex, I have to say there are some strong Dorito notes in this dish.

Next up: The Ground Processed Meat Category

Whether you are combining ground beef and Velveeta in a crock pot, scattering crumbles of sausage on a pizza, or indulging in one of many unique combinations of ground animal parts stuffed inside casings, the tradition of ground meat as all-American snack food is a grand one.

And so, today, I ask you, what's more American than making meatballs out of ham?

Rest assured that the addition of oatmeal in this dish is not an attempt to increase the level of fiber or make this healthier. It just holds the meat together.

Speaking of meat, opportunities to grind ham on a Sunday morning just don't present themselves that often, which is another reason why I decided to make these today, using the food grinder attachment that Marilyn got me for Christmas several years ago.

Besides, what's more American than grinding ham in your Kitchenaid on a Sunday morning with the help of your creepy plastic baby?

I used a bit more meat than the recipe called for, and I only had 1.5 cups of oats on hand, so I added an extra egg to make sure these things held together. Rolling them was not the most pleasant task of the day, but I did it... for my country.

I basted these with a sauce of brown sugar, water, dried mustard, and white wine vinegar before putting them in a 325-degree oven. I brushed them with the sauce at the 30-minute mark, and again after taking them out at the 60-minute mark.

There you have it. Great Balls of Ham!

And finally: The Ridiculous Dessert Category

With the salty snacks and ground meats all ready to go, I turned my attention to the sweet side. I needed something over-the-top. Something unnecessarily decadent and full of unwholesome, shortcut ingredients.

When I found this recipe and noticed the name, I instantly christened them Super Bowl Brownies, and got to work.

Because, really, what's more American than making brownies from a mix and then adding a bunch of Hershey's bars to the batter?

You just follow the directions on the back of the box on this one. And if you've purchased the Duncan Hines Double Fudge Brownie Mix as instructed (the one that says DECADENT BROWNIE MIX on the front of the box), you'll get your very own Chocolate Lovers' Fudge Packet to include as well.

Or sachet de fudge pour amateurs de chocolat, if you are un-American.

You put half the batter in the pan, and then cover it with Hershey's bars. Please note that the recipe asks you to put 1.5 POUNDS OF CHOCOLATE in the middle of these brownies.

I drew the line at 6 candy bars, America. I'm sorry.

The rest of the batter goes on top, and then the whole mess goes in to the oven, per the instructions on the DECADENT BROWNIE MIX box.

Cooled and sliced, these look like... brownies with Hershey's bars in the middle! U! S! A!

All Together Now

Not truly a Super Bowl food, I know, but I also made some hummus for the spread. (And for our health and general well-being.)

And the spread is really not too shabby for a Super Lame Super Bowl Party for Two (with plenty of leftovers).

I made sure to get out my Abe Lincoln toothpick holder for the day's festivities, too.

Because, really, what's more American than spearing a ham ball with a toothpick from an Abe Lincoln toothpick holder?

The Princessification of White Brownies

2012-01-29T08:56:00.000-06:00

Pin It
Marilyn told me several times she was glad she only hadboys, because she thought they were easier—and because she didn’t think shewould have been good at things like braiding hair.

This made me laugh because my mother had three girls, and therewas never much hair-braiding going on at our house. There wasn’t time for thatbecause my sisters and were ratting around the timber barefoot throwing hedgeapples at each other’s heads or making Barbie beds out of cinder blocks when we weren’t at piano lessons or softballpractice or 4-H meetings.

Also, we mostly had short hair when we were little.

My mother-in-law loved jewelry and perfume, enjoyedshopping for clothes and getting her nails done, and partook in other feminine pursuits,but she was a tomboy at heart. Beyond spending time with friends and family andcaring and cooking for her boys, you could easily boil down her interests to:

Sci-Fi. Marilyn read constantly—sometimes two or three booksa week—and she wasn’t picky about it. She’d read romances, thrillers, or horror(and she once trudged through “Moby Dick” at Chad’s urging), but what reallygot her excited was science fiction. I’ll never forget her discussing portalsone night at dinner after a couple cocktails. “A portal can be anything! It could be thisspoon! It could be Jane’s boot!”
Video games. Thewoman had games on her computer, her phone, and her Kindle. She got a NintendoDS for Christmas one year and a Wii the next. Chad may be the only person tohave inherited a Wii and copy of New Super Mario Bros. from his late mother,and he is fond of saying that his mother had the sensibility of a 10-year-oldboy at times. In a good way.
Baseball. Marilyn loved the Cubs so deeply that she once tolda young Chad that he was going to have to move out if he did not stop rootingfor the Cardinals.

This is all to say that I doubt Marilyn ever tweaked thisrecipe in the way that I am about to.

My mom makes this recipe, too, and calls hers White Texas Cake. I picked it because I wanted to take something tomy niece Phoebe’s birthday party yesterday, which happened to be aprincess-themed tea party.

It's a fairly simple set of ingredients. I subbed butter for the oleo but otherwise followed the instructions, until I got to the baking part.

I wanted to make something cutesy, but not too cutesy. Fit for a princess, yet understated. I started thinking that something bite-sized, something daintier than a full-sized brownie would be more appropriate for a tea party, so I broke out the mini-muffin pan.

I baked them for about 15 minutes and let them cool.

Then, of course, I had to tint the frosting pink.

And add a bit of sparkle.

I find it funny that both of my nieces are drawn to suchgirly-girl endeavors, since it’s a bit of a departure from theirmothers’ (and aunt's and grandmother's) personalities. One of my sisters—who shall remain unnamed—was likeMarilyn, in that she swore she only wanted boys. She maintained that if she did have a girl,there would be no girly-girl stuff. Then, when she gave birth to a girl, it tookless than 48 hours for the sweet babe’s wardrobe to consist solely of shades ofpink.

It happens. (See the princessification of White Brownies above.)

At the party, our White Brownie Bites were no match for this awesome cake, made by my sister Jil--complete with a white chocolate crown.

There was also bright pink punch, a chocolate fountain, and tiny sandwiches on pink bread made by my mom. It was quite a spread.

The boys were exiled to the great outdoors with their Nerf guns.

I did leave about half of the White Brownie Bites unfrosted, thinking it was unlikely my nephews would bother to try anything that was topped with pink frosting and silver sparkles. My nephew Sam ate about 10 of the plain ones, proclaiming, "These are so good."

Sam's right. These are so good, with a spongy, almost sticky texture that gets better the next day.

Near the end of the party, when most of the little princesses were watching a princess movie, the birthday girl decided she wanted to "make a book" with Aunt Jane. This involved photographing a tiny plastic doll in various situations.

A little dip in a cup of punch, anyone?

How about a spin on a White Brownie Bite?

Adventurous plastic princesses go cake-climbing!

That Phoebe chose this activity with absolutely no urging on my part, on the heels of my adventures with Baby last week, confirms my sister's suspicions: Phoebe takes after her Aunt Jane. A lot.

I could not be more proud.

Baby, Let's Make Baby Food Bars

2012-01-21T12:53:00.001-06:00

Pin It
When Chad came home from work last night, I heard a shriek and then laughter from the kitchen.

Then I remembered that I'd left this on the kitchen island.

It's not every day that I leave creepily realistic plastic babies on our kitchen island. Only on the days before I plan to make Baby Food Bars.

This is one of those head-scratching recipes in which the use of a particular ingredient--in this case, three jars of baby food--has more to do with novelty than it does with, say, logic.

My friend Heather says her Grandma M.--a contemporary and friend of my G. Hester--used to make a cake that uses plum baby food, so apparently the recipe above is not the only incidence of appropriating baby food for purposes that do not involve feeding babies. Who knew, right? Heather and I agree that it sure is more logical to just puree fruit to use in a recipe.

But then you don't get to show up to the church potluck and announce, "There's baby food in here!" And when you're done baking, you don't have three tiny jars perfect for storing... very small nails, several tablespoons of sand, or a handful of baby teeth.

I understand Marilyn made the Baby Food Bars quite a bit. Not exactly a classic along the lines of Apple Squares or Caramel Bars, but my sources tell me these are pretty good. Kind of like spice bars, but... with baby food.

I stuck to the recipe for the most part here, cutting the amount of oil by 1/4 cup, adding some nutmeg, subbing butter for the margarine in the frosting, and using peach baby food because I couldn't find apricot.

The amount of bad stuff in these things is somewhat cringe-worthy, but Baby helped me through it. Here he is watching three eggs and two cups of sugar become one with a cup of oil.

When we added the dry ingredients, things got a little dusty.

Baby gave the batter a little taste at this point and said it could DEFINITELY use some baby food.

I am one of those parents who can't say no to my plastic baby, so in went the baby food.

I let Baby butter and flour the pan while this was mixing, and he made a total mess. Babies!

When these went into the oven (350 degrees for about 30 minutes), I put Baby down for a nap...

... soon realizing that taking a nap is difficult for babies who are physiologically incapable of closing their eyes.

So we settled for some tummy time instead.

Then I gave Baby a bath.

And let him dry.

Meanwhile, I whipped up some cream cheese frosting while the Baby Food Bars were cooling, and of course I let Baby lick the beater.

Then, so Baby could work on his motor skills, I let him frost the bars.

I might be biased, but I think he did a great job. And I'm not going to lie, the Baby Food Bars were pretty good--moist, dense, a little spicy from the nutmeg. No discernible tastes or sensations of baby food.

You know, sometimes I wonder what Marilyn would say if she knew I pilfered her recipe box after she died, if she knew that I've been making her recipes and posting stories and photographs online for the world to see. I think her reaction would vary based on the recipe (and just what exactly I'd said about them), but I have a pretty good idea what she would have said upon learning I made her recipe for Baby Food Bars.

She would have smirked playfully and cocked her eyebrows, and then, with a mixture of optimism and antagonism, she would have asked, "Does this mean you're having a baby?"

Then again, if she could read this blog post, she might realize it's probably for the best that I am not responsible for the well-being of a child.

Back to the Sweet Side: Green and Gold Cookies

2012-01-15T13:45:00.003-06:00

I understand the last couple posts have veered dangerously close to turning this operation into a health-food blog, so let me clarify some things:

1. The other night, I'd planned to make quinoa-stuffed acorn squash for dinner, which for many of you might sound like something served at a vegan torture camp.
2. We happened to get some really excellent news that day, so we scrapped the squash and headed out for a night on the town that included shrimp cocktail, roasted filet mignon, and martinis with blue cheese-stuffed olives.
3. It was really excellent news.
4. Maybe this chain of events is a sign that excellent things will happen to you if you vow to devote at least one day a week to eating only plant-based foods.
5. Or maybe it's a sign that we are not cut out to be vegan.
6. We did make and eat that quinoa-stuffed acorn squash the next night. It was quite tasty and satisfying, if I do say so myself, and I certainly felt better the day after eating that than I did the day after consuming partially cooked cow flesh and gin with cheese in it.
7. I'm just sayin'.
8. Anyway, it's difficult to be eating healthy while maintaining a food blog that you don't want to turn into a health-food blog. Because, let's face it, while eating lots of vegetables and fruits and whole grains is virtuous and sensible and will make you look and feel better than animal products and processed junk, it's simply not as entertaining as cooking with butter and sugar and Milnot.
9. It's certainly not as fun as making Twinkie Cake.
10. So, lest I bore my readers with tales of squash and fiber, I've been making lists of upcoming occasions and excuses to make unhealthy things, providing both fodder for the blog and reasons to export the goods out of our house.
11. OK, they are not just lists. They are Excel spreadsheets.
12. I like Excel spreadsheets, alright?
13. Included on these spreadsheets are the birthdays of my nieces and nephews.
14. I've also included the woman who waves at me every morning while she's performing crossing guard duties in a tiny town along my commute. She's very friendly, and probably would appreciate some cookies.
15. I would include our mail carrier but he's kind of strange. We think he might be in witness protection.
16. Our dear friends Anne and Rob also were added to the list when they asked us to come over and watch today's Green Bay Packers game.
17. These two are of strong Wisconsin stock. They take the Packers seriously. They are shareholders, and each game brings with it the opportunity to set out various Packers tchotchkes, dress in Packers attire, and do a number of other superstitious things that people do when their teams are playing.
18. Last year, we watched the Packers win two playoff games and the Super Bowl at their house.
19. Well, I played Angry Birds on my phone while everyone else watched football.
20. But I did wear a Packers-colored flannel shirt for every game.
21. I'm pretty sure that's why they won the Super Bowl.
22. I just don't get excited about football. I've tried, and it doesn't do anything for me.
23. I do get excited about cookies, though.
24. And if there ever was a reason to make Golden Cookies, I think it would be for a Packers game.

25. I stuck to the recipe for the most part here, with the addition of some lemon zest in the dough for extra flavor... and some green food coloring.

26. I think you know where I'm going with the green food coloring, don't you?

27. Oh yes. We don't have Golden Cookies anymore. We have Green and Gold Cookies. For the Packers. Because the Packers' nickname is The Green and Gold.
28. I'm sorry, but sports references usually go right over my head, so now that I'm actually making one myself, I just wanted to make sure everyone got it.

29. Lest you think I've crossed all the way back over to the sugar and butter side, I'll have you know that I also made hummus for today's game. Served, of course, with green and gold vegetables exclusively.

30. Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go find my Packers flannel and download a few books on my Kindle. The game starts in just a couple of hours.

Hold the Doritos: Little Bit Lighter Taco Salad

2012-01-08T18:04:00.000-06:00

Let's play a little game.

I'll name a food, and you tell me the first thing that comes to mind.

Ready?

OK. Here goes.

TACO SALAD.

Got that?

TACO SALAD.

I'd love to know what came to your mind (tell me in the comments if you'd like), but if any of you immediately thought of "Thousand Island Dressing," "French Dressing," or "Taco Doritos," I'm betting you or your mom or your aunt or your grandma might have had this in her kitchen repertoire sometime in the last three decades.

You start with two pounds of ground beef spiced up with a taco seasoning packet. The meat gets mixed with lettuce (something tells me iceberg), cheese, tomatoes, and onions... and the salad dressing--take your pick of Thousand Island or French--gets mixed with a bit of the taco seasoning and some extra sugar.

Then you add an entire bag of crumbled Doritos.

Yep.

Sure, it's a salad, in that it contains lettuce and vegetables and dressing. But if you put an entire bag of Doritos in something... it seems like the FDA should have another classification for it. I'm going to go with Schmalad. Yep, Taco Schmalad.

Chad says this was on pretty regular rotation at the Simpson household in the 1980s, and I can imagine how Marilyn--and lots of other moms--might have seen it as a way to get kids to eat some lettuce, even if it was drenched in high-fructose corn syrup-laden salad dressing, a mound of beef, and, yep, crumbled Doritos. Kind of like how moms these days put spinach in brownies, or so I hear.

He remembers it as very sweet, and as an "eat-around" kind of meal--sifting through his bowl for the stuff he liked (hunks of meat and Dorito) and avoiding the stuff he didn't (the onions and tomatoes).

To be fair, a young Jane probably would have been thrilled to eat Doritos in a dish like this, although there would have been little chance it would have been served at my house. On the rare occasion that a bag of cheesy corn-type chips would have made it inside our house, my sisters and I would have devoured them (or hid them from each other) before they could find their way to a schmalad.

I hungered for junk food as a kid not because I didn't like the "real" food served at my house, but because I thought it would make me fit in, the same way I thought that pair of hot-pink stonewashed jeans would dramatically increase my social capital in the sixth grade. Most of the town kids ate Twinkies and frozen pizzas as a way of life, and I thought that was so rad. Out on the farm, my sisters and I fought over jars of pickles and our freezer was full of farm-butchered pork wrapped in white paper, not Tombstones.

Also in the interest of full disclosure, I have eaten this Taco Schmalad before. Willingly. More than once. Marilyn still made it once or twice after I came into the picture and her sister-in-law, Chad's Aunt Sharon, has been known to show up to family gatherings with a bowl of it, or something quite similar. I guess I never realized what that "sauce" really was until I found this card.

I thought about recreating the original today, but as we're leaning toward a more lean-and-green diet in this house these days, I just couldn't bring myself to do it, not even for the sake of blogging. Instead, I made a lighter version, one that has all the same elements--including some chips crumbled into the mix for some crunch, although, sadly, they aren't Doritos.

I guess I just was never meant to be cool.

Instead of 2 lbs. of ground beef, I used one 1 lb. of ground turkey and one can of black beans (less fat, more fiber), cooked with onion and jalapeno, and my own taco seasoning mix. Hey, as long as we're lightening things up, we might as well get rid of things we can't pronounce, right? And there are a couple of those on those innocent little seasoning packets.

For the sauce, I combined 1/2 c. plain yogurt (plain, not vanilla, I tell you), and 1/4 c. light mayonnaise (I like the kind made with olive oil), plus 1 T. of the taco seasoning and the juice of one lime. If you wanted to try to get closer to the sweetness of the sauce in the original recipe, you could probably add some sugar or honey without this venturing too far into schmalad territory. You could also add some hot sauce for kick.

I chopped a head of romaine and tossed in a few handfuls of mixed greens. I also chopped up some cilantro and sweet red pepper for extras, and got out some some grape tomatoes and crumbled queso fresco.

In the interest of individuality, I didn't mix this into a one-dish deal. Generally I find it irritating when dressing is applied to salad in a one-size-fits-all manner, as I don't use a lot of it. I just set up all the elements so we could make our own to our liking.

And here's mine, with minimal dressing and a few of those blue corn tortilla chips crumbled in as a Dorito stand-in.

Now if I could just find a suitable substitute for those pink stone-washed jeans...

When Chad got home from a swim at the Y, he mixed his up with a bit more dressing and a few more chips. He declared it tasted "junk-foody," even though it's not, which I think means it was a success.

A Fresh Start: No-Can White Chili

2012-01-01T17:04:00.002-06:00

When Chad and I lived in southern Illinois, our neighbors across the street were a retired undertaker named Gene and his wife Gladys.

As far as neighbors go, particularly in southern Illinois, they were pretty good ones. Gene kept an eye on the neighborhood while smoking Pall Malls in the front yard and Gladys was kind enough to take care of our evil cats whenever we were gone for a few days.

Every New Year's Day, they'd bring us an old Cool Whip container full of ham and beans, which we thought was a rather sweet gesture, even if the food was a little bland. (Or a lot bland.)

Since then, I've associated white beans with New Year's Day the way some people associate black-eyed peas with the first day of the year. I do, however, prefer my white beans seasoned with, say, salt and pepper. Sorry, Gene and Gladys.

And so, when I was looking for something to make on New Year's Day from Marilyn's recipe box, this was the obvious choice.

At brunch with Dennis today overlooking the Mighty Mississip, we learned Marilyn got the recipe from a salesman Dennis knew. As Dennis noted, while it's a fairly simple recipe, there's a lot, quantity-wise, that goes into it--six cans of beans, for instance, and two large cans of chicken broth.

If you want to make the canned version from the recipe card above, make it. I'm sure it's delicious, and you'll get your first good workout of the year opening all those cans.

But I decided to go a different route.

This day is all about a fresh start, right? Whether you're putting the indulgences and frustrations of the holiday season behind you, or trying to move on from a difficult year, it's a day to consider how you're going to make things better in the next 12 months, how you're going to do things differently this time around.

In light of that, I'm giving this can-heavy recipe a little New Year's makeover, a little fresh start of its own, if you will, by making it without any canned ingredients.

Two anaheim peppers, one jalapeno, 1 pound dried beans, onion garlic, and a 3.9-pound chicken, a "Smart Chicken," according to the label. I don't know how you measure the IQ of a chicken, but perhaps what those marketing geniuses really mean is that it's a Smart-Consumer Chicken, since it's healthier and more humanely handled than your regular ol' factory farmed bird.

"OK, first things first, soak your beans." (Sung to the tune of Kanye West's "Monster," just for fun.)

I bought a 2-pound bag of Great Northern beans for about $2, and only needed half the bag for the recipe. So, if there's a trade-off for having to soak beans a day in advance instead of opening a bunch of cans and throwing them in the pot, it's that $1 for dried beans sounds better than $10 for six cans, which is about what that would cost you.

It's a New Year. Be frugal. Soak beans. Preferably overnight.

True story: When I was a kid I put a dried bean up my nose for reasons that are not clear. It got stuck there, and I was so embarrassed that I had done this that I never told anyone. Eventually, it came out, but not before I started to believe it had lodged in my brain and was sprouting there. Rest assured: I did not stick any beans up my nose in the making of this recipe.

If you're soaking your beans a day in advance, you might as well make your stock and cook your chicken a day in advance too. That would be like, um, killing two birds with one pot? Sorry. That was bad. But seriously folks, boiling your chicken and saving the stock eliminates the need for canned broth. Paying $7 for a whole chicken rather than $8 or more for chicken breasts plus $5 more for canned stock is a logical choice for the frugal-minded as well.

Doesn't this chicken look smart? And pretty? And funny? A truly charming chicken.

We're using veggies and herbs here to add flavor to the stock, but you don't have to use them if you don't have anything on hand. If you do have stuff, a rough-chop, no-peel kind of deal is fine.

If your sister gave you a freaky food pod for Christmas, put all your veggies and aromatics in that. If your sister hates you and never gives you any good Christmas presents, just throw the stuff in the bottom of the pot.

Put the chicken and veggies in a stock pot, cover with water, bring to a boil, and let it go for 30 minutes.

Food pod in action.

Flip the chicken after 30 minutes, and let it go another 30 minutes. Then, pull out the bird with tongs, let it cool, and pick all the meat from the bones. Save four cups of meat for your chili, give a little to the cat, and put the rest in the freezer to use later. Strain your stock, save six cups for your chili, and put the rest in the freezer to use later. Discard the bones and the vegetables.

Now, as long as you're doing all of this other stuff a day in advance, you might as well roast your anaheim peppers, too, to eliminate the need for canned green chilis.

I used two anaheim peppers (which I got for about 30 cents total, I believe). I put them in a foil-lined baking dish, and then under the broiler, rotating them with tongs until all the sides were blackened. Then, I popped them in a paper bag for about 15 minutes to steam.

When they came out of the paper bag, they looked like this.

I think this photograph could be a nice PSA for the dangers of tanning beds.

Once cooled, these were easy to skin, seed, and slice. They smelled pretty nice, too.

If you have some fancy new ceramic knives that your mother got you for Christmas, by all means, use one of those to dice your roasted peppers. Otherwise, any old knife will do.

The good news now is that putting this chili together after all this day-before work is going to be a snap.

Drain your beans and bring the stock you made (yep, you made it) to a boil in your stock pot. Add your beans and cook on a low boil for 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, chop an onion, some garlic, and a jalapeno if you like the heat (I like the heat). Combined with your roasted peppers, that's some serious flavor.

I was crying when I took this photo.

Saute the onions and peppers in some olive oil over medium-high heat for several minutes, and then add the garlic, being careful not to burn it. Then, get the beautiful and intelligent chicken that you cooked the day before, and toss it in.

Sick of cooking this damn chili already? You could just stop now, put this in a tortilla, and call it a day.

OK, almost there. Transfer your chicken mixture to your stock pot, and let it all simmer for at least 30 minutes, or until the beans are as tender as you want them to be. Season with salt and pepper, and throw in some extra hot sauce if you are so inclined. (I was so inclined.)

What you'll have then, is something perfect to eat while watching football on New Year's Day, if that's your thing.

Or something to eat after taking a nap (after having a glass of leftover champagne at 2 p.m. as a consolation because you didn't make it up until midnight on New Year's Eve), if that's your thing. (That's my thing.)

I topped mine with crumbled queso fresco from the Mexican grocery, plus sour cream, avocado chunks, a little fresh lime juice and some chopped cilantro. You could also go with green or red onions, shredded cheddar, tomato salsa... the options are plenty.

What you won't have is any cans to put into the recycling bin.

To beans...

To your health...

To fresh starts...

To 2012!

Divinity

2011-12-23T15:04:00.002-06:00

Somewhere, there is a photograph of my sister Jil and me, holding up our favorite dishes from Christmas dinner at the request of whoever was on the other side of the camera.

I look maybe 2 or 3 years old in the photograph, if memory serves, which would make Jil 6 or 7. She's holding up a dish of sweet potatoes, and I am holding up a plate of divinity.

I like to think it was my Grandma Louise--my dad's mother--on the other side of the camera, because she's the one who would have made the divinity.

Oh, divinity.

Besides sitting on Grandma Louise's porch and eating bites of raw green beans from the garden when I was supposed to be snapping them, divinity is my earliest food memory.

I distinctly remember eating piece after piece of it at Christmastime, letting each little cloud dissolve in my mouth until my teeth ached.

As I mentioned in the last post, I've been psyching myself up for making divinity for a while now. It's not an overly sophisticated or complicated recipe, but it's well beyond a dump-stir-bake kind of thing. Several different elements have to come together just so for it to come out right. It's one of those recipes that almost everyone has a memory of eating, in addition to a memory of eating a batch that didn't turn out so great.

Marilyn had a recipe for divinity in her box of recipe cards, and as the story goes, she tried making it once. It flopped, and she never tried again.

This recipe is one I got from my mom, with some wisdom passed on from Grandma Louise.

This is a pretty simple set of ingredients. Nothing that wouldn't normally be in the kitchen of an old farm house in Rio, Illinois, such as the one where Grandma Louise lived. That's one thing I like about divinity as an adult that I didn't consider as a kid--it's everyday, inexpensive ingredients magically transformed into something special.

Some people add chopped nuts, dried fruit, food coloring, or different flavors of extract to their divinity, but I take mine straight--vanilla-flavored and no nuts. That's how I remember eating Grandma Louise's, and why mess with perfection?

You start by whipping egg whites. I give props to the generations before me who did not have a Kitchenaid stand mixer to execute this task with minimal effort. While the egg whites are whipping, your hands are then free to mix the sugar, corn syrup, and some water in a saucepan.

As the recipe states above, you should stir until the sugar dissolves and then leave it alone until it reaches "hard ball" stage, or 252 degrees.

When it hits the 252 mark, it's time to stream it slowly into the egg whites, keeping the beat going. Add your vanilla, too.

This goes on for some time. You're waiting for the mixture to lose its gloss. If this is your first time making divinity (as it was mine), you'll spend quite a bit of time staring at the mixture, looking for signs of gloss loss.

In the realm of paint finishes, we'd be going from high-gloss to eggshell here.

If we're talking about holiday moods, we'd be going from festive to... hostile? Seething? Drunk and disorderly?

(Incidentally, holiday gloss loss is no laughing matter. If you or somebody you know is losing her holiday gloss, contact a professional.)

Just when I was beginning to think perhaps the loss of gloss was so subtle that I'd missed it, something changed. The texture got thicker, and, sure enough, the gloss was gone.

I was so pleased to have gotten this far without ruining anything, the next few minutes were a blur. I knew I had to work quickly, using two spoons, to scoop and drop globs onto waxed paper before it got too dry.

The first few pieces were, I must say, beautiful. I'm not going to lie--seeing the smooth little dollops on the waxed paper brought tears to my eyes, thinking about Grandma Louise, whose death on Christmas Eve many years ago still tinges this time of year with sadness, and about Marilyn, who would have been totally geeked about me not flopping the divinity on my first try.

As I worked through the batch, the texture got a little more crumbly. I don't know why they weren't all as smooth as those first few pieces. And, sampling them, they were a bit dry, and not as delicate as I remember from my childhood.

But for my first try, I'm not going to complain.

I'm just going to eat these until my teeth ache, and try again next year.

Going with the Flow: Aunt Babe's Bourbon Balls

2011-12-13T19:30:00.001-06:00

The other night, after reading online it was best to make divinity on a day with low humidity, I dreamt my dad and I were making the super-sweet, cloud-like candy in his woodshop during a thunderstorm, using a recipe with scant instructions from Marilyn's recipe box.

(Wait... you didn't know my dad has a kitchen in his woodshop? Yeah. He does. Even better, the building used to be a farrowing house. When he got out of the pig farming business, he transformed the space into one of the world's most unique man caves. True story.)

But back to my dream. It's not hard to analyze.

You see, all of my memories of eating divinity as a young country kid are tied to memories of my beloved Grandma Louise, my dad's mother, who died on Christmas Eve when I was 10.

Hence the appearance of my dad in my divinity dream.

And so fond are my memories of my Grandma Louise (and her divinity) that I have been a little nervous about trying to make this candy myself.

The obstacles of cooking somewhat finicky candy in a woodshop during a thunderstorm from a recipe with scant instructions represent my fear of failure.

Duh.

But I wanted to see if I could do it, and more importantly, I wanted to eat some divinity. So I gathered the gumption and the ingredients and I made plans to boil the sugar and whip the egg whites tonight, crossing my fingers that I didn't end up with little white puddles or little white pieces of gravel.

And then, the forecast.

Heavy rain likely. On December 13. In the Midwest. It's worth noting that we live in that little yellow peanut representing the highest potential rainfall.

OK, I can take a hint. Call it divine intervention. Tonight is not the night to make divinity.

But, what to make?

Since I started this project with Marilyn's recipes a couple of months ago, my mom's been digging up lots of gems from my family as well at my request. This ensures that I'll be making old recipes and taking photographs of food to post on the Internet... forever, and means I'll be sharing some of my family's recipes alongside Marilyn's.

So tonight, in lieu of divinity and thinking a lot about my dad's side of the family, I decided to make a rain-proof recipe from my Grandma Louise's sister, whom I've never heard called anything but Aunt Babe.

Chad is a fan of rum balls after receiving a bundle of them from our dear friend Heather a few holiday seasons ago, and I've never made them myself, so this one caught my eye.

But wait! If you scroll down to line seven of the recipe, you'll see that we have options here. (And I don't just mean omitting the nuts, which I did. That's line five.) Aunt Babe says we can use rum OR bourbon, and we conveniently have some sitting around after last week's cookie-making extravaganza.

Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la!

So, a clarified version of the recipe with a more expressive name (nuts still optional):

Whether with rum or bourbon, these are truffle-like little things, bound together with crushed vanilla wafers, corn syrup, and powdered sugar, made chocolately with a bit of cocoa, and punched up with a half cup of liquor. They're not cooked, so that liquor stays potent.

With the money I've saved from not putting nuts in any of these recipes, I can buy another bottle of bourbon.

I crushed the wafers in the food processor, thinking of how Aunt Babe and Grandma Louise would have done it the hard (and more therapeutic) way--by pounding them with a rolling pin. Then it was just a matter of mixing everything together, and rolling the batter into 1-inch balls.

You could roll these in nuts, cocoa, powdered sugar, or granulated sugar, but I took Aunt Babe's advice and rolled them in a mixture of powdered and granulated sugars.

Should you drink bourbon while eating bourbon balls? If and only if it is raining (heavily) in mid-December.

These are a real treat. Chad and I each had one tonight, and then I put the rest in an air-tight container in the freezer.

We'll be bringing them out on Christmas Eve, hopefully with some super-sweet, cloud-like divinity. Wish me luck.

Candy Cane Wishes and Maker's Mark Dreams

2011-12-11T06:51:00.001-06:00

One of the things I love about cooking is the creativity of it, the chance to create something new and better from a pile of ingredients and to make it my own, subbing this for that or adding a dash of something else. Like any act of creating something, it's rewarding to stand back afterwards and say, "I made that."

However, subbing and adding doesn't work that well when you're baking, especially if you're like me, and you don't fully understand what makes a cookie chewy versus crispy or what you did wrong to make the cake burned on the edges and raw in the middle. I'm getting better at baking, but I still feel like I need to follow the recipes more closely than with other dishes, and that, honestly, makes things less fun. That's part of why I don't like making things from mixes, either--what is the fun in opening a box and doing exactly what the box tells you to do?

No, experimentation is where it's at. Free-form, improvisational cooking. Food as consumable art project.

So for this weekend's cookie-making extravaganza, the plan was to take a couple of Marilyn's cookie recipes, and see what I could do to make them my own, without screwing them up too bad.

The first recipe I chose was Chocolate Cookies, one that obviously had seen some use in the Simpson household. There's actually a note on the back of this recipe from Brent to Marilyn, telling her to call Dennis at work.

I wasn't sure when I started how I was going to mix things up with these cookies without ruining them, but I had a feeling that these were going to be kind of puffy cookies, based on the ratio of baking powder to flour. The only change I made to the recipe was to sub butter for shortening, but I'm thinking if you want a bit richer chocolate flavor, you could add some melted chocolate to the creamed butter and sugar before you mix in the dry ingredients. That probably wouldn't screw it up too bad, I hope?

Chad walked by as I was taking these out of the oven, and I asked him if he remembered his mom making these. He took a look and said, definitively, "Yes, and they are so good."

While these were cooling, I got to thinking about something pepperminty to go on top, given that it's the holiday season and all, and that I am fond of the chocolate and peppermint combination. That's when I decided these little chocolate poofs needed a topcoat of Candy Cane Glaze.

Candy Cane Glaze
2 cups powdered sugar
3 tablespoons milk
1/4 c. crushed candy canes

Mix powdered sugar and milk with a whisk until combined. Then stir in crushed candy canes.

I dunked the tops of the cookies in the glaze, then sprinkled on some additional crushed candy canes. And then, instead of Chocolate Cookies, we had... Candy Cane Chocolate Drops.

Next, I turned my attention to another cookie from Marilyn's recipe box: Sugar 'n' Spice Jumbo Cookies, which seemed like a good candidate for experimentation. These are sugar cookies, with some extra spice in the form of cinnamon and nutmeg.

Again, fearful of screwing up the cookies, I didn't monkey with the recipe too much, but if I made them again, I'd add even more spice, maybe some additional nutmeg and cinnamon and maybe some ground ginger as well.

The dough came together easily, and then, following the directions, I divided it into two balls and put it in the refrigerator to chill for at least three hours.

When you have a window of time such as this on a day that you've already used three-quarters of a pound of butter and it's not yet even noon, it's not a bad idea to head to the YMCA for some quality time on the treadmill while your cookie dough is chilling.

Besides, while you are on the treadmill, you will have time to ruminate on the cookie dough that's at home in the refrigerator and how you might add some flair to it.

It will come to you in a slightly sweaty daze...

You will cut the cookies into Christmas trees instead of jumbo circles as the recipe implores.

You will bake them and let them cool.

And then you will make icing for them, something with a little kick to bring out the flavors of the spices, to make these ordinary cookies stand out.

Yes, you will put bourbon in the icing. (Which means you will also stop at the liquor store on the way home from the Y.)

Fa-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la!

Maker's Mark Icing
2 1/4 cups powdered sugar
2 tablespoons milk
2 tablespoons Maker's Mark
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
Mix until smooth.

What you will have, then, is a veritable forest of sugar and spice Christmas trees, kissed with a boozy, sugary, spicy topping. The nutmeg adds a bit of flavor to the icing, and also a bit of color.

You will also have a lot of cookies, more cookies than is advised by like doctors and stuff.

But they will look pretty and they will taste awesome, and you will share them with your friends and you will feel as though your work for the day is done.

Candy Cane Chocolate Drops and Sugar and Spice Cookies with Bourbon Icing

By Request: Peanut Butter Goodies

2011-12-08T18:36:00.001-06:00

One of Chad's requests, when he learned I was attempting to recreate his mom's holiday treats this year, was "those peanut butter things. The ones that taste like Reese's Peanut Butter Cups."

Just like an earlier request for "chocolate gooey cake" (that turned out to be Chocolate Upside Down Cake), this one had me hunting through Marilyn's recipes for whatever "those peanut butter things" might be.

Here's what I found:

Food, especially food that is nostalgic in some way, isn't necessarily filed in the memory by the name of the recipe. It's the tastes and textures that really stay with you, sometimes bringing to mind a specific event or person or emotion, other times just setting off a vague flashback, causing you to think, "I remember this. It makes me think of X, even if I don't know why."

Ceramic reindeer that you bought at the thrift store is optional.

This is not a complicated recipe. I crushed the graham crackers in the food processor and then mixed them with the butter, powdered sugar, and peanut butter with a hand mixer in a large bowl. Then I pressed it into a 9x13 pan.

Once again, those handprints in the mixture make it seem more homemade.

The recipe calls for you to melt chocolate chips with some more peanut butter and then spread it on the top, so I did. I'm obedient that way, just like our little doe-eyed reindeer.

As promised, here's the chocolate. We aim to please.

Then I put things in the refrigerator to firm up a bit.

A more memorable name for these treats might be Buckeye Bars, in that they are essentially the popular peanut butter candy of the great Midwest known as Buckeyes, but in bar form instead of the traditional chocolate-dipped balls meant to look like nuts from Ohio's buckeye tree.

I remember my aunt and my cousin used to make Buckeyes when I was a kid, and my sister does now because her kids like them, and so even in bar form, a taste of these dredges up moments in time for me--from Carlson family reunions in Wisconsin to last week's Thanksgiving dinner at my parents' house. I also remember them from Chad's family Christmas, the neat little squares always tucked into Marilyn's trays of cookies and candies and happily devoured, even if nobody really knew them by name.

"Those Peanut Butter Things"

Some Buckeye recipes call for Rice Krispies in addition to the other ingredients. Marilyn's uses crushed graham crackers instead, which makes for a little bit different texture--slightly gritty, but in a good way. Kind of like, just as Chad remembered, the texture of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.

All Baking, No Shopping: Caramel Bars

2011-12-05T17:20:00.001-06:00

Every time I think about holiday shopping, I start to feel faint and slightly nauseous, like I'm coming down with the flu.

I don't feel right again until I am sitting in front of the fireplace with a hot toddy in hand. It is the weirdest thing.

In general, I like the holidays, and consider them a once-a-year chance to go a bit overboard for the people I love. And most years, I'm totally on the ball--unique, thoughtful gifts (sometimes even handmade ones) for everyone on my list, all wrapped and ready to go weeks in advance of our holiday gatherings.

This is not one of those years.

That awful hot week in July when Marilyn was dying, I kept feeling like we were all underwater, our arms flailing in slow motion as we reached for something that was just beyond our grasp. She slipped away, quite quickly, and the rest of us, eventually, crawled ashore to a land that looked a lot like our old world but had a much different shape. Everyone affected by Marilyn's death is still trying to figure out these new surroundings.

For anyone in such a situation, the bustle and sparkle of the holidays--the push to buy, to celebrate, to commingle--can feel like another burden to bear on top of the loss. I find myself thinking about how difficult the holidays are for so many people, how the twinkling lights can just as strongly illuminate sorrow as they can joy. I find myself wanting to retreat, to reflect, to find ways to accept that this holiday season is different but still try to make it feel the same in some way.

Some people have the ability to set and perpetuate traditions without much fanfare. Marilyn was like that. You never would have caught her boasting about (or even discussing) the ample spread of cookies and candies she made, but every year, there they were on Christmas morning.

I feel like they need to be there this year, too, so I'll be working my way through her sweet holiday specialties over the next couple of weeks. To add to the sugar-induced nostalgia, I'll also be throwing in some of my family's recipes.

I'm doing this instead of shopping this year and I plan to share the fruits of my labors, of course. Oh sure, I'll swing through the ATM on December 24 and withdraw gifts for my immediate family members. But other than that, all I intend to buy this year is a lot of butter and sugar.

First up: Caramel Bars.

Now, there's a time and a place for from-scratch brownies and homemade caramel, but this isn't it. The holidays are about tradition, and like it or not (and usually I don't), sometimes those traditions involve a mix. I make a mix exception here because these things are so good. Plus the recipe gets points for mixing it up a bit--using a cake mix but going off-box to turn it into a dense, rich brownie.

It's extremely important to use German Chocolate Cake Mix here. Why, you ask? Because Devil's Food would not be appropriate for the holiday season.

The first step here is to make (melt) your caramel. You'll note in the photo above that I'm using caramel bits instead of regular Kraft caramels. This invention has saved millions of husbands and children the laborious task of unwrapping dozens of cellophane-wrapped caramels. I did a bit of quick research online to determine that one cup equals 25 caramels. There were two cups of bits per bag so one bag is all you need for this recipe. (Math. It makes me so wordy.)

The caramel bits look like Peanut Butter Captain Crunch, just so you know. You melt them with a bit of evaporated milk and then turn to your cake mix, which you mix with a stick and a half of melted butter (because I won't stand for oleo, even if I'm baking from a mix) and a little more evaporated milk.

Then you press half of the cake/brownie batter into the pan.

You can try to be proper and smooth this into a pan with a rubber spatula, but pretty soon you're going to figure out that you're going to need to use your hands for this, hence the finger-shaped indentations above, which I think make this look more homemade. So there.

Pop this part in the oven to bake for a bit, and get some chocolate chips ready, because they're up next. The recipe calls for one small package of chocolate chips, but I only used a few handfuls, as I don't think these things really need that much more chocolate. They're dangerous enough as is.

The chocolate chips will melt a bit, covering up your handprints.

Next comes that caramel.

This is evidence of that one time I poured a heavy pan of hot caramel with my left hand while shooting a photograph with my right hand, and somehow managed to a) get the caramel in focus, and b) not burn myself or spill anything or drop the camera.

The caramel and the chocolate kind of melted together when I spread the caramel. You might get more definitive layers if you use more chocolate, but whatevs.

Although I previously have advocated the use of hands to spread material around in a pan, this is not a time to do so.

OK. Now to drop the remaining cake/brownie batter in heaping spoonfuls over the top, and toss it back in the oven.

Someone should start a Lovin' Spoonful tribute band called The Heapin' Spoonful.

When these come out, you're going to want to let them cool, and then stick them in the refrigerator for at least 30 minutes before you try to cut them. They are very gooey things.

Very, very gooey.

I cut the 9x13 pan into 32 brownies, and let the Simpson boys devour half of them. I gave the other half to my nephew Levi for the little darling's 8th birthday, along with $20. He seemed pretty pleased with both gifts, so I think that bodes well for my all-baking, no-shopping plans.

I'll make another batch of these closer to Christmas, but I'll cut that pan into even smaller pieces. These things really are rich. And gooey.

Did I mention gooey?

(Tiny) Shrimp Dip

2011-11-30T17:55:00.001-06:00

We got a reprieve from turkey and dressing on Saturday with an appetizers-only party in honor of Chad's grandmother's birthday.

A variation on the cocktails-and-hors d'oeuvres reception for brides and grooms looking to save a buck, the appetizers-only concept for family get-togethers works especially well at times when no one could possibly eat another mound of potatoes, such as a birthday party that always falls around Thanksgiving. This small-bites potluck was slightly less gut-busting than another round of the usual trimmings, although I would not necessarily call it a light meal.

We're talking a multiple Crock Pot affair here--little smokies and cocktail meatballs, a vat of mud (which is a chili cheese dip for those uninitiated to Midwestern cuisine), another of warm buffalo chicken dip--plus tons of cold nibbles and spreads, from shrimp cocktail and cheese and crackers to summer sausage and veggie pizza and a delicacy known as BLT dip, which I'm pretty sure contains both mayonnaise and Ranch dressing in addition to bacon and tomatoes and is served with triangles of toasted white bread.

Did I mention we live in the Midwest?

I consulted Marilyn's recipe box for ideas on what to bring and settled on this Shrimp Dip, which seemed both appropriately Midwestern (don't get above your raisin' and use jumbo or even regular-sized shrimp here--tiny shrimp in a can were good enough for your father, and they'll be good enough for you) and a nice change of pace from Thanksgiving food.

I don't think this one was on regular rotation for the Simpson clan. Dennis says they got the recipe from a friend, and it doesn't look like it's been used very much.

This recipe calls for tiny shrimp, chili sauce, cream cheese, and three different things of white stuff in small clear bowls.

I can't say that I've ever purchased, opened, or drained a can of tiny shrimp before this experiment. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but these suckers sure are tiny. Like, they are probably about the right size for my nieces' American Girl dolls to dunk in thimbles of cocktail sauce.

Thankfully, I could hardly tell the weird little shrimp were there once I mixed them into what ended up being a shrimp-colored dip. I couldn't see them or taste them in the finished product, although the scent of canned shrimp did seem to linger in the air, evidenced by the cat trying to climb up my leg to get to them.

The monochromatic nature of this dish foretold its flavor. Not a lot of depth or interestingness here. Even with the horseradish and onion, it just tasted like cream cheese and ketchup. I tried livening it up with some hot sauce, and I would have added some fresh lemon juice, too, if I'd had a lemon sitting around.

If The Rooster couldn't save our tiny shrimp from their ocean of cream cheese tinted with ketchup, nobody could.

I topped the dip with chopped fresh parsley and served it with garlic toasts. While certainly edible, this was not the life of the appetizer buffet party. Our tiny shrimp just couldn't measure up in world of regular shrimp cocktail and the Crock Pot heavy-hitters.

Sayeth the Shrimp Dip, "I may look pretty, but I am incredibly dull." We applaud your honesty, Shrimp Dip.

Review: Cranberry Salad

2011-11-27T18:22:00.001-06:00

A couple days before I watched Jane make the cranberry salad, she and I were over at Dad's talking about Christmas candy. Though Mom didn't make divinity very often, it came up, and Dad mentioned something about how Mom didn't like to make it because one of her early efforts flopped so badly. He went on to say something about how even when it flops, divinity tastes pretty good, what's the big deal?

Then, Thanksgiving morning, I was watching Jane plate a Jell-O mold. I was thinking about stories I'd heard over the years from Mom and Grandma Carolyn of ruined dishes. Fallen meringues. Lumpy gravies. Runny Jell-O molds.*

It occurred to me: Though Jane cooks a lot, and I'm often around to help out in one way or another, we don't often make the kinds of things that can fail. I mean, I once sauteed cucumbers (I think I was imagining they were zucchinis), but we just don't frequently dwell in the realm of cooking things that can be ruined.

But then I saw Jane plating that Jell-O mold, and it occurred to me: The whole thing could be lost at any moment.

Jane succeeded brilliantly, however. And the cranberry salad was pretty delicious.

Here's an official list of the various cranberry salads I ate on Thursday, from my least favorite to my favorite--really, though, they were all great.

Jane's mom's cranberry sauce: This was just real cranberries, water, and sugar, boiled. I liked it a lot, and the texture was excellent, but it was just a little too sugar-y for me.

Jane's Cranberry Salad: There's something about the way the flavors of the raspberry Jell-O mingle with the jellied cranberry sauce…It's just perfect for Thanksgiving.

Jane's mom's cranberry relish: This has been a staple at the Carlson ranch ever since I've been heading out there for holidays. It's chopped cranberries, orange zest, and a little bit of sugar. It's tart and tangy and in general makes me feel like I'm putting something at least a little healthy on my plate next to the pound or so of stuffing.

Aunt Sharon's cranberry Jell-O salad: I plied Aunt Sharon for the recipe, but she mostly grumbled about how the measurements on the recipe card don't match up anymore with what's available at the store. (An example: It calls for a seven-ounce can of 7-Up, but 7-Up doesn't come in seven-ounce cans anymore!) I eventually got out of her that it's made with lemon Jell-O, 7-Up, canned cranberry sauce, and a couple other things, all slathered with a thick layer of Dream Whip. The consistency reminded me of applesauce, only firmer, and it really was pretty awesome. I kinda wish I had some right now.

*I just remembered that I wrote a story a while ago about baseball and potential and a dessert that often flops. You can read it here.

Leftovers and Do-Overs: Turkey Casserole Two Ways

2011-11-27T15:14:00.001-06:00

Everyone knows of the pleasure of diving into the Tupperware over the Thanksgiving weekend. It's almost like a rite of passage into the holiday season, a period of time in which it's perfectly acceptable to have pumpkin pie for breakfast, a stuffing sandwich for lunch, and some Triscuits dunked in gravy for dinner. (Who me?)

Thus, I dutifully filled a container of excellent leftovers from Thursday's meal at the Carlson Ranch and accepted a standing invitation to root through the refrigerator at the House of Simpson for leftovers from the fine meal Dennis prepared for us. While I was extremely grateful for the leftovers, this year I also had my eye on a slightly different prize.

Early in the week, I emailed my mom to call dibs on the turkey carcass.

"Sold!" she replied.

After a victorious Trivial Pursuit session, we wrapped our turkey carcass in several large plastic grocery bags and secured it in the back of the Kia for the trip from Rio to Monmouth. What was left of the bird hung out in the refrigerator until Friday, when I started picking the meat from the bones. Though it had seemed pretty well picked over to start, I got about five cups of bonus meat to add to our leftovers stash.

Then came the fun part (because picking meat off a turkey carcass really is not that good of a time): homemade turkey stock. Into a stock pot went about half of the turkey bones, plus onions, garlic, carrots, celery, fresh parsley, fresh thyme, and peppercorns. (No need to be neat or peel anything; just rough chop it. It will all get strained out later.) I filled the pot with water, brought it all to a boil, then let it simmer for about four hours. Then I did it all again with the rest of the turkey bones.

The vegetables and herbs did a nice job here of covering up the scary turkey bones.

When it was all strained, I had 8 cups of delicious and rich homemade turkey stock, bound for the freezer. It will be awesome for soups, risotto, and sauces.

But what to do with all that bonus turkey? I had a feeling Marilyn might have an answer, and I knew I'd found it when I saw how much this recipe card must have been used over the years.

As you can see above, turkey or chicken can be used in this recipe. Guess what? We're using turkey. It also lets you use whatever kind of canned soup you might have around. I picked cream of mushroom (from the shelf at Dollar General--only the best).

If you look to the right of the "2 T chopped onion" on the recipe card, you can see that someone has written in "nooo" with an arrow pointing toward the offending agreement. It's true that Marilyn did not like onions, but my money is on Brent or Chad on this one.

Not a lot to say about process here. You mix it all together and put it in a greased baking dish. There is not enough stuff here to fill a 9x13 pan, so you'll want to use something smaller. Here she is before heading into the oven:

She looked a little naked, so I went off-card and sprinkled some bread crumbs on top.

This went into the oven at 350 degrees, for about an hour.

Essentially, this is a no-frills, low-cost, pantry-and-leftovers version of Turkey Tetrazzini, an American dish of pasta, turkey, and cream sauce named after an Italian opera star. In this case, the cream sauce is cream of mushroom soup. While I can see how this recipe would have been appealing to Marilyn as she cooked for her hungry family (it's easy, inexpensive, and filling), I couldn't help but think about an amped-up, homecooked version that uses the same elements--but does it from scratch instead of from a base of canned cream of whatever soup. While not as convenient as the dump and stir, the benefits of such a version are that you get to control the flavors (as well as the sodium content), and you get to use fresher ingredients (and fewer preservatives). Also, it tastes better.

Because I still had turkey to use and the last afternoon of a long weekend to squander, I decided to make a homemade Turkey Tetrazzini with a sauce from that homemade turkey stock, just to see how it might compare to the casserole version.

Clockwise, from top: flour; milk; thin spaghetti; butter; garlic; fresh thyme; turkey; sliced mushrooms; Swiss cheese; bread crumbs; and turkey stock.

OK now, kids, it's time to make a roux.

Making a roux is scary for some people, I know. But it's not so hard. I learned how to do it in fourth grade, when I'd make a white sauce for creamed chipped beef (also known as S--t on a Shingle), and serve it to my hard-working dad on white toast. So, if fourth-grade me could do it, so can you.

First I sauteed a chopped onion in about 5 tablespoons butter, adding the mushrooms and some fresh thyme and two cloves of minced garlic once the onions had cooked down a bit. That, too, cooked down a bit, and then it was time to add the flour--about 1/3 of a cup.

A roux needs fat and a roux needs thickener. So, our butter is the fat (with some extra flavor from the onion, thyme, garlic, and mushrooms), and the flour is the thickener. Once you pour in the flour, keep the heat at about medium-high, lower if it's starting to burn or stick. Keep stirring everything, and watch as it turns to kind of a paste.

Welcome to Pan-Cam, ladies and gentleman.

You'll want to let the flour cook a bit (it will taste better if you do) but please don't let anything burn. To turn the roux into a sauce, you need liquid. Enter the turkey stock; I used about 2 cups. With the heat still about medium-high, start incorporating the stock. Whisk as you go, and things will be thickening before your very eyes. Keep pouring and whisking until... congratulations! You have a sauce.

I find it incredibly annoying on cooking shows when people are always freaking out about how good stuff smells, but I'm telling you. This smelled good. Really freaking good.

Because this is a cream sauce, I also added 1 1/2 cups of milk, and brought it all to a boil before turning it back down to simmer for a bit. I used whole milk, but you could use half and half or heavy cream or skim milk or any combination you want. When you cook from scratch you get to express yourself, people.

Meanwhile, I had a pot of water boiling for pasta. I used thin spaghetti because I think it's rather elegant, but use rotini or penne or macaroni or whatever you please.

Next, it was time for cheese; about 2 cups, grated. And the turkey.

This was Swiss, because I thought the tang would be another nice layer of flavor. But you can cheese it up however you see fit, as long as you don't put Velveeta in your homemade sauce. That's just wrong.

(Now's a good time to taste and season. It may need some salt, but it may not, depending on how salty the turkey and stock were. Also, you just added a bunch of cheese, which has its own saltiness.)

Then came pasta, cooked al dente and drained.

Smells SO good. (Sorry. But it does. Like hot pasta with... Thanksgiving sauce.)

Then much like our other Turkey Casserole, this got poured into a greased baking dish and topped with breadcrumbs. It also seemed appropriate to put some grated Romano cheese on top, so I did.

Here she is, before the oven.

Where did I get this awesome baking dish? Clearance aisle, Shopko. $6.99. I have one in purple, too.

I baked this one at 375 for about 45 minutes, because I wanted the top to get pretty brown. Didn't need to bake as long as the first casserole because the pasta in this one was already cooked.

I bet you're on the edge of your seat wondering how these two turkey casseroles compared. I've tried them both, but you're going to have to wait for Chad's review to hear the verdict. Coming soon.

Casserole v. Tetrazzini.

Thanksgiving by the Numbers: Cranberry Salad

2011-11-25T12:42:00.001-06:00

Number of Thanksgiving dinners we attended: Two (1 p.m. at Carlsons; 5 p.m. at Simpsons)
Total number of cranberry accompaniments at both dinners: Five (three at Carlsons; two at Simpsons)
Number of cranberry accompaniments containing Jell-O: Two
Number of cranberry accompaniments I made: One
Number of cranberry accompaniments I made containing Jell-O: One

Number of ingredients in Cranberry Salad: Four (not counting the water and excluding the pecans, which I didn't include, per Chad's request)
Number of vessels this recipe filled: Two (one small mold and a medium dish)
Number of times I have previously brought Jell-O to Thanksgiving: Zero
Number of times I have previously made Jell-O in a mold: Zero


Actual cranberries on the left are for decorative purposes only. No real cranberries were used in the making of this dish.

Housekeeping

2011-11-25T11:35:00.001-06:00

In lieu of shopping on Black Friday, I decided to spruce things up around here. You'll notice a new banner, a new look, and a new domain (we're at www.sweetenedandcondensed.com now, but the old blogspot address will still get you here), as well as the addition of categories to each post, which will give you a new way to get around the site. Check out the graphics on the right-hand side of the page to start using the categories. We'll be adding more categories as we keep cooking through Marilyn's recipes. The response to our little project has been been great so far, and we want to thank you for reading. Stay tuned, as we have plenty of holiday treats in store for you!

Review Haiku

2011-11-20T19:20:00.001-06:00

School's been keeping me pretty busy. Not so busy that I haven't found time to partake in the various things Jane's been cooking and photographing, but busy enough I haven't found time to sit down and review the food. Plus: Reviewing food is hard. Sometimes I have a story or two to tell before I cut to the chase and say what the stuff tastes like, but sometimes, I just don't. To save time--and to mix things up a little--what follows are some review haiku.

Pistachio Pudding Salad

I.
When Mom died, there was
so much Jell-O, there were so many
salads. Now it all tastes like grief.

II.
Still, if there is one
Jell-O salad I'm up for,
it's pistachio.

Chocolate Upside Down Cake

There is science at work here.
Sugar-y, chocolate-y,
delicious science.

Homemade Can Bread

I.
Something about this
feels green to me. The cans, the Milnot,
we re-use everything.

II.
In the oven, the bread
rises and fills the cans. We inhale
and wait for it to cool.

Pumpkin Torte

I've never cared much
about Thanksgiving, but I'll
always care about this

dessert. The graham
cracker crust, the cream cheese filling:
sweet Pilgrim goodness.

The First Thanksgiving: Pumpkin Torte

2011-11-20T18:20:00.001-06:00

I am a bit of a purist when it comes to pumpkin.

Every year when the temperature drops, pumpkin starts showing up in everything--soup, cookies, cakes, risotto, beer, and awful wine. While some of those things I'm sure are quite good with pumpkin in them (except the wine), I avoid them so I don't risk getting pumpkined out before the holidays.

All I generally want for my pumpkin is a lovely pie at Thanksgiving and a loaf of my mom's awesome pumpkin bread at Christmas.

However, I make an exception for Marilyn's Pumpkin Torte.

This is another one of Marilyn's recipes that I recall her boys discussing with awe. Marilyn's sister-in-law, Aunt Sharon, makes a version of it with a shortbread crust and nuts, and while the Pumpkin Tortes haven't been on the menu every year that I have been around the Simpson clan, I'm always pleased to see them when they show up.

And it's the only thing that will make me venture away from plain old pumpkin pie for my Thanksgiving dessert.

It's a little labor-intensive and requires a lot of ingredients, but it's worth it.

Sure, there are a lot of ingredients here, but more importantly, if you look in the background to the right of the milk, you'll see Disco, making her Sweetened & Condensed debut. She has always wanted to get into show business.

First things first, make a graham cracker crust. I whirred a pack (one of three in the box) of graham crackers in the food processor and then added a stick of melted butter (the oleo boycott continues) and some sugar. Then press it into a 9x13 pan, and layer one is done.

Layer one. Next time, I'll add a pinch or two of salt to the crust. It's sweet and good, but could use a little salty, too.

Layer two is a cream cheese, egg, and sugar (pretty much every step of this recipe requires you to add sugar.) You whip that around, and spread it on the crust.

Layer two. Right now what you have is a cheesecake, more or less. Stay tuned, because it's going to mate with a pumpkin pie soon, and their baby will be named Torte.

The above concoction goes into a 350 degree oven for 20-25 minutes. While it's baking (and cooling), it's time for layer three. This is your pumpkin pie filling layer, so to speak, but has a bit different consistency in the end, in part because you add gelatin to your pumpkin-sugar-milk-cinnamon-egg yolks mixture once you've heated and thickened it on the stove, and in part because you fold in egg whites whipped with (more) sugar once the mixture has cooled.

When everything's cool, yo, it's time to spread the pumpkin mixture on top.

Layer three, with layer four waiting in the wings.

I popped this in the fridge for an hour or so to make sure layer three had fully set. In the meantime, I whipped up some Dream Whip. I stayed true to Marilyn's recipe this time, but next time I make this (which will be next Thanksgiving, I'm betting), I'll make real whipped cream. Marilyn would approve of that, I'm sure.

I don't know that there's any holiday that makes me think of Marilyn as much as Thanksgiving. Whether she was cooking Thanksgiving for her boys and their significant others, for her brothers and sisters and nieces and nephews, or for her in-laws, the woman knew how to put together a Thanksgiving dinner, and she made it seem effortless.

That this is the first Thanksgiving without her--that she won't be standing in the kitchen, mixing oysters into the dressing, saving the gizzards for Chad, or whipping potatoes in her Kitchenaid--may make for a less than stellar holiday this year.

But at least we'll have Pumpkin Torte.

All four layers and a couple of pilgrims.

She Loves Me, She Loves Milnot: Homemade Can Bread

2011-11-19T06:18:00.001-06:00

Any time artifacts from a particular era are preserved, the archaeologists that eventually unearth them are bound to encounter fragments of the past that are unrecognizable to the contemporary mind, foreign objects real enough to hold in one's hands yet still presenting as mysteries waiting to be solved.

This is how I came to ask, while digging through Marilyn's recipe cards--some of which likely have not seen the light of day since Punky Brewster was finally adopted by that old grouch Henry--what the hell is Milnot?

I honestly had never heard of this stuff, but now I've seen it in three grocery stores. I am being stalked by Milnot.

To answer that question, perhaps we should first uncover what Milnot is not. Milnot is not milk, in the traditional sense. Instead it's a canned milk product that's been reconstituted with vegetable oils after the dairy fat was sucked out. Also known as filled milk.

And though the stuff has been around since the early 20th century--scroll down to the bottom of the page here for an interesting tidbit on when the U.S. Congress enacted the Filled Milk Act (no, really) in 1923 to ban the sale of the stuff--I'm getting a strong 1980s vibe from the recipes in Marilyn's collection that call for this stuff, including today's selection, Homemade Can Bread.

Call me crazy, but something about making bread dough with a canned dairy product that's been injected with trans-fats and baking it in an old Folger's can makes me think of VHS tapes, Velcro tennis shoes, microwave cookbooks, and side ponytails. It makes me picture a little Chad and a little Brent, clad in stone-washed jeans and watching Saturday morning cartoons or the Iran-Contra hearings, perhaps pining for a Teddy Ruxpin to call their own, while Marilyn was out in the kitchen, opening a can of Milnot and baking bread in a coffee can.

A lot has changed since those days. For one thing, coffee doesn't really come in one-pound tin cans anymore.

Coffee is good. Bags and plastic containers of coffee are bad for baking.

I would be hard-pressed to bake my bread in any of the above vessels, so instead I'm making do with a variety of lesser-sized cans, a veritable choir of recycled food holders waiting to be stuffed with dough.

You'll need to remove labels and scrub the glue from the cans. The El Pato can on the far left has its information imprinted directly on the can. You'll want to scrub the insides well, too. It should be noted, however, that no matter how much you scrub an empty can of El Pato Salsa de Chile Fresco, it will still maintain the odors and flavors of El Pato Salsa De Chile Fresco, so much so that you will inadvertently invent a new recipe: Homemade Can Bread de El Pato Salsa de Chile Fresco.

The bread itself is pretty straightforward. The recipe permits you to use one cup of wheat or rye flour out of the four total needed, so I went with wheat, which makes the dough heavier than if you used all-purpose flour for all four cups.

I put Milnot on a pedestal.

You proof the yeast in warm water and then mix in the rest of the wet and dry ingredients. The Milnot was thinner than I expected, less like evaporated milk and more like... baby formula. That's what it smelled like, too. Yum!

The recipe says to divide the dough between two one-pound coffee tins. Since I was using smaller cans, I wasn't sure how full to fill them. I decided to fill them about a third full, and let them rise until they were two-thirds full. I knew the dough wouldn't rise as much with wheat flour in the mix. (Incidentally, I did not end up needing the full choir of tin cans. Also, you'll want to grease these puppies good and make sure not to cut your hand while doing so.)

I neglected to take a before-the-oven picture (because my hand was gushing blood), but our tin cans of bread went into the oven at 400 degrees, and came out 35 minutes later looking like this.

The one on the left is a little spicy. Like, don't-touch-your-eyes-after-touching-the-bread spicy.

During the cooling period, I started thinking about what I was going to do with four cans of bread. I decided, on this rather bleak November Saturday, that soup and grilled cheese was a good idea. So, I made some homemade broccoli cheese soup, and I plotted an exquisite grilled cheese sandwich that included spicy mustard, muenster cheese, red onion, and thinly sliced apples.

But before I could make the sandwiches, our bread had to come out of the cans, and it did so quite easily, I must say.

Homemade Can Bread

So, when a morning of slaving over tin cans was over, there was this lovely lunch as the reward.

Broccoli Cheese Soup and Grilled Cheese with Muenster, Spicy Mustard, Red Onion, and Apple on Homemade Can Bread.

Meet Grandma Haase: Chocolate Upside Down Cake

2011-11-10T19:27:00.001-06:00

When we invited Chad's dad, Dennis, over for dinner tonight and I asked him what I should make from Marilyn's recipe box for dessert, he acted nonchalant, like he didn't have anything in mind.

Well, he very briefly acted nonchalant, like he didn't have anything in mind.

Here's the exact text he sent me: "Oh, it doesn't matter, but since you asked and I am not shy, there is a chocolate gooey cake that is really good and simple. It was G. Haase."

G. Haase is Grandma Haase, Marilyn's maternal grandmother, a very sweet woman with whom Marilyn was quite close.

Four generations: From left, Eunice (Marilyn's mother); Marilyn (holding a very small Chad and rocking some sweet bell bottoms); and G. Haase.

A fair number of Marilyn's recipes are written in G. Haase's distinct and old-fashioned handwriting, with many of them also signed in the upper or lower right-hand corner, "G. Haase." Most also are written out on the same kind of recipe card, so even when her signature is missing (as it is in tonight's recipe), you can tell which recipes are ones she wrote out and gave to her granddaughter.

You can also tell a G. Haase recipe by the fact that her baked goods are almost always from scratch, and her main dishes and casseroles seem to be just on the cusp of the processed foods era. They'll call for you to, say, boil a chicken and pick the meat from the bones, but then mix it with a can of cream of mushroom soup.

I could find no "Chocolate Gooey Cake" in the G. Haase collection, but another text to Dennis confirmed that this Chocolate Upside Down Cake is what he was after.

Dennis' description of this G. Haase treat made me think of something my own maternal grandmother--G. Hester, if you will--used to make, although she called hers Brownie Pudding. Sure enough it's the same concept: A fudgy cake batter that's topped with dry sugar and cocoa and some hot water (yep, hot water) before it goes in the oven. When it comes out, the cake has risen to the top, and a lovely and gooey chocolate sauce sinks to the bottom.

Here are the ingredients:


No cake mix here, kids.

The dry ingredients are sifted together, and then you beat in the wet ingredients. Then you do some kind of strange stuff, but don't worry. It all works out in the end.

Here's our Chocolate Upside Down Cake/Chocolate Gooey Cake/Brownie Pudding in three stages:

The batter. (Hey batter!)

The batter sprinkled with a mixture of cocoa and sugar. (Which begs the question: If you can sprinkle cinnamon and sugar on your toast for breakfast, why couldn't you do the same with cocoa and sugar? I may have to try this.)

And the batter sprinkled with cocoa and sugar, then doused with water... like a cake left out in the rain. Poor little cake.

This concoction went into the oven at 350 degrees, looking less than appealing. On the other side of 35 minutes, however, this thing was looking pretty great.

No more sad left-in-the-rain cake.

What you can tell from this picture is that we have a chocolate cake here. What you can't tell is that the top is just slightly crispy and crystallized from the sugar mixture sprinkled on top, and that underneath it all is that lovely, gooey sauce.

I remembered, when I cut into it, how the sauce thickens as it cools, so that your first piece might be more like cake with chocolate sauce, but your second and third and all subsequent pieces become thicker, more truly like a pudding. Then you also have chunks of cake--some of which are rich and fudgy, others that are more flaky and crisp. I'm here to tell you that this stuff is delicious in all its consistencies and textures, especially when served with good vanilla ice cream.

G. Haase's Chocolate Upside Down Cake

I remembered, too, that my G. Hester--who had a thing for chocolate and mint together--sometimes would put a teaspoon of peppermint extract in the batter, transforming this into something a little different, but equally awesome.

Dennis and Chad said Marilyn made this quite a bit. It's something I'll definitely make again and again. I like that it's from scratch, that it's delicious, and that it's a connection not just to Marilyn, but to G. Haase and G. Hester as well.

Review: Brownies

2011-11-07T21:48:00.002-06:00

As an adult, the only foods I don't eat are olives and beets. As I kid, in addition to beets and olives, I disliked beans of all sorts and a couple kinds of nuts. Since I wasn't too picky of an eater, Mom mostly respected my aversion to beans and nuts, but there were a few exceptions. One was chili. After I refused to eat chili with beans, Mom agreed to try making it once without them. When I tasted it, though, I still gagged; I was certain there were beans in there somewhere.

Mom wasn't much of a liar, and when I pressed her on it--I was maybe eight or nine at the time--she admitted that she'd put the beans through the blender, hoping I wouldn't notice. Eventually, she would make two batches of chili a lot of the time--one with beans and one without.

The other exception was nuts in desserts. A lot of the brownies and candies Mom liked to bake called for nuts, and she tended to want to include them, especially in the frosting for her Brownies recipe. For a while, she'd ask me to eat around them, and I would, because amid those nuts there was delicious chocolate frosting; beneath those nuts, there was brownie.

A few times, though, Mom tried putting the chopped nuts through the blender--just like with those beans--before incorporating them into the frosting. I actually didn't mind them so much then; I think my aversion was mostly a texture thing.

Later on, though, Mom would often frost half the pan of brownies with frosting that included nuts and the other half with the perfectly smooth (and much better tasting) nut-free stuff.

To be honest: This was Mom's go-to Brownies recipe, but when I was younger, I kind of preferred brownies made from a box. They were denser, richer, gooier. More uniform. I would still eat the homemade kind when Mom made them, but I didn't really appreciate just how great they were until I was older.

And the brownies without nuts Jane made took me back not just to the brownies I remember eating when I was a little bit older--when I'd come to love them--but to the brownies I would frustratingly eat when I was a kid, picking out the bits of walnut and stacking them around the edge of my plate until my fingernails were stuffed with frosting.

Fall Back: Pistachio Pudding Salad

2011-11-06T18:27:00.002-06:00

I don't know about you, but I wanted to make the most of that extra hour we got today due to daylight savings time. That's why I decided to roast a chicken and make Pistachio Pudding Salad in between episodes of "Sister Wives" streaming on Netflix.

The roasted chicken recipe is from Julia Child's "The Way to Cook." Julia wanted me to roast it at 450 degrees for 10 minutes on each side, then finish it off at a lower temp, for a total cooking/resting time of about 2 1/2 hours. Sorry, Julia, but I had too much polygamist reality TV to watch for something that labor-intensive. Our bird got browned on top for 10 minutes at 450 and then hung out in the oven at 375 for, oh, about an hour after that.

Roasting a chicken seems like such a 1950s housewife--or, uh, sister wife--kind of thing to do that I needed a dessert to match--something with mini-marshmallows and Jello products and whipped topping. Luckily, there are at least a dozen such recipes in Marilyn's recipe box, so I picked one at random: Pistachio Pudding Salad.

I had some difficulty procuring the ingredients, in that I could not find Cool Whip in the store (it's in the freezer section, FYI). Then I forgot the pineapple, and had to send Chad out for some. He came back with sliced rather than crushed, so I diced it up.

Jet-Puffed always sounds so... Jetsons.

Not much to say about the process here: It's a dump and stir kind of thing. However, I noticed while dumping the box of pudding that the recipe on the side of the box was exactly what I was making, except it was called Watergate Salad. That name certainly fits with our retro theme, although I'm not certain of any parallels to polygamy.

I believe there's also a Watergate Cake somewhere out there.

Wikipedia tells me this evening's dessert is also sometimes called Pistachio Delight and sometimes substitutes mandarin oranges for the pineapple. While the origin of calling it Watergate Salad is unknown, the dish itself dates to 1975, when Kraft says they invented it.

There's not a whole lot to say about the finished product, either, except that it looks kind of weirdly cute on top of this vintage apron.

Into the fridge she goes...

My mom and my sister (not to be confused with a sister wife) stopped by just as I was taking the chicken out of the oven and getting ready to roast some Brussels sprouts. (Our "salad" was being refrigerated at this time, per the instructions on the card AND the box.) We sat around picking at the delicious browned bits of chicken in the bottom of the pan and having a heart-to-heart about Jello. We recalled the time when my mom was eating at the salad bar at Wendy's back in the day and took a significant helping of what she thought was liver pâté, only to spread it on a cracker and discover it was, horror of horrors, instant chocolate pudding.

I don't know what's more unbelievable: that there used to be a salad bar at Wendy's or that my mother actually thought they would serve liver pâté.

Needless to say, I did not grow up eating a lot of Jello salads. (I would have cut people to get my hands on a box of those Bill Cosby pudding pops, however.) I remember my grandmother had a lime Jello salad with celery in it and an orange Jello salad with carrots in it, but in my own house, my mom just wasn't a Jello person. She made chocolate and butterscotch pudding from scratch--never instant--and I only remember eating fluffy Jello concoctions at extended family gatherings. It was only when I became part of Chad's family that I realized that if someone says they're bringing a "salad," they mean something with gelatin, not lettuce.

This, technically, is not a Jello salad in terms of gelatin, but a pudding salad. Yet I think it's safe to say they're all in same Jello family, like gelatin is wife #1 and pudding is wife #2.

In all, this turned out to be a nice Sunday dinner. The chicken (which I'd stuffed with garlic and fresh herbs) was moist and flavorful, and I absolutely love roasted Brussels sprouts. (I'm sure they had those on the Wendy's salad bar, too.)

I would be remiss not to point out the girth of this salad. It's bigger than the freaking bird, and could feed a whole slew of sister wives in itself.

Seconds after this photograph was taken, my highly refined mother stuck her finger in the bowl to taste the salad.

I sat down with a bowl of our pistachio delight to write this entry, with yet another episode of "Sister Wives" on the background. I probably won't be back for seconds (or Season 2), but I'm not going to lie, it hit the spot today.

Review: Stack-a-Roll Stroganoff

2011-11-03T21:57:00.002-05:00

About ten years ago, I was working as a juvenile probation officer at a juvenile detention facility. My first year there, I worked second shift; my second year, I worked third shift, from midnight until eight a.m. We were a fairly tight-knit crew, working such a stressful job during such fairly terrible hours, and for a while, we started holding potlucks. The first one, a themed event, was dubbed: White Trash.

I don't remember what I brought, but I do remember walking into the kitchen at juvie and seeing spread out on the counter some variation of pretty much every casserole and jello salad that I had eaten (and often loved) while growing up. Seeing the spread caused me to re-evaluate everything that I had eaten as a child. Until then, I hadn't realized just how "white trash" my culinary tastes were.

One dish in particular that stuck out that night was a hamburger casserole with biscuits on top. I'm not sure of the exact ingredients, but I'm pretty sure it contained browned ground beef, onions, cream of mushroom soup, and canned green beans, all of which was baked in a deep dish with refrigerated biscuits on top.

The thing was: I knew this casserole, only Mom used to make it with tater tots on top instead of biscuits. I tried the newfangled variety that night, and immediately, I was sad that Mom had never attempted the dish in this way.

Which was why I was so surprised, all these years later, when Jane unearthed the Stack-a-Roll Stroganoff recipe. Even before Jane had executed the thing, I was certain that Mom had never made it, despite the fact the recipe was right there in front of my eyes, in Mom's handwriting.

That first night: Well, I was hungry, and this was comfort food, the kind of thing that could fill you up, warm your belly. It wasn't, however, all that tasty.

The second night, after it had congealed a bit in the refrigerator and been re-heated, it tasted a little better. It was still rich, and slightly blandly Stroganoff-y, but it had somehow transformed, become more than that.

A few days after Jane had made it, Dad came by to show me something new he'd bought, and I asked him if he could remember this particular recipe. He agreed: Mom had never made it. That casserole with the tater tots on top, though: Man, it seems we ate it at least once a week.

When Brownies Were Brownies

2011-11-03T21:39:00.001-05:00

One of the interesting things—to me, anyway—about this project is not just what these recipes represent about Marilyn’s life, but how they show trends in home cooking over the years. There are what I consider more classic homemade recipes—such as the coffee cake we made a couple weekends ago and the brownies we made tonight—that aren’t particularly flashy and don’t depend on too many processed ingredients or shortcuts. There are also what I would call convenience or novelty recipes, such as our bizarro Stack-a-Roll Stroganoff from last week and the beloved Twinkie Cake, the kinds of recipes that use a can of this or a mix of that to make something that’s kind of like something else someone somewhere might once upon a time have made from scratch.

Then there are more modern recipes. In her later years, Marilyn was a Food Network junkie. She watched the shows, she subscribed to the magazines, and she looked up the recipes online. Instead of index cards stored in boxes, her favorite recipes from those years are computer printouts folded neatly in a pile (and we’ll get to some of those, eventually). These are the type of recipes invented to fill 24 hours a day of TV programming and satisfy millions of readers of magazines and food blogs hungry for content. Not just macaroni and cheese, but Seven-Cheese Garlic-Studded Baked Penne with Brown Butter Panko Crust. Not just brownies, but Salted Caramel Pistachio Brownie Bites with Dark Chocolate Ganache.

Both of the above examples are figments of my imagination, but a quick search for brownies on Epicurious.com proves my point. There are brownie pops shaped like owls, Pumpkin Brownie Pops, Raspberry Cheesecake Brownies, and Chile Brownies, not to be outdone by things like Chocolate Brownie Torte with White Chocolate Mousse and Caramelized Bananas and Fudgy Hazelnut Brownies with Marbled Chocolate Glaze.

I’m sure many of those are quite delicious, but tonight, we just made brownies. Not from a mix, and not from a Food Network test kitchen. Just brownies. With frosting.

This one starts by mixing two cups of flour and two cups of sugar in a bowl. Then, in a saucepan, I brought a half cup of sour milk (or buttermilk that's still, um, hanging out in the fridge from previous cooking adventures) to a boil with the baking soda, cinnamon, and vanilla.

Next, I added a stick of butter, some shortening (gross), water, and the all-important cocoa to the mixture.

Then, I combined the wet and the dry mixtures, with the assistance of my hand model.

Once blended (this time with a hand-mixer to give the Kitchenaid some time off), I poured the batter into a greased and floured pan.

I used a square pan that's deeper and shorter than what would normally be used for this, so I had to up the cooking time by quite a bit--like maybe 20 additional minutes. I also only used about 2/3 of the frosting since we had less brownie surface area to cover.

I made the frosting per the recipe card, minus the nuts and with the small addition of some extra cocoa, in part because Chad really likes chocolate, but also because there was just a little bit extra left in the can.

When the brownies came out, I could smell the cinnamon in addition to the chocolate and I could tell these were going to be a cakey, rather than fudgy, kind of brownie.

The recipe said to frost this puppy hot, so I did. Then I let it all cool while I started writing this post.

It’s rare that I’ll decide to bake on a Thursday night, and there's probably a reason for that, as baking requires a precision and attention to detail that I generally don't have on a Thursday night, but it felt like the thing to do today.

Of course I think about Marilyn every day—we all do—but today was harder than usual, and for a pretty silly reason. We’re getting some wood floors refinished this week. This morning—a nasty, windy, rainy, and cold morning—I was checking out the progress on the stairs and the front hallway before I left for work and I flashed back to June, when Chad and I spent a long, sweaty week ripping up the carpet. I remember texting Marilyn a photo when we pulled back the carpet to find oak floors and I remember her genuinely excited response, which was, like most of her texts, along the lines like “omg!!! awesome - don’t work 2 hard!!!”

We found out how sick she was just a couple of weeks after that.

For a second this morning, though, I forgot she was gone, and I reached for my phone to send her a photo of how the floors are turning out.

The rain and wind continued all morning, and I kept feeling sad that she wasn’t here to see the floors, that we weren’t going to get to see her get excited about seeing them.

Of course, it’s not really about the damn floors.

All of this made me want to make one of her recipes today, something sweet and classic she made for her boys often enough that she probably knew the ingredients and steps by heart, but still pulled the card from the box and set it on the countertop each time—an act merely of habit.

The index card is so worn from use on this one that it feels like a piece of cloth instead of paper.

These were comforting to eat, and comforting to make.

Fools Russian: A Casserole Fit for a Friday

2011-10-28T21:30:00.001-05:00

Friday nights typically mean homemade pizza at Casa de Chad & Jane, but we scratched that this week for something out of Marilyn’s recipe box since we’ve been mostly delinquent bloggers the past week or so.

I looked for something that called for buttermilk because I had some left over from last weekend’s coffee cake, but didn’t find anything that sounded right for tonight. I did find a casserole recipe that called for refrigerated biscuits, though, and decided I’d make buttermilk biscuits from scratch to use instead of the stuff from the tube (which, you might not be surprised to learn, I think are gross).

The nights are getting a lot colder all of a sudden, so this Stack-a-Roll Strogranoff also seemed like a good, Eastern-Europe-Meets-Cream-of-Mushroom-Soup way to take the chill off.

Obviously, we’re dealing with a short-cut casserole version of the Russian dish of beef stroganoff here. I happen to love beef stroganoff, although my preferred version calls for sirloin or top round cooked in a slow cooker, then added to lots of sautéed thinly sliced onions and fresh mushrooms, mixed in a sauce made of juices from the meat and some sour cream, and served over wide egg noodles.

Our Stack-a-Roll Stroganoff has all of the same elements: Beef, onion, mushroom, sour cream, and carb. Just in slightly different form. Here are the ingredients, minus the biscuits, which we'll get to in a minute, and minus an egg, which we'll get to a little later.

Ground beef brainnnns.

Before we got started, we made vodka tonics. It's Friday night, after all, and we were making "Russian" food.

This Russian vodka is actually made in Latvia.

While Chad was browning the meat, I started the buttermilk biscuits, which I must say have a refreshingly simple set of components compared to what's on the ingredient list for canned buttermilk biscuits (that actually don't contain any buttermilk).

Biscuit fixins.

To make the biscuits, I mixed the dry ingredients (2 cups flour, 1 tablespoon sugar, 1 teaspoon baking powder, and 1 teaspoon salt), then added one stick of cold butter cut into chunks. With the paddle attachment of the Kitchenaid, I mixed it until the butter incorporated into the flour and it had the consistency of course cornmeal. Then, a cup of buttermilk, and a quick stir. I dumped it out on a floured surface and patted it into a rectangle about an inch thick.

Once the meat was cooked and the dough was mixed, it was casserole assembly time. But first, Chad had the pleasure of heating a can of cream of mushroom soup on the stove and then adding some sour cream to it.

So, assembling the Stack-a-Roll involves dumping a can of mushrooms and a can of fried onions (reserving a handful or two for the topping) into the meat. You put that in a baking dish and then you pour your mushroom soup concoction over the top.

I married a hand model.

If you were using refrigerated biscuits, this would be the point you pop open the can and stack 'em on top. We cut our buttermilk biscuit dough with a glass (not one we were drinking vodka tonics out of, but that would have worked, too) and then put the pieces on the top. We tossed on the remaining onions and threw this thing in the oven at 375 degrees. (I also brushed the tops of the biscuits with melted butter.)

Nothing says Russian like crispy onions from a can.

Then we sat down with our cocktails and talked about our days. We also ate some Triscuits, because we were starving, like Russian orphans or something. At one point, Chad picked up the recipe card and asked me why I didn't put the topping on. Somehow I'd missed the step were you mix an egg with some sour cream and celery seed and then pour this strange mixture over the top of the biscuits.

So, I took our Stack-a-Roll out of the oven and added the topping.

I don't understand this topping.

Back in the oven, but I cranked it to 425 because we were hungry and wanted the top to brown so we could finally eat.

Here she is, browned and ready.

Am I still hungry? I'm really not sure.

To go with our theme, we had a wedge salad with Russian dressing.

Stack-a-Roll Stroganoff (aka WTF)

Yeah, so, the Stack-a-Roll isn't very close to stroganoff, and Russian dressing isn't really Russian, and our vodka came from Latvia. Happy Friday!

Just a Coffee Cake

2011-10-28T20:29:00.000-05:00

As Chad mentioned in his Spicy Zucchini Bars review, coffee cake is not the stuff of fond childhood memories or deep culinary lust.

It reminds me of church, and old people, and black coffee served in the basements of churches, with old people.

There are a handful of coffee cake recipes in Marilyn's recipe box (including one that includes yellow cake mix and lemon pudding--stay tuned for that one another time), but I picked this one for its simplicity, for its quintessential coffeecakeness.

It seems to say, "I am a coffee cake. Nothing less and nothing more. Take me as I am."

We had houseguests last weekend--two people coming from two different states to stay here for two different reasons--and this fed our guests and us two mornings in a row.

I don't have any images to share of the process or the finished project because, well, it's hard not to seem like a crazy person to your houseguests if you are taking photographs of coffee cake while you're making it and before they eat it.

But I can tell you, this thing looked like a coffee cake. It tasted like one, too. The first morning, it was still warm and very soft and crumbly. It wasn't overly sweet, which I liked, since I generally don't like sweet stuff first thing in the morning. You could definitely taste the tartness of the buttermilk.

The second morning is when this coffee cake really came into its own, however. It was firmer, and it was like all that brown sugar had sunk to the edges, making everything kind of dense and carmelized. Once it was gone, I found myself picking at the stray bits in the pan. I would make this again.

Review: Twinkie Cake

2011-10-16T20:38:00.002-05:00

It's kind of amazing to me that Jane chose to make Twinkie Cake mostly because of that sweet vintage cake pan she found; I can't believe she'd never encountered it in the wild, at somebody or other's birthday party, given that she's been a part of the family for about twelve years.

My brother Brent and I are Irish twins, born 51 weeks apart. This means we're the same age for a week each year, and there were a lot of years when I was growing up that we celebrated my brother's birthday on April 25th with Twinkie Cake and homemade Oreo ice cream and then replicated everything seven days later on May 2nd.

About that homemade Oreo ice cream: Jane used quotation marks around homemade in the previous post for a reason; it's not very homemade at all. The way it works: You buy a gallon tub of fairly generic vanilla ice cream and a package of Oreo cookies. You let the ice cream get melty and then crush the Oreos, stir it all together, stick the new concoction in the freezer.

A couple hours later, you have a fairly deluxe version of cookies 'n' cream. So many cookie pieces. So much frozen frosting. Mom actually made me some homemade Oreo ice cream this past May after she asked me what she should bring to my birthday party. She didn't seem too keen on making the stuff, but she made it, even though she was already feeling pretty sick. A few weeks later, when Brent was coming home for a visit--and after he complained a lot about the fact she'd made the ice cream for me--she made another batch.

But back to this Twinkie Cake Jane made: It was delicious. I ate it over two scoops of store-bought cookies 'n' cream. Each bite was like eating a Twinkie crusted in ice-cream-y Oreos.

Jane said the filling/frosting was fairly labor-intensive, especially for something you're going to spread on a cake made from a mix, but I'm glad she went to the trouble. It's really sweet--even without the ice cream--but so so good. And I think Jane is right: I remember eating Twinkie Cake back in the day that tasted a lot like the cake I ate tonight; I also remember eating Twinkie Cake back in the day that didn't taste quite so good. I'm pretty sure Mom opted to fill the cake with Cool Whip those years.

But tonight, the Twinkie Cake tasted exactly as I remember it at its best.

I texted Brent while I was holding the bowl of cake and ice cream in my hands, and he wrote back, "It's not your birthday and I hate you."

Twinkie Cake (and a Cocktail)

2011-10-16T15:44:00.001-05:00

It's a little embarrassing how much time I spend thinking about what I'm going to make next for this little project. There's no shortage of recipes to choose from, but the timing isn't right for many of them.

For instance, the pumpkin torte will have to wait for Thanksgiving.

The party punch with Southern Comfort will have to wait for a party.

And the dessert bars that call for several jars of baby food will have to wait for... a day when I feel like making dessert bars out of baby food.

This week's inspiration arrived at the thrift store, where I discovered this vintage gem:

A little worse for the wear, but still a steal for $3.

So, I turned to Marilyn's recipe box in search of a recipe for cake, and found Twinkie Cake.

That word in the lower right-hand corner? FLUFFY. Took me a while to figure that out.

Chad will share his memories of Twinkie Cake later--I understand this was a perennial birthday favorite, along with the infamous "homemade" Oreo ice cream--but I can see how this would have been popular with the Simpson boys (Chad, Brent, and their dad, too), who all were known to hoard snack cakes. I can imagine their innocent, wide-eyed joy (and, again, I'm not just talking about the kids here) at being presented a GIANT TWINKIE for their birthdays. Sweet.

Here's what we're working with this round, ingredients-wise:

When I sent Chad to the store for a yellow cake mix, I told him to get the best one money could buy.

So, the cake part here is pretty simple. You're just doing what the box tells you. Given the shape of my awesome vintage cake stand, however, I elected to bake the batter in two round cake pans, rather than in a 9x13 pan and cut it in half later.

Yellow cakes, yellow cake stand. Sometimes things just click, yo.

While these guys were cooling, I got to work on the filling, which starts on the stovetop, where you thicken milk with flour. I find it interesting that this recipe uses a cake mix but calls for a homemade filling. I can guarantee you that Marilyn could have thrown a tub of Cool Whip between the layers and her boys would have never known the difference. And something tells me she might have done that a few times.

That said, the filling looked pretty good after adding the thickened milk to some sugar, vanilla, butter (not oleo) and shortening, and beating the crap out of it in the Kitchenaid. I sliced the rounded top off one of the cakes to make it more stackable, and then, um, filled this weird round Twinkie.

Looks like Cool Whip... but is not Cool Whip.

Once I put the top layer on and dealt with the filling that smooshed out, it became clear that I was going to have to frost this thing. Now, it does look Twinkie-like, but my vintage cake stand demanded a more formal look to the finished product.

The only thing that would make that cake stand more awesome is if it said "Twinkie Cake."

I remembered seeing a recipe for frosting in Marilyn's recipe box, so I went looking for that.

Filling? Frosting? Whatever.

Aha, it's "economical" and "good" so how could I resist? Also, it's almost exactly the same recipe as the filling for Twinkie Cake. How did that happen?

Once filled and frosted, the Twinkie Cake seemed quite content. So did the cake stand. Like they were made for each other.

No, Twinkies don't usually have filling on the outside. But they should!

Sliced, this looks nothing like a Twinkie. But does it taste like a Twinkie? Or at least like Marilyn's Twinkie Cake? Only a Simpson boy will be able to tell me, and none of them are here right now, so I'll have to wait to find out.

Twinkie Cake!

In the meantime, something about this cake stand (and making two different batches of frosting/filling) is making me thirsty for a martini. Marilyn would approve, I know.

RECIPE: Two ounces gin, one ounce dry vermouth.

Review: Spicy Zucchini Bars

2011-10-14T20:04:00.002-05:00

This is a dessert that I probably wouldn't have paid much attention to when I was younger. Mom made them plenty of times, but I thought of desserts like zucchini bars--and pumpkin pie and coffee cake--as things for adults, not kids. I probably would have scraped a finger along the edge of the pan, curling up some of that cinnamon frosting, but I doubt I ate one of these before the age of twenty.

Now that I'm an adult--and have come to appreciate pumpkin pie and coffee cake and other such delicacies--I was really glad when I came home from work on Sunday and found these puppies piled on a plate on the kitchen island.

The frosting was still delicious, and so were the bars themselves. On Sunday, they were still warm and a little flaky, but as the week progressed--and I've had at least one a day for each of the past five days--I swear the bars have gotten denser, more flavorful.

Like apple squares, the spicy zucchini bars feel just like Fall. I've been eating them in the dining room, watching leaves drop in bursts from the trees.

Review: Chinese Chicken

2011-10-14T19:39:00.003-05:00

This recipe appeared in Mom's arsenal at least a couple years before Chinese buffets became ubiquitous in these parts. I'm pretty sure she started making the casserole not long after we moved to Logansport, Indiana, in the late-80s, when that particular town had a single Chinese place, which was rumored to serve rooftop pigeons, and where you had to order from an actual menu rather than load your plate from the steam tables. I remember eating egg fu yung there at the age of twelve or so and being blown away. Soon after, Logansport had its first Chinese buffet.

In between, though, there was Mom's casserole, which was as exotic to me then as that egg fu yung and hoisin sauce. For one, it did not contain, like many of Mom's casseroles, ground beef or canned green beans or tater tots. For two, it had Chinese in its title.

As Jane mentioned below, it certainly was hearty, and that was most likely a large part of why I liked it so much. If I remember right, Mom used to serve this treat along with buttered (or oleo'd) French bread. I also really loved those cashews on top. Mom's dad--my grandpa Omar--owned a bar in Monmouth, and Mom ran it for him sometimes when he was recovering from various health problems. She used to take Brent and me there to open the place up at nine a.m. and we would watch talk shows on TV and eat frozen pizza and talk to the crowd of card-playing day drinkers. Over near the cash register, there was a nut warming machine--a pretty large one, with several different types of nuts--that I was pretty fond of raiding; the cashews were in the lower left-hand corner, and I probably ate about five pounds of warm cashews over the years while I roamed Grandpa's bar. Grandpa had a bad heart, and he was supposed to stay away from the nut warming machine, but every time Kenny, one of those card-playing day drinkers, caught me sneaking a handful, he'd call me Omar and tell me how Grandpa couldn't keep his hand out of there either, which was part of the reason he'd ended up with the bad ticker.

But I'm digressing.

Back to the casserole Janey made: The first bowl-ful was pretty delicious. The cashews were crispy, and the veggies were soupy and warm, and I was, for a minute or two, thirteen again, looking toward the stove for the buttered French bread.

By the second bowl, which I reheated the next day in the microwave for lunch, the novelty of eating Chinese Chicken had worn off. It was rich in this very boring, cream-of-chicken soup way, and a little hard to stomach. Maybe I've become spoiled over the years. Jane and I just don't eat a lot of cream-of-whatever soup--as her previous post might have indicated.

I had another bowl a day or two later, but the rest of the casserole is still sitting in the fridge, ready to be thrown out. I probably should have taken half of it to Dad.

The Legend of Chinese Chicken

2011-10-09T16:24:00.001-05:00

OK, there's really no legend. Except that this is one meal that Chad always looked forward to as a kid. It was hearty and filling, and he liked the cashews on the top.

This is another recipe in Marilyn's handwriting that looks like it got some use over the years.

The recipe calls for two cans of cream of chicken soup, which is, in my opinion, pretty disgusting stuff. It, along with its partner in crime, cream of mushroom soup, essentially is used as shortcut thickener and seasoning agent in casseroles and dishes that might normally use a roux to make a sauce from scratch.

Here's what I dislike about things like cream of chicken soup. It's marketed as a simple ingredient to make life easier. Open the can, dump it in, you're done. Yet reading the list of ingredients, it's anything but simple. Simple to use, perhaps, but it's so processed and full of non-food ingredients it's not really even food anymore.

A sauce made from a roux has very few and very simple ingredients, on the other hand. The roux is a fat (butter or meat fat or both) plus a thickener (flour), which, combined with a liquid (milk or stock, for example), makes a sauce. Simple.

Anyway, back to the Chinese Chicken. Here are the ingredients:

The recipe calls for a can of "chop suey vegetables," which I intended to buy to make the recipe as true to Chad's childhood version as possible. But the only can o' chop suey veggies I found included red peppers, to which Chad is allergic. So, I used a combination of canned stuff and fresh stuff.

Everything gets put in a bowl, and then it gets stirred. Simple, for sure!

No, that is not mucus. It's cream of chicken soup.

Stirred, poured into a baking dish and topped with cashews... and into the oven for 30 minutes at 350 degrees.

Not cooked

There's nothing to actually cook, brown, or melt in this recipe, so those 30 minutes in the oven are just warming things up. Our Chinese Chicken did not undergo much of a transformation in the oven.

Cooked

I served this with a Napa cabbage salad dressed in sesame oil, rice vinegar, soy sauce, and sesame seeds. And with chopsticks.

Chinese Chicken

Chad will check in later to see how this measures up to the Chinese Chicken of his childhood memories.

Zucchini Saves the Weekend

2011-10-09T13:49:00.001-05:00

We headed to Fulton County yesterday morning for our annual visit to Ellisville, Illinois.

Ellisville is a stop on the Spoon River Valley Scenic Drive, and this was the last weekend of the drive for the year.

I take a photograph of this barn every year.

However, a bridge is out near Ellisville, limiting access to the tiny town. And apparently the people of Ellisville decided to sit this one out of fear of slower traffic. The town was empty. No karaoke at 10 a.m. No scarecrow contest. No walleye truck. No hilarious grab-bags at the community center. No smallest library in Illinois.

And most importantly, no apple dumplings and no whole-hog sausage gravy over homemade biscuits.

Disappointed, and quite hungry, we stopped off at a cafe in Avon, Illinois, and ordered the special: Asparagus, swiss, and ham omelet, with hash browns and rye toast. Due to a series of somewhat unbelievable events beyond our control, the people sitting behind us ended up getting--and eating--our food. And then they were out of the special.

We left without eating, and let our GPS lead us across miles of winding gravel, dirt and grass roads (and absolutely beautiful scenery) to get to Knoxville, where we ate overpriced and mediocre sandwiches and lamented our bad food luck.

But, now that Saturday is behind us, food-wise, things are looking up. Thanks to Marilyn's Spicy Zucchini Bars.

The recipe is in Marilyn's handwriting and its condition suggests she made this fairly often. Here's the cast of characters:

Yes, that's butter, not oleo.

First thing on the agenda was to grate the zucchini. As it turns out, one medium-sized zucchini makes about one cup of grated zucchini.

Her name is Greta.

Now, it would be safer, quicker, smarter, and cleaner to grate your zucchini in a food processor. But if you did that, you wouldn't get to use your cool grater. Once two zucchinis had been reduced to shreds, I patted them dry (or somewhat dry) with a paper towel. Then I gave Greta the Grater a bath and put her to bed in her kitchen drawer.

All in a day's work.

I did use advanced kitchen equipment--in the form of my Kitchenaid mixer--to cream the butter (not oleo) and sugars, then added the two eggs, the vanilla, and finally the dry ingredients.

The batter seemed really dry at this point. And it didn't seem like there was very much of it. But adding in the zucchini moistened and loosened it up quite a bit. I didn't add any nuts, because I didn't have any, but I did add the coconut.

I spread it out on a greased (with butter, not oleo--do you sense a trend here?) jelly roll pan.

These baked at 350 degrees for just about 30 minutes. While they were baking I made the frosting, which called for cinnamon and vanilla in addition to the regular powdered sugar frosting ingredients. I liked how prominent the zucchini still were after baking. So "healthy." (See: butter.)

With their cinnamon frosting in place, these things were pretty good. A little kick from the nutmeg, but I might add more next time. You could probably also make this with whole wheat flour without them coming out like hockey pucks. The zucchini is moist enough to keep the batter from drying out too much.

Now, would it be rude to go back to that cafe in Avon and eat these in front of the people who stole our food?

Spicy Zucchini Bars!

Review: Apple Squares

2011-10-06T21:03:00.003-05:00

Sunday: I wasn't quite sure why Jane mentioned that she chuckled while peeling those ten apples, but as soon as I forked my first bite, I understood: These apple squares were much fuller than the ones Mom used to make. I'm pretty sure she never once peeled the ten apples the recipe calls for.

My favorite part was the powdered sugar glaze--as it was when I was a kid. I was conferencing with students at school while the squares were baking, and so I wasn't around to smell the apples or dip my finger into the drizzled glaze for a taste, but I got home in time to taste them still warm, the frosting just slightly and deliciously hardened.

Each bite tasted like early fall.

Monday: I popped a square in the microwave for dessert, and I have to agree with Jane: These things taste exactly like apple pie.

Tuesday: The frosting had begun to melt into the dough on top, but the filling was still sweet and cinnamon-y.

Wednesday: I skipped eating a square, but they were on my mind.

Thursday: We took a decent-sized portion of the batch to Dad on Sunday, and there are, after my early afternoon indulgence, about two-and-a-half bars left. They're not stale yet, but they couldn't hold a candle to the bars I tasted on Sunday.

In sum: This was a great place to start this little experiment. This wasn't something Mom made all the time, but I can recall coming into the house more than once after bagging leaves all day to find the kitchen smelling like apples and browning dough.

I'm so easily prone to nostalgia. Already, I miss all those soybeans I've been driving past all Fall, harvested by farmers earlier this week.

A is for Apple Squares

2011-10-02T16:18:00.002-05:00

I thought this beautiful October day would be the perfect opportunity to launch the blog with a very autumn-appropriate treat: Apple Squares. Chad has been busy grading papers all day, so I drove out to Weir Fruit Farm in Henderson County in search of some local apples to use for this very purpose.

Alas, they are closed on Sundays.

Weir Fruit Farm in Gladstone, Illinois, is CLOSED on Sundays.

I considered scaling the fence, but thought better of it, drove back to town, and picked up some apples at the ol' grocery store. 20 miles and a bag of Minnesota apples later, I was ready to get cracking on a childhood favorite of Chad and his brother, Brent.

I've heard about Marilyn's Apple Squares--mostly in the form of her adult sons teasing her that she never made them anymore--but never had a chance to try them. I recall her saying they were a lot of work, and I chuckled about that as I was peeling and slicing 10 apples.

This is essentially making an apple pie from scratch (with the addition of egg and milk to the dough) but laying it flat on a cookie sheet instead of in a pie pan. I mixed the dough in the food processor, and only cursed two or three times while trying to roll it out into two thin rectangles.

Dough, pre-cursing.

Also, inexplicably, the recipe calls for two handfuls of corn flakes to be crushed over the bottom layer of dough. I can only think the genesis of the recipe was some kind of Kellogg's cookoff, in which some clever housewife devised a way to use corn flakes in a traditional apple pie, and then won a trip to Hawaii. Or a lifetime supply of corn flakes.

You know what this crust needs? Some corn flakes!

After the corn flakes, a lot of apples and a lot of cinnamon and sugar.

Let's just pretend these apples were grown locally.

Then the top layer of dough, brushed with egg whites. Is it just me or does an unbaked apple pie (or, um, square) remind you of a pregnant belly? I think I see a foot! Or twelve!

Rectangular pie, with corn flakes, ready for the oven.

This baby went in to a 350 oven for about an hour. You won't be surprised to hear that the house smelled like hot apple pie while the squares were baking. It was extraordinarily pleasant. Couldn't smell the corn flakes, however.

When it was nearly done, I made a powdered sugar glaze. When it came out of the oven, and while it was still hot, I drizzled the glaze over the top, and then left it to cool. While it was cooling, I looked online for other apple pastry recipes using corn flakes. I found lots of them, but no real explanation of why the cereal is used.

Glazed, cooled, and cut into squares, this is how it turned out.

Apple Square

I ate this very piece shortly after taking the photograph. It was still a bit warm and it tasted like... apple pie. The filling was not too sweet and had a good cinnamon flavor. The crust was flaky and flavorful. I did not see or taste corn flakes, so I have to wonder if that ingredient is added to soak up some of the liquid from the apples as they are baking, thus keeping the bottom crust from getting soggy.