Chicago-Style Cheesecake (I think)

The hell with it, we're making cheesecake.

Chicago-style Cheesecake        Crust: 6 oz (about 1⅔ cups) graham cracker crumbs* 2 tbsp butter 2 tbsp sugar Pinch of salt (if butter is unsalted)        Filling: 1 cup sugar 1 pound cream cheese 2 tbsp flour Pinch of salt 1 tsp vanilla 4 eggs, separated 1 cup cream        To make the crust: Cream the butter and sugar. Mix in the crumbs. This is easiest with your hands or with an electric mixer, instead of with a spoon. Press the crumbs into the bottom of a deep springform pan. If you don't have one, you can use a 9" square pan or a very large cast-iron skillet.        To make the filling: Beat the sugar and cream cheese until well creamed. Add flour and salt, beat in thoroughly. Add the vanilla and egg yolks, mix well. Then mix in the cream. Beat the egg whites until almost-but-not-quite stiff peaks form. Then fold them into the batter. Pour the batter into the pan and bake at least one hour. It is done when the center springs back when lightly pressed with the finger. *The original recipe calls for crushed zwieback crackers, but those are surprisingly hard to find these days. Unless you really want to be period-correct, graham crackers will be just fine. Source: Mrs. Mary Martensen's Century of Progress Cook Book (recipes from The Chicago American), 1933, via The Internet Archive

Note: If you want to lift the whole cheesecake out of the pan before serving it, cut a piece of cardboard to fit the bottom of the pan. Make sure there aren't any big gaps when you press it into the pan, but it shouldn't fit snugly either. You're going to want to easily lift it out after baking. Wrap the cardboard in foil. Next, cut two wide strips of parchment paper (say, 2 or so inches), that are long enough to lay across the pan and stick out a little over each side. Grease the pan. Then lay the paper strips crosswise across it so they cross in the center. You want both ends of each strip to stick out over the edge of the pan. Then put the cardboard into the pan on top of the paper. You now have a pan with four paper tabs poking up from the cardboard you put on the bottom. Put the crust mixture on top of the cardboard, and proceed with the recipe. After you have the batter on top of the crust, you should have four paper tabs sticking up from the edges of the pan. After baking the cheesecake and then refrigerating it until it's completely chilled, cut around the edge of the pan to free the cake, being sure to cut between the paper and the cheesecake. Then lift the cheesecake by the paper tabs. You can now set it on whatever serving platter you like. You could use just one paper strip instead of two. But I recommend using two paper strips, which gives you a backup in case one of them rips.

As the tariff-mongering and other ethical disasters from the alleged president threaten to make food even more expensive, I decided to indulge while we still can. 

I should note that this cheesecake is brought to you by my grandmother, who decided to send each of her grandchildren a surprise check. I should also note that when I called her to say thank you and told her that I had used part of her gift on cream cheese, she asked "Are you going to save me any?"  

Mrs. Mary Martensen's Century of Progress Cook Book (recipes from The Chicago American), 1933, via The Internet Archive

The original recipe calls for "1 package zwieback" to make the crust, so I assumed they were a standard size. Just to see what turned up, I did an image search for "1930s zwieback package." I found a surprising number of pictures of really old cracker boxes. All of them were six ounces, regardless of brand.

I didn't think I'd find 90-year-old food packaging sizes so easily. As I was making a note on my recipe printout so I wouldn't have to look this up again, I started thinking about how the "Information Age" isn't going as well as we thought it would in the 1990s. Facts may be at our fingertips, but people still believe in alpha males, "great replacement theories," and other nonsense. 

But enough about current events, let's get down to cheesecake. Even if you set aside the lavish use of eggs, this is one of the more extravagant recipes in this book, and that includes the "Quick Caviar Canapes" on page seven. I guess even in the 1930s, you ignored your grocery budget if you wanted a cheesecake.

The last time we made a cheesecake recipe from Chicago, it was unpleasantly fluffy. Everyone who tried it agreed that it was a lot better before we baked it. But it got me wondering about "Chicago-style cheesecake," which apparently is a real thing. I don't know if today's recipe is in fact "Chicago-style cheesecake," but it is a cheesecake recipe printed in Chicago.

As with so many cheesecakes, we start with a crumb crust. But unusually, the recipe tells us to cream the butter and sugar instead of melting them and then mashing in the crumbs. This seemed silly until I realized that you couldn't simply pop your butter in the microwave in 1933. So really, Mrs. Mary Martensen is sparing us the bother of putting a saucepan on the stove and then having to wash it later.

Actually, that picture is a bit misleading. We're using a lot more crumbs than that little pile of them. I wondered if the butter would manage to coat them all.

At first, I worried that the mixer would ruin the crackers. Then I remembered that they were supposed to be pulverized anyway.

Distributing the butter among the crumbs might have taken a while if you couldn't afford a mixer at 1930s prices (seriously, people had to buy them on installment). But since we live in an era when you can get power tools at thrift shops, this was the fastest graham cracker crust I've ever made. The crumbs looked just as dry after mixing, but then I figured the butter would melt as it baked.

And now we must make a brief construction detour. Since I wanted to be extra-fancy and serve the cheesecake on a platter, I needed to be able to lift it out of the pan intact. With that in mind, I put some handle-straps into place.

Then, I put in a foil-wrapped cardboard circle on which the cheesecake could rest.

After all that prepwork, I pressed in the crust and saw that the cheesecake would never fit. I would say that all my efforts were pointless, but they did let me find out my pan was inadequate before it was too late. Also, since this recipe uses a crumb crust, I just had to dump it back into the mixing bowl. I didn't have to carefully lift a sheet of pie dough without ripping it.

 

As I was rummaging for something better, I wanted to use the big, extra-deep square pan that I usually use for casseroles. Unfortunately, I sent a friend home with a cake in that pan a while ago. And after delivering many unsolicited rants about how much I hate people who give away food and then want their stupid containers back (I didn't use the word "stupid"), I can't bring myself to ask him to wash and return it. I ended up getting out the big skillet for the purpose. I cannot overstate how weird it felt to put a cheesecake in cast iron, but there was no other way.

 

Look how roomy the pan is! Surely I could fit an entire cheesecake in here. And since it takes so long for heat to penetrate heavy iron, I optimistically hoped that it would be like those  bands that people soak in cold water and wrap around pans to keep the edges of a cake from overcooking before the center is done.

Anyway, now that the pan was ready, things started to look like a normal cheesecake recipe.

But then, disaster struck! Instead of adding salt to the batter, I added garlic powder!

Behold the ruination.

The garlic was still on the counter from making dinner, and all the shakers look the same. But fortunately, I had turned off the mixer instead of adding everything while the bowl spun around. I got a spoon and tried to save the cheesecake.

Eventually, I had to accept that I had removed all the garlic I could see. I had to either move on with the recipe or dump everything down the sink and start over. And starting over would have required going back to the grocery store. I would spend the rest of the recipe worrying about escaped garlic granules.

Garlic or not, it was time to add the eggs. The recipe says the yolks and whites should be "beaten separately," but I figured the yolks would be very well beaten by the time they got mixed in with everything else.

Also, since I didn't beat the yolks beforehand, we left nothing behind in the bowl! Even before eggs became a status symbol, I hated wasting them. These days, the thought of rinsing eggs away with the rest of the dirty dishes makes me sick.

No egg left behind!

At this point, we are directed to add a LOT of cream. Even in the days before homogenization, you couldn't just pour off the top milk to make this recipe. You had to go to the local grocery and purchase a half-pint for the express purpose. But if you were willing to put an entire pound of cream cheese into a single dessert, adding a whole bottle of cream probably wouldn't faze you as the clerk tallied the bill.

Our nearly-finished batter was yellower than I expected. Also, I kept tasting it to see if there was any garlic left. I couldn't decide if I was imagining garlic, or if a few ruinous granules had escaped. 

 

And now, we get to what really interested me in this recipe: fluffing it with whipped egg whites. Who the heck does this to a cheesecake? And how does it change the cake?

The recipe just tells us to use "a baking dish," and I would love to know what size Mrs. Mary Martensen had in mind. I put in as much batter as the skillet could take, leaving barely enough headspace to keep it from sloshing out while I carefully transferred it to the oven. In case you're wondering, the extra batter was like cheesecake-flavored whipped cream.

The directions say to bake this "an hour or more." I don't like running the oven for such long times now that the temperatures have warmed up. To eliminate guilt and get the most out of the oven heat, I deliberately planned a whole dinner that could be baked at 325°. But after I congratulated myself for economically loading up the oven, I realized that our supper was loaded with garlic that might infuse everything else in there. Who would have thought I would have such a hard time keeping garlic out of dessert?

 The cheesecake gradually puffed as it baked. By the time it was done, it looked like a big muffin.

 

I left the cheesecake on top of the stove to cool off. When I returned to the kitchen a bit later, I found--- horrors!--- that the cheesecake had cracked.

I'm not sure why people get so angsty about cracked cheesecakes. Unless you work at a restaurant and need picture-perfect slices for every paying customer, cracks don't hurt a thing. And if you're putting fruit filling on top, it seeps into the cracks and makes everything taste even better.

Cracks aside, I wasn't sure this would come out of the pan in one piece. Even though I had greased the pan before pouring in the batter, the cake clung to the sides. And it wanted to fall apart every time I looked at it. It is true that cheesecakes are always fragile while they're still hot. But even after this one came down to room temperature, it still seemed like it would rip apart if I disturbed it.

I decided to let that problem wait until the cheesecake had chilled for a night. Refrigerating a fully-loaded cast iron skillet felt wrong in a way I cannot describe. 

And so, after one long night of waiting, it was finally time to liberate the cheesecake! This is when all of this business with box cutters, old cardboard, and paper strips pays off. After cutting around the edge, the entire cheesecake lifted effortlessly out of the pan in two seconds. Sure, it left a lot behind in the pan that I had to scrape out. But if you can get a cake out of the pan in one piece, you have succeeded.

This cake was too big to put on a dinner plate, so I had to temporarily steal the glass platter from the microwave. As a serving note, baking the cheesecake on cardboard makes cutting easier. When the cheesecake tries to slide across the plate, you can put a finger against the cardboard instead of poking the dessert.

Just as I hoped, the graham cracker crust was no longer a dry crumbly mess after baking. Even if you tipped a slice on its side, almost nothing fell off. The crumbs were also a lot more compressed after baking. I guess spending over an hour in the oven under the weight of a cheesecake did more than I could have by patting it down.

Getting to the cheesecake itself: those whipped egg whites at the end really paid off. This thing is dangerously light and fluffy. You don't realize just how much you've eaten. And it tastes really, really, deliriously good. If the price of cream cheese holds steady, I'll have to remake this and see if letting it cool in the oven with the door slightly open prevents cracks. Not because I want another cheesecake, of course. I just need to thoroughly test the recipe.

I delivered a big hunk of it to my grandmother (naturally, in a container I didn't want back). A few days later I got a call saying it was "The best! Cheesecake! I have ever tasted!" I was also told "Don't ruin it with cherries on top!" Later, when I was on the phone with Mom, she said "They won't stop talking about that cheesecake! You're going to have to make another one!" 

It's nice to know that the cream cheese was a wise purchase.

Chocolate Bars: or, Making every recipe Mirro sent out

I didn't know I am a completionist.

Chocolate Bars ¾ cup shortening 1 cup sugar ¼ tsp salt 1 egg 2 tablespoons milk ½ teaspoon vanilla 2 ounces unsweetened chocolate, melted 2 cups sifted cake flour Heat oven to 375°. Have ungreased cookie sheets, a thin metal spatula, and a cooling rack ready. Cream the shortening, sugar, and salt. Add the egg, milk, and vanilla. Beat to mix. Then add the chocolate, and beat until whipped and very light. Then sift in the flour. Add enough to make a soft dough- you may not use all of it. The dough should not be crumbly. Put into a cookie press fitted with the bar tip. Pipe long strips of dough across the baking sheet. Then use a knife to cut lines every 2 or 3 inches, depending on how big you want the cookies to be. (Since you're not pressing the dough onto the pan, you can do this on ungreased parchment paper.) Bake 8-10 minutes (mine were done in six). Keep in a tightly sealed container if you want them to stay crisp. They will go soft otherwise. NOTE: If desired, you can substitute six tablespoons of cocoa powder for the chocolate. Increase the shortening by two tablespoons. You will draw a lot more flavor out of the cocoa powder if you melt all of the shortening in the recipe, getting it very hot. Then whisk in the cocoa powder, and allow it to cool until it re-solidifies. Source: Mirro cookie press instruction sheet (undated, but it looks like the mid-1940s)

Today we are trying the only cookie press stencil that I haven't gotten out yet, and also the last recipe on the Mirro cookie press instruction sheet.

Mirro cookie press instruction sheet

 

I melted the shortening and added the cocoa powder so it could "bloom." Honestly, I can't believe it took me so long to learn about blooming cocoa powder. It's such a simple step, but it brings out so much more chocolate flavor than simply stirring the cocoa powder in with everything else. 

I didn't intend to let the chocolate-flavored shortening sit out overnight, but we had a really big dinner and no one wanted cookies afterward. And so, like letting your fresh herbs marinate overnight in the salad dressing, the cocoa spent all night exuding all its goodness into the fat.

The next day, we plunged the beaters into the shortening and prepared to beat it soft. I don't usually cream the shortening by itself before adding the next ingredients, but it usually isn't molded to the bottom of the bowl.

Readers will note that these cookies contain no leavener besides the air that you beat into them. And so, before adding the flour, I turned the mixer to its highest speed and let it run until the batter was beautifully whipped and utterly delicious.

I loved how easy these would theoretically be to squirt out. As I understood it, you don't even need to press these out one at a time. You just extrude long strips of dough on the pan and then break them up into cookies. In theory, I might even fit an entire batch onto a single pan! (Or two pans if I wasn't halving the recipe.)

At first, I tried piping out long cookie strips and then cutting them and spreading them apart. My first attempt at pushing out ribbons of cookie dough were wobbly and sad. I couldn't decide if I didn't like using the cookie press this way, or if I would get better with a little practice.

For the next batch, I tried putting short strips as the dough came out of the pan, which I could then cut in half before baking. That went a little better. They look like a mess on a pan, but at least they're a successful mess.

At this point, I realized that the dough was too crumbly. You might think I would have figured this out when I first tried to extrude the dough, but I thought it was supposed to be like that. I still don't know the correct dough texture for spritz cookies. It doesn't matter that I've now made literally every recipe that came with the cookie press. Maybe I will figure that out eventually.

For another batch, I tried cutting the dough off of the gun as it came out. About half of them looked so bad that I dropped them back in the mixing bowl. The remaining ones still didn't look all that great.

For my last batch, I decided to simply squirt strips that were as long as the pan, and then score them without moving them apart. In theory, I could break them up after baking. I know you're usually supposed to separate your cookies before they enter the oven, but sometimes I like to live dangerously. I should have made these cookies the "wrong" way the first time. They broke apart exactly where I cut them. Even those crackers with pre-scored lines don't separate so easily.

These cookies were really good on the first day. They were incredibly light, crisp without being hard, and with a perfect chocolate flavor that rivals the some really good brownies. But if you plan to make these ahead, you really need to store them airtight. Over the next day or so, they softened so much that they practically reverted to raw dough.

Bangor Brownies: or, Chocolate therapy is timeless

I can't pass up a brownie recipe.

Bangor Brownies ¼ cup shortening 2 eggs 1 tsp vanilla ¼ cup chopped nuts ⅛ tsp salt 1 cup sugar 2 ounces unsweetened chocolate, melted ¼ cup milk 1 cup flour 1 tsp baking powder ¼ cup chopped nuts, if desired Heat oven to 350°. Cut a piece of paper to fit the bottom a 9" square pan. Then coat the pan with cooking spray. Press the paper into the bottom of it, eliminating as many bubbles underneath as possible. Spritz the top of the paper with cooking spray. Cream the shortening until softened. Add the sugar and eggs. Beat by hand for one minute, or with a mixer until fluffy. Add remaining ingredients all at once. Beat vigorously by hand for four minutes, or with an electric mixer until thoroughly mixed. Pour into the prepared pan and bake 30-35 minutes, or until the center barely springs back when lightly pressed with your fingertip. When cooled, top with chocolate fudge frosting, or with white icing flavored very generously with vanilla. Note: If desired, you can substitute 6 tablespoons of cocoa powder for the chocolate. Add an additional two tablespoons of shortening to the amount already used in the recipe. To really bring out the chocolate flavor, melt all of the shortening, getting it very hot. Then whisk in the cocoa. Let stand until it re-solidifies, then begin the recipe. Source: Mrs. Mary Martensen's Century of Progress Cook Book (recipes from The Chicago American), 1933, via The Internet Archive

When I first read this recipe, I thought it looked more like a cake than brownies. Perhaps it took a while for brownies to become the fudgy squares we know and inhale today.

Mrs. Mary Martensen's Century of Progress Cook Book (recipes from The Chicago American), 1933, via The Internet Archive

As I always do nowadays, I bloomed the cocoa powder. That is just a fancy way of saying I melted the shortening, got it really hot (as opposed to barely warm enough to go runny), stirred in the cocoa, and let it cool. It brings out so much more chocolate flavor than just stirring the powder in-- just like soaking dried herbs in oil overnight.

Bloomed cocoa aside, our well-creamed mixture was very sandy. It looked more like the beginning of a crumb pie crust than the first step of a recipe that begins with "Cream the shortening and add sugar."

 

I had misgivings about how dry this recipe was. Usually, the butter-shortening mixture looks like this before adding an egg, not after. But I figured that if I wanted to make something that comes out like everything I've made before, I wouldn't be using a different recipe.

The directions now say to "add the remaining ingredients and beat four minutes." I didn't know if we were supposed to dump everything in at once, or if we were supposed to alternately add the flour and the liquids (as one does with most cakes). On the one hand, the spice cake we made a while ago tells us to pile everything into the bowl and start stirring and it came out fine, as did Mrs. Wilson's one-egg cake. On the other hand, when we tried this on a normal cake recipe, it overflowed the pan and turned into a goopy mess. As a reminder:

Back to the brownies: I checked the other recipes on the same page to see how detailed their directions are. Did Mrs. Mary Martensen always write out every step, or did she tend to omit the obvious? After all, these were originally printed in the newspaper. Every column-inch was precious. 

Most of the other recipes in this book are pretty detailed, even if they're so terse that a single word can add ten minutes of prepwork. So I think Mrs. Mary Martensen literally meant to throw it all in a bowl and start stirring. After all, the Depression was on. Time is money, and people didn't have a lot of either one.

The resulting batter seemed halfway between a cake and brownies. It also tasted insanely good. As I held up the mixer and let the batter drip off the beaters, the chocolate ribbons made me swoon. I had a really hard time getting this into the oven instead of eating it all.

After leveling off the batter, I used the spoon to make a swirl on top. I didn't know whether the batter would flatten itself in the oven, but either way it would (hopefully) look pretty. Also, I know the cookbook calls these brownies, but this did not feel like brownie batter to me.

We are told to top these with fudge frosting, but I really like brownies with white icing. I think the contrast between the vanilla on top and the chocolate below is exquisite.

I'm not sure where the line is between cake and brownies, but this recipe is squatting right on it. Like any good devil's food cake, it has just enough chocolate flavor to almost have too much. Clearly, anyone making Mrs. Mary Martensen's brownies in 1933 would not have to add underwhelming chocolate to all the other miseries of an economic collapse. I wouldn't tell anyone that these are supposed to be brownies, but if someone called them brownies I wouldn't disagree. I would also definitely make these again.

Lemon Crisps: or, More fun with a cookie press!

For some reason, a couple of lemons mysteriously landed in the grocery cart.

Lemon Crisps 1 cup shortening ½ cup sugar ½ cup brown sugar 1 egg 1 teaspoon grated lemon rind 2½ cups sifted flour ¼ tsp salt ¼ tsp baking soda 2 tbsp lemon juice Heat oven to 400°. Have ungreased cookie sheets ready. In a large bowl, cream the shortening until very soft. Gradually add sugar and lemon juice, beating well. Add egg and grated lemon rind. Sift the flour, salt, and baking soda. Add to creamed mixture a little at a time. Put dough into a cookie press and form cookies on the ungreased cookie sheets. Bake until golden around the edges, about 10-12 minutes (mine were done in 7). Source: Mirro cookie press instruction sheet (undated, but it looks like the mid-1940s)

Today, we are making another recipe from the Mirro instruction sheet. As I've said (often), they may have made a lousy cookie press, but their recipes are fantastic.

One lemon did not yield enough rind for this recipe. Well, maybe one of those giant lemons would have, but oversized fruits are usually bland. Also, I am suspicious of unnaturally large fruits and vegetables. At any rate, we got half a recipe's worth of rind from one lemon, but we got two batches' worth of juice. So as a bonus, we were able to put the surplus (fresh-squeezed!) lemon juice on pasta salad a few days later. 

We do not skimp on lemons in this house.

After creaming everything together, the mixture was a lot paler than I expected. I wondered if I had somehow accidentally undermeasured the brown sugar. But then again, the recipes from this instruction sheet start out unnaturally white. So perhaps it was reverting to its true form.

And so, it was time to get the dough into our press! I decided to try out the five-pointed star stencil. They looked a lot more raggedy than the picture on the box. Since I didn't feel like reloading the dough and trying again, I left them on the pan to see how they baked. 

A lot of pressed-out cookie recipes hold onto their shape pretty well, but these spread out a bit. So in choosing what stencil shapes to use, pick one that will still look cute if it gets a little rounded out. I've said this before, but the stencil shaped like a big asterisk always comes out cute, even when your other cookies look like blobs. 

 

Once again, the Mirro people gave us an excellent cookie recipe. It's a real shame I can't make it using their own press, but I am very glad I nabbed the instruction sheet from some random Ebay seller's page. It makes me feel kinda bad for the people who resolutely made the plain spritz cookies every year for Christmas and never tried any of the other recipes that were right there on the same page.

The small hint of brown sugar gave extra depth to the lemon flavoring without overpowering it. And adding all of that lemon rind was definitely worth it. If you make these, definitely buy two lemons to grate into it. And just like the recipe title implies, they were very crisp. As with every other recipe I've made from the Mirro sheet, I would make these again.

Butterscotch Pie: or, Putting the "sweet" in sweets

You can learn about people from their recipes, including how much they spent on sugar.

Butterscotch Pie 1½ cups light brown sugar (or ¾ cup each white and dark brown sugar) 1½ cups water 3 tablespoons flour 3 tablespoons cornstarch 2 tablespoons white sugar 2 egg yolks (save the whites for the meringue) ⅛ tsp salt 1 tsp vanilla 1 baked pie shell*        Meringue: 2 egg whites ¼ cup sugar ¼ tsp cream of tartar In a small saucepan, bring the brown sugar and water to a boil, stirring occasionally. Meanwhile, sift the flour, cornstarch, and white sugar into a medium saucepan. Have the egg yolks ready in a medium or large heatproof mixing bowl. When the sugar boils, pour it slowly over the sifted ingredients, whisking hard as you go. Beat for another minute or so to eliminate any lumps. Then cook over medium heat until it thickens, stirring constantly. When the sugar mixture is thick, start whisking the egg yolks very hard. Continue whisking while you slowly pour in about one-third to half of the pie filling. Pour it back into the saucepan and cook 1 minute longer, stirring constantly. Remove from heat and stir in the butter. When the butter is completely melted and mixed in, add the vanilla. Allow to cool completely. When ready to bake, heat oven to 325°. Pour the pie filling into the crust and bake until it jiggles but does not slosh, about 40-50 minutes. Then remove from the oven and set aside while making the meringue. Meringue: Beat the egg whites until frothy. Then add the cream of tartar and beat until stiff. (Ideally, the egg whites will form peaks almost but don't quite hold a stiff point.) Then sprinkle in the sugar a little at a time. Each time you add a little sugar, keep beating until it dissolves before adding a little more. Spread this onto the pie (no need to let the pie cool) and return it to the oven. Bake until it is browned, about 10 minutes. *If you are making your own pie shell, bake it until it is crisp, but don't let it darken. Source: Handwritten manuscript (1930s or 1940s)

Today, we are once again cracking open my great-grandmother's binder, which has a lot of desserts in it. None of them are of the "mildly sweet" type. As we have learned, these people REALLY liked sugar. Also, I shared this recipe with a friend who said "MORE butterscotch???"

On a side note, I love how her handwriting on this page starts out prim and perfect, and gets more scrawly as she realizes she's running out of space.

Also, I love how she apparently cut a pie recipe out of an actual book (and not just some pamphlet) and discarded the rest of it.

Even though I never met my great-grandmother, she intimidates me with her ruler-straight margins. She wrote this recipe is as rectangular as a printed newspaper column. I showed the page to a friend of mine, and he flinched in terror. It's nice to know that my forebears can scare people from beyond the grave.

I printed the recipe out so I didn't need to worry about getting splats on fragile ancient irreplaceable paper. And so, with her original directions propped up next to the stove, it  was time pour out a lot of sugar and make a pie. 

I've made a few custard pies like this that never seem to set. But this recipe has eggs, flour, and cornstarch in it. If it stays gloppy, it's because the universe itself took my pie away from me.

I didn't see the point of sifting our dry ingredients, but  my grandmother's cursive intimidated me into it. I dared not disobey someone whose handwriting can make people flinch at seven paces. Besides, I have a dishwasher at hand for all the little bowls that were already piling up.

I know it looks like I just dropped a mound of powder onto the counter, but it's in a clear glass bowl.

As we set the first saucepan onto the stove, it looked like we were making the icing for Louise Bennett Weaver's spice cake.

While we waited for the sugar to boil, I thought about how I would finish the recipe. I had originally planned to pour the boiling syrup into the bowl where the "white ingredients" waited. Then, after returning everything to the pot, I would put our egg yolks into the same bowl to wait for tempering. Then I realized I could just put the "white ingredients" in a second saucepan and transfer everything over. (If you're confused, so was I until I reread the original recipe like five times.)

In order to prevent hardened flour curds, I furiously whisked everything while I poured in the syrup. The resulting suds on top made it impossible for me to see if I had any escapee flour lumps.

I should have felt bad about thrashing a whisk in a nonstick pot, but this one is flimsy and cheap. It already has a few spots where the teflon has scratched away, revealing not metal but rust. The sooner this pot is truly ruined, the sooner I can repurpose it as a novelty planter.

Moving on with the recipe, we are directed to "add slightly beaten egg. Cook one minute longer." I'm assuming she didn't write about tempering the egg yolks because this was a personal notebook and not a copy meant for other people. Or perhaps tempering eggs was just as obvious then as discarding eggshells is now. 

 

After giving the filling precisely one more minute on the stove, it was amazingly creamy and ready to receive a lot of butter. When it came to the vanilla, I decided to follow my heart (and the advice of a lot of people who commented about the velvet cookies): use a lot more than one teaspoon. I then tasted the filling and stopped worrying about whether the pie would set. Even if it failed in the oven, it would be amazing on pancakes. It's nice to know that even if a recipe fails, it won't go to waste.

It was time to let the it cool off completely. I took the opportunity to take a lovely long walk in a futile attempt to counteract all the pie I would be eating. It was a lovely evening. 

I had expected the pie filling to be firm when I got back to the house, but it was just as sloshy as when I took it off the stove. As I let the spoon sink into the goop, I worried that I had somehow already ruined the pie. Then I reminded myself that this adventure would either end in butterscotch pie or butterscotch pancakes, but either way the pie filling wasn't going down the drain. 

I had thought I would smear the meringue on top and then brown it. But when I read the directions, it says to "bake in cooked pie shell" and THEN put the meringue on top. This is why it's nice to finally have a working printer in the house! It prevents skipping over important steps when copying directions.

In the absence of any cooking time or doneness test, I decided to let the pie bake until it didn't slosh anymore. Given all the flour and cornstarch in this pie, you'd think it would have turned into butterscotch clay in like two minutes. However, it spent a long time in the oven, during which time the crust slowly burned and the pie stayed as gloppy as ever. The amazing smells took over the kitchen like they were teasing me for my impending failure. Eventually, the pie stopped wobbling and also developed a sort of crispy-looking top layer.

As I pulled the pie out of the oven, I deeply regretted making it with others in the house. I couldn't secretly fling it into the trash it was as bad as I suspected. After baking it for so long, I had no idea if I had little bitty curds of scrambled egg floating in it, if it was burnt from top to bottom, or if it was otherwise bad.

Since the pie was finally baked, it was time to put something white and fluffy on top. I have no idea what the baking powder is doing in the meringue, but she wrote it down and I can't argue without a ouija board. Does baking powder make a difference in meringues? Or does it just fizzle away with nothing to raise?

I also don't know why we're supposed to fold in the sugar. Usually you gradually add it while you're still beating. Does that method only work with electric mixers (or at least a handcranked eggbeater)? But again, that's what she wrote down, so there must be a purpose. I folded in the sugar as carefully as possible, but it took the stiffness out of the meringue. It later occurred to me that I should have used powdered sugar, but by then I was already wiping the countertops.

The meringue puffed up really nicely in the oven. I didn't know if it would deflate as it cooled, but it looked really cute. Let the record show that at least for a brief moment, it was really puffy.

The next day, the meringue was flatter than when I spooned it onto the pie, and showed every grain of sugar that I had folded into it.

I almost couldn't believe it when I cut into this pie, but it was an actual pie and not a gloopy mess. You could lift out slices and everything.

Sure, it was a little bit soft, but it didn't flop, drip, or ooze. Besides, did I really want yet another sharp-cornered pie? Everything in life is a balance-- including pies. We don't want them to drip everywhere, but sometimes our pies can be a little too well-set. Lest we forget:

Getting back to today's recipe: this pie was really good, but it is also really sweet. I mean, it's basically a pie crust full of syrup. I'd like to pretend that this means that just one sliver of pie will do, but it has an addictively good taste and a perfect butterscotch flavor. We didn't have a chance to find out what kind of shelf life it has. If I were to remake this (and I probably will), I would probably make little mini-pies instead of one big one. This seems like it'd be better that way.