Italian Honey Tarts: They contain no honey and may not be Italian

I have no idea what makes this "Italian."

Italian Tarts with Italian Honey        Pastry: 8 oz (2 cups) flour 1 tsp salt (if butter is unsalted) 5 oz (10 tbsp) butter 1 tsp sugar ⅛ tsp lemon extract (or juice of 1 lemon) 1 egg yolk 2 tbsp ice-cold water (have at least half a cup on hand)        Italian Honey: 3 eggs 4 oz (½ cup) sugar 1 pinch (⅛ tsp) cream of tartar 2 oz (4 tbsp) butter 1 tsp salt (if butter is unsalted) 1 to 3 tsp lemon extract (depending on your taste) Have a 12-cup muffin pan ready. (Or use tartlet pans if you have them.) You probably don't need to coat it with cooking spray, but I did so I could be very sure nothing would get stuck. Sift flour and salt (if using) into a large bowl. Rub in the butter. Beat together the sugar, lemon extract (or lemon juice), egg yolk, and 2 tablespoons of water. Work this into the flour mixture. Mix until it forms a stiff dough, adding more water if it's too crumbly. Place in a sealed container (a ziploc bag will do) and let rest for at least 30 minutes in the refrigerator. Divide the dough into two portions. Roll half of it out. Cut it into small circles, then line the muffin cups with them. When rerolling the dough scraps, stack them on each other rather than smushing them into a ball-- this keeps the dough from getting tough. When you run out of dough, repeat with the other half of it. (If you have a large space to work with, you can roll all the dough out instead of dividing it in two. But you will have a very large and perhaps unwieldy sheet of it.) Refrigerate the tart shells for at least 30 minutes. (If you wrap the pan well, you can leave them in the fridge overnight or for a couple of days if desired). When ready to bake, make the Italian Honey: In the top of a double boiler (or a mixing bowl that can handle sitting over a pot of boiling water), whisk the eggs, sugar, and cream of tartar until thoroughly mixed. Add the butter and place over simmering water (simmering, not boiling hard), stirring constantly until the butter is melted and the mixture is about as thick as cake batter. Remove from heat and allow to cool. Heat oven to 350° (gas mark 4, 180°C). Bake the pastry shells until they are slightly golden. Then spoon in the filling almost to the top of each tart shell, being careful none of it spills down the sides. If you want to be very sure your tarts won't stick, let the empty pastry shells cool until they won't fall apart when you handle them. (You don't need to wait for them to get all the way to room temperature.) Then lift each one out, put it into a paper cupcake liner, and return it to the muffin pan. Then add the filling. Bake until the tarts puff up and are firm when you shake the pan. "In the Kitchen," The Southern Districts Advocate; Katanning, Western Australia; 8 July 1935; page 3

I saw the recipe for "Italian Tarts" and it looked like an empty pie crust. Then I noticed the recipe below is "Italian Honey." Apparently the staff at The Southern Districts Advocate assumed that readers would know that the Italian honey goes in the Italian tarts.

The Southern Districts Advocate; Katanning, Western Australia; 8 July 1935

I would love to know what makes this "Italian honey." Is this derived from an Italian honey substitute? I looked up "Italian honey" to see if people still make anything resembling this recipe (in Australia or anywhere else). But I only found people selling honey from Italy. I didn't even see anyone describing it as an "old, forgotten dish" like bloater paste.

Whatever "Italian honey" is, it starts off with eggs and a lot of butter. I almost thought it was a custard, but it seems closer to our chess pie.

I was going to put this directly on the stove burner because I rarely bother with double boilers these days. But then I realized this would turn into scrambled eggs given the slightest mistake. So I perched our bowl over a pot of water (simmering, not boiling!) as the recipe says.

The recipe says to cook "till thick," but I didn't know what that meant. Should our Italian honey be runny enough to pour? Should it be firm enough to hold a shape? I cooked it until you could swipe a finger across a coated spoon and leave a line, which brings us about into cake batter territory. Our honey would have made a very nice sauce, but I didn't see how this could ever be used in tarts. It would spill as soon as you lifted one off the plate.

I was going to dye it purple, but I added a few tasteful drops of yellow instead.

Upon tasting, our Italian honey reminded me again of chess pie (which as we said, is very similar in ingredients). I did not regret setting up a double boiler.

I was going to use our Italian honey as a sort of custard sauce in the trifle we saw recently. But then I realized I would never forgive myself for half-finishing a recipe. We therefore would complete our Italian tarts.

Unfortunately, we didn't have enough butter for the pastry, so I had to substitute half shortening. I've seen a lot of people swear that shortening makes the best pie crusts, that it handles ever-so-well, and that it is by far superior to every other option (as long as you don't care how the pie crust tastes). But every time I've tried to use shortening, my crusts have come out crumbly and hard to work with. They always crack no matter how gently I "ease" them into place.

By contrast, I can drape a butter crust into place almost as easily as laying out a dishrag. And butter is supposed to be harder to work with. As a visual reminder:

This is all butter, no shortening.

Let's compare that to just about every shortening crust I've ever made:

Getting back to the recipe, I'm not sure what the egg yolk is supposed to do in the pastry. I looked it up online and only found a lot of AI slop. A few actual humans made vague claims that the pie will be "richer." 

These were very irksome to get into place because of the shortening. They kept wanting to crack and crumble. But on the bright side, we learned that our largest pastry cutter (viz. an extra-large peach can with both ends cut off) from when we made freestanding lemon tarts is the perfect size for making pie shells in a muffin pan. I used to have to make lots of little pastry balls and roll them out one by one.

I filled two tarts before I realized that I was only inviting failure. I had forgotten to pop the little shells out of the pan and into into paper liners. That meant that if even the tiniest drop of Italian honey dripped out of place, it would glue our tarts to the pan. And once tarts get stuck, you can only get them out in pieces.

I had no idea how long to bake our Italian tarts, so I took them out of the oven after they stopped wobbling when I shook the pan. I didn't know what to think when they puffed up, though. Had I made some unholy sugar-laden bastardization of that "cloud bread" that made the rounds when keto was the big diet trend? (In case you missed it, "cloud bread" was basically an aerated version of those weird scrambled-egg sheets they use on Egg McMuffins.)

Our tarts deflated back into normal as they cooled. Nevertheless, I wasn't reassured until I cut one open and found that we did not have tart-sized pucks of scrambled egg.Instead, we had dessert.

The special Italian pie crust tasted very ordinary. If you're making your own pie dough, a few drops of lemon extract won't go amiss. But if you want to simply buy frozen tart shells, you won't miss it.

These have the same texture as Harris Teeter's lemon squares without the heavy payload of sugar. They're perfect for when you want something sweet but not too sweet. I'm still not sure why they're called Italian honey, but I did like them enough to make them again.

Orange Pound Cake: or, Unexpectedly doing it the very old way

Today, we're letting Australia show us how to make a cake!

Orange Cake Weigh on a kitchen scale: 3 eggs Then take the same weight of: Butter Sugar Flour You will also need: Juice of 1 orange (Grate the rind off the orange if desired-- it does add a nice flavor.) 1 tsp salt (if butter is unsalted) Heat oven to 350°. Grease an 8-inch round cake pan. If you want extra insurance, cut a circle of parchment paper to fit the bottom of the pan before spraying it. Then, after spraying the pan, press the paper into place. This cake would be even better in mini-loaf pans if you have three or four of them. Beat the butter and sugar (and salt if using) until very light and fluffy. Then beat the eggs on high speed until they are whipped to a creamy-colored foam. You can use the same beaters for the butter and then the eggs-- you don't even need to rinse them. Gradually stir the eggs into the butter. Then stir in the orange juice. Lastly, mix in the flour as gently as possible. Pour and spread it into the pan, and bake until the center springs back when you lightly press it with your fingertip, about 20-30 minutes.  Note: To make a chocolate cake, omit the orange juice and stir in two tablespoons of cocoa powder. Or, to get more chocolate flavor out of the cocoa, melt the butter and get it very hot. Stir in the cocoa and let it stand until the butter cools to room temperature and re-solidifies. Note 2: If you're worried that the cake won't rise, you can either use self-raising flour or mix one teaspoon of baking powder into all-purpose flour. "In the Kitchen," The Southern Districts Advocate; Katanning, Western Australia; July 8, 1935; page 3

I've had a good time flipping through the recipes from The Southern Districts Advocate. They're very ordinary-looking instead of aspirational, so it's interesting peep into the kitchens over there and back then. A lot of recipes in other newspapers come off like people telling you how you should cook instead of printing the sort of things people would actually make. Also, Australia's newspapers are free to browse. Even my local library can't afford a Newspapers.com subscription.

The Southern Districts Advocate; Katanning, Western Australia; July 8, 1935

So, this is basically a pound cake made the really old-fashioned way. This was already old-fashioned when it went to print in 1935.

First, you take one pound each of eggs, sugar, butter, and flour. Just like in the pre-industrial days, you use the eggs you had on hand instead of standard-size scale weights. Then before mixing everything, you thoroughly whip the eggs to leaven the cake. At the very end of the recipe, you add the flour and try not to deflate the air you've beaten into everything else.

I thought that perhaps the writers meant for us to add baking powder to the flour. Perhaps it would have been obvious to anyone clipping this recipe out of the newspaper in 1935. But from what I can tell, the people in charge of "In the Kitchen" were very careful to specify self-raising flour whenever the need arose. So I think this cake is raised the same way we measure it: the old old old way. That is to say, we beat a lot of air into it and appreciate that we now have electric mixers. Remember Miss Leslie's jelly cake? 

 

I've made a lot of recipes that involved two mixers, but this is the first time I've ever used two mixers simultaneously. In one power socket, our handmixer was beating the butter and sugar "to a cream." Meanwhile in the stand mixer, the eggs were revolving in the bowl until they had become a tawny whipped cream.  

The instructions simply tell us to "add eggs well beaten." I soon suspected that I missed some implied steps because our batter turned into a curdled mess. 

Rarely does anything good come from batter that looks like this.

As I saw my cake heading toward failure, I considered adding some baking powder as insurance. Then, I thought I might divide the batter in half and make one cake with baking powder and the other as The Southern Districts Advocate apparently intended. This would let me try the recipe as written and also have a backup cake. But as I was weighing out my ingredients, I decided the heck with it! I will bet an entire batch of cake batter on this recipe! 

Our batter looked promisingly whipped and fluffed after getting the flour in there. I began to think that we would actually have a genuine cake on our hands. Perhaps I got some cosmic insurance by waiting to take out the trash. The spirits may have decided not to ruin the cake since I was already prepared to throw out the evidence.

This cake smelled amazing as it baked. I know it contains the same ingredients as practically every other cake in existence, but somehow the kitchen smelled so much better. And afterward, it actually looked bubbly on top, as if it had risen into something better than a pan of stodge.

As we found upon slicing, this rose into a very nice (if somewhat dense) pound cake. Really, I should have made this in mini-loaf pans instead of a round one. You can add a teaspoon or two of baking powder if you're worried, but the cake didn't seem to need it.

Full disclosure: the cake is such a rich yellow because I added food coloring.

The flavor did need a little extra pep, though. I should have grated the orange rind into it (and maybe added a few spices). I was thrilled with my success but not excited about eating it. Since I hate waste, I stacked most of it into a trifle. This cake has that perfect firm texture to support lots of whipped cream and custard.

I don't mean that the whipped cream and everything hid an underwhelming cake. I mean that everything complemented each other perfectly. I really liked what we had at the end of stacking it. If you really like a good trifle (or refrigerator cake, as I've seen them called), this is the perfect recipe for it. 

 

Depression Cake: or, Lamenting a badly butchered cow

I hope this isn't the cake for our times.

Depression Cake 1 cup shortening (or butter, or drippings) 1 cup sugar, white or brown (I use brown) 2 cups raisins* 1 cup water Pumpkin spice seasoning to taste ½ tsp ginger 1 tsp salt Grated rind of 1 orange or lemon, if desired† 1 tsp baking soda 2 tbsp water 2½ cups flour Melt the shortening in a saucepan. Add the brown sugar, raisins, water, spices, salt, and citrus rind. Bring to a boil and cook, stirring constantly, for 5 minutes. Remove from heat, put a lid on it, and let it cool all the way to room temperature. (You don't necessarily need a lid, but it does keep out any tiny flying creatures while the pot sits out all day.) It's very important to cool it completely-- otherwise, the flour will turn into a gummy mess when you mix it in. While you're waiting, prepare a loaf pan. Cut three pieces of parchment paper the size of the bottom of the pan. (Or cut one big piece and fold it into thirds.) Coat the pan with cooking spray, then press each paper into place. When the mixture in the saucepan is completely cooled, heat oven to 350°. Stir the saucepan to mix the everything that has separated. Dissolve the baking soda in 2 tablespoons water, then stir it in. Then mix in the flour. Pour and spread into the pan. Bake for 1½-2 hours, or until a toothpick, knife, or skewer inserted in the center comes out clean. Note: If halving the recipe, it will fit very nicely in an 8-inch round pan. *The original recipe uses 1 cup each golden raisins and currants. We can't get currants here in the US, and we already had dark raisins in the house. Don't special-order ingredients for a recipe that's supposed to save your budget. †The original recipe called for candied peel, but you can't really get that here outside of fruitcake season. And even then, it tends to be cheap and taste like candied wax. "In the Kitchen," The Southern Districts Advocate; Katanning, Western Australia; 12 June 1933; page 1

Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't casually make a cake with beef fat. But...

My parents recently split a cow with another one of my relatives. Yes, a whole cow. They co-purchased the animal on the hoof, and it was raised on my uncle's pasture. (At least I think it was my uncle's pasture.) When it was big enough, it went away in the back of a trailer and came back on dry ice.

They were very generous with the resulting meat, sending me off with a lot of ground beef. (Everyone in my family knows I don't like steaks.) And it was the best-tasting beef I've had in a long time. If you've never splurged on pasture-raised beef, I highly recommend it if your budget allows and if you eat beef. You'll be amazed at how much, well, beefier it tastes.

Unfortunately, the people at the processing plant got a lot of bone shards in the meat. I cracked a tooth on a meatball-mushroom pie and had to make a surprise dental appointment. I later found out that I'm not the only one who's gotten horrible calcium supplements in the hamburger. However, I am the first to have a dental emergency from one. After I got into the dentist's chair and signed the paper on the clipboard, the booby-trapped meat cost approximately one quarter of a live cow.

Let's set aside the expense for a moment, as hard as that may be. I know people often say this sort of thing while waving vegetarian tracts, but an animal literally died for that meat. Then a processing plant wasted its life with shitty knifework. If we're going to kill animals and eat them, the least we can do is respect their lives enough to do it right.

 

With all that said, I wanted to get what I could out of the meat. First, I cooked it to save the juice that comes out (it's great for soups and gravies). I felt both better and worse about feeding beef to the garbage can as I found more bone shards while stirring the pot. Who wants to book two emergency dental appointments in one week?

Next, I simmered the meat for an hour or three-- or really, until the smell of wasted beef galled me enough to turn off the stove. Only then did I finally send it where I swore no groceries would go.

I will never find words for how much this infuriated me.

After getting out a strainer, we had a very flavorful stock (if only we could have kept the meat too!) that wobbled gelatinously in the pot.

I couldn't resist trying to unmold it. Our beef runoff came out of its pot far better than any gelatin I've ever tried to serve freestanding.

I had a horrible urge to suspend canned peas in this thing.

A lot of fat rendered off as we were cooking the beef. Which brings us, at last, to today's recipe.

The Southern Districts Advocate; Katanning, Western Australia; 12 June 1933

I loved that the newspaper openly called it a "Depression Cake" in the middle of the actual Depression. It's so much nicer than pretending that people were making a low-cost cake because that's where the winds of inspiration happened to blow them.

Before I could make it, I had to find out what the heck "half a packet of mixed spice" might be. What spices are in it, and how big is a packet (or half of one)? At first I was going to see what they have in Australian supermarkets. Then I realized that packaging might have changed since the 1930s.

Selecting a major Australian city at random, I emailed the public library in Melbourne asking what half a packet of mixed spice would have been in the 1930s. When I didn't hear back for a few weeks, I figured they thought I was messing with the librarians and deleted my message. I picked another city and tried again, contacting the library in Perth. In just a few hours, someone replied:

After a bit of digging, it looks like the spice mix will likely have been a mix of cinnamon, nutmeg, cloves, and allspice. The spice tins of the time were between 1 ounce and 1.25 ounces, depending on the spice. Averaging this and halving it equates to around 15-20 grams of the mixed spices, which roughly matches up with modern depression cake recipes (they tend to be around 20 grams of spices). I hope it turns out well!

I note that he said that the spices are about the same in "modern depression cake recipes." Do people still make them semi-often in Australia?

A little over a month later, I got a very long email from the library of Melbourne that started with:

Thank you for your patience while I researched this query. It was far more challenging than I anticipated but the answer is hilariously simple: Half a packet of mixed spice in 1933 is roughly equivalent to half a packet of mixed spice now. That is, around 12 grams.

There followed multiple citations of similar eggless cake recipes and extant antique spice packaging. They also linked to a Wikipedia article for mixed spice while tacitly not mentioning that the answer was on Wikipedia the whole time. (Apparently "Hoyts" is a very common brand.) The beautifully detailed message concluded with a cheery "I hope this information is of use, I realise there is a lot! Do get in touch and let me know if you make the cake, it sounds delicious!"

Before I got this message, I hadn't really decided whether to make the recipe. It looked a lot like a war cake when I read it, and we've made that many, many times. But I simply could not drop the recipe after someone did so much research for me. So I decided we would make a depression cake, if for nothing else so I could send a worthy answer.

Comparing today's depression cake to the war cake we know and make often, the newspaper's recipe uses a lot more shortening than the two spoons that make a war. Isn't it fortunate that I have all this beef fat lying around?

On a side note, I hate that beef fat has turned into a political cause for a certain subset of conservatives. They're making me look weird by association. I'm not pretending that beef fat is a superfood, and I'm not pretending that "they" don't want you to have it (whoever "they" might be). I just didn't want to throw away food at today's prices. 

Anyway, back to the cake. You could really see the beefy difference after the boiled mixture had cooled back down. Usually when we make a war cake, we don't have a whole pot roast's worth of congealed fat on top.

Looks like last night's pot roast, doesn't it?

I told myself this is about as much fat as we usually put into a cake recipe (though usually it's butter), but it couldn't prop up my shaking faith in The Southern Districts Advocate. 

Things looked better after we stirred everything together. The raisin syrup was thick enough (if barely so) to keep the fat from floating back to the top.

Raisin-beef compote, anyone?

After adding the flour, the batter looked like it would never change any raisin-hater's mind. 

The recipe tells us to put three sheets of paper in the pan. At first I thought that was excessive, but this bakes for a long time. Perhaps the extra paper saves the bottom of the cake from blackening before the center is done.

As I slid our cake into the oven, I had horrible visions of beef fat melting and separating out. After all, we don't have any eggs in there to force the fat and water to mix. I couldn't stop thinking about the one time I forgot to crack an egg into brownie mix and got a pan of hot brown clods in boiling fat. (Side note: I'm pretty sure brownie mix used to taste better. I may have nostalgia bias, but I remember actually liking it.)

Potential fat separation aside, I thought the 2-hour baking time was excessive. But I inserted a skewer at 20 minutes and the batter hadn't even started to firm up.

By the time it was cooked through to the center, the raisins had puffed up on top and the cake looked thoroughly dead.

Well they did say it's a dark cake.

It was a pretty decent gingerbread when you cut into it. Granted, the raisins were a bit overcooked by the time the rest of the cake was done, but I wasn't mad. (Maybe the cake was ready a while before I checked it.)

This wasn't a cake so much as really dense cookie-bars. It would seem out of place on a cake stand, but it'd be great to find a slice in one's lunch box (or lunch pail since this was the 1930s). Also, the Southern Districts Advocate was not kidding when they called this a rich cake. A small piece sates you.

Now, the recipe does say it the cake "will keep for weeks in an air-tight tin." I don't have any cake tins lying around (otherwise I'd have to ask people to give them back whenever I give away cakes), but I did encase it in several layers of plastic wrap. It was still pretty good about a week later.

Harris Teeter Brownies

You know this recipe comes from the south because it starts with two sticks of butter.

Brownies 1 cup (2 sticks) butter ½ cup cocoa powder 2 cups sugar 4 eggs 2 tsp vanilla 1⅓ cups flour ½ tsp salt (omit if butter is salted) ½ tsp baking powder 1 cup nuts, if desired Preheat oven to 400°F. Grease a 9"x13" pan. If you really want to guarantee these won't stick, cut a piece of parchment paper to fit the bottom of the pan before greasing it. Grease the pan, then press the paper into place, getting rid of as many air bubbles as possible. Then spritz the top of the paper with cooking spray. Melt the butter, getting it very hot. Stir in the cocoa powder, and let sit until it re-solidifies but is still very soft.* (Or just let sit for five minutes or so to draw out the chocolate flavor. These brownies didn't seem to mind if it's still melted.) Thoroughly beat in in the sugar. Beat in each egg one at a time. Add the vanilla with one of the eggs. Then mix in the flour, baking powder, and salt. If desired, mix in the nuts. Pour and spread into the pan. Bake at 400°F for 25-30 minutes, or until a toothpick in the center comes out with no hot batter on it. (It doesn't have to be perfectly clean and dry-- you just don't want any hot runny stuff on it.) *Steeping the cocoa in something hot is called blooming it. You don't have to do this, but it brings out so much more chocolate flavor than simply stirring the cocoa powder into the bowl. Source: Harris Teeter flour bag

I cannot justify my love of Harris Teeter. It's just an ordinary grocery store in a region I don't live in. But dang it, the name sounds so adorable. I had to try the brownies on the side of their flour bag.

Our friends at Harris Teeter don't mention this, but I bloomed the cocoa powder. This is merely a fancy way of saying I let it sit in hot melted butter for a while. It makes such a big difference in flavor. These days, I always make a recipe detour to bloom the cocoa.

Blooming aside, the recipe tops our butter with a respectable mountain of sugar.

Gaze upon the sugar and keep in mind I halved the recipe. 

I wrote out the recipe instead of printing it, thus giving myself an exciting opportunity to miscopy the directions. This time, I melted the butter instead of softening it. (Perhaps I can say I very thoroughly softened the butter?) Anyway, we didn't manage to beat anything "until smooth." However, we did achieve "uniformly gritty." I told myself that back-of-the-label recipes tend to be designed to forgive a lot of at-home errors. So today, we're inadvertently testing the durability of this recipe.

I tasted the batter (as one always does), and... well... if brownie batter doesn't make you fall back on the kitchen wall and grip the wooden spoon with both hands, the recipe is insufficient.

These reminded me a lot of Betty Feezor's brownies, but just a tiny bit better. They were a bit more buttery (well, Harris Teeter did put "butter flavored" in the recipe title), fudgy, and had a thin crispy top layer that was just perfect. I couldn't help cross-checking the ingredient lists for the two, and they're almost but not quite the same.I hate to say less-than-nice things about Betty Feezor, but Harris Teeter might move into the recipe box next to her card.

Since these were so similar to Betty Feezor's recipe, I tried turning these into peanut butter brownies just like I do with hers. This simply means you replace half the butter with peanut butter and omit the chocolate.

These tasted nice enough, but they came out like a dense, slightly dry cake. The first one didn't make me want to keep the rest. But I can't snipe at Harris Teeter for a recipe that isn't good after ignoring the ingredient list. But for the record, Betty Feezor makes better peanut butter brownies.

Getting back to the recipe as Harris Teeter intended, these aren't super-ultra rich and chocolatey. They taste more like a sweet chocolate toffee. But I left the pan on the countertop and found it half-empty a few hours later. You can't argue with empty pans.

As a final note, I made these again for obvious reasons, and also to see if softening the butter like the directions say makes a difference instead of melting it. Does this batter look different to you?

After baking, I really couldn't tell the difference between the batches. Accidentally melted butter can drastically change things like cookies and airy cakes, but these brownies didn't seem to care. So if you forget to soften your butter, just melt it and you'll be fine. 

 

Fish Pie: or, Never underestimate potatoes and cheese

Anyone care for fish?

Fish Pie 3 tbsp. minced or dried parsley 1½ cups white sauce (from your recipe or mix of choice, or see below) 3 cups mashed potatoes 2 cups cooked, flaked fish 1 to 1½ cups grated cheese (I used Gouda) Heat oven to 425°. Mix the parsley into the white sauce, set aside. Chop or break the fish into small pieces. Grease a 9" square baking dish and line it with mashed potatoes. Make the potatoes come up about half an inch above the edge of the pan if you have enough to do it easily. Sprinkle half of the fish into the potatoes. Pour half the white sauce over the fish. Then sprinkle with half of the cheese. Repeat the layers with the remaining ingredients: fish, then sauce, then cheese on top. Bake for twenty minutes or until the cheese is browned. Leftover fish of all kinds can be used in this recipe. Source: Mrs. Mary Martensen's Century of Progress Cook Book (recipes from The Chicago American), 1933, via The Internet Archive

Standard White Sauce 4½ tsp butter (aka 1½ tbsp) 4½ tsp flour 1½ cups milk ½ tsp salt Scald the milk and set aside. (This is easiest if you put it in a microwave-safe measuring cup, pop it in the microwave, and then let it cook until it just starts to bubble.) Melt butter in a saucepan or small skillet. Add flour, salt, and pepper; mix well. Add the milk one small splash at a time, beating very hard with each addition. The butter and flour will "seize  up" the first few times; beat out any lumps. After all the milk is added, bring to the boil, reduce heat, and simmer two minutes. Mrs. Mary Martensen's Century of Progress Cook Book again!

I really like pre-breaded frozen fish fillets when no one is around to whine about the smell. They're like fish sticks (or, as I hear they delightfully call them in the UK, fish fingers) but with slightly more dignity.

Pre-breaded fillets also mean I don't have to try to competently cook fish. Fish is the least forgiving of all meats. Dry chicken is passable even if no one likes it, miscooked beef is a still-edible disappointment, but badly cooked fish cannot be salvaged or choked down. But anyone can put frozen chunks of pre-breaded fish on an oven rack and set a timer.

I could have baked the fillets one dinner at a time, but I decided to cook the entire package (it was a small one) and make a fish pie the next day. 

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

I love how basic this recipe is, right down to the last sentence: "Left-over fish of all kinds can be used in this recipe." Mrs. Mary Martensen's recipes have such a realistic aspect to them. She and her staff knew that no one had the time for carving radish roses or the money to throw out last night's dinner with a depression on.  

Mrs. Mary Martensen's Century of Progress Cook Book

Because this recipe is clearly meant to economize, I figured Mrs. Mary Martensen wouldn't mind if I used dried parsley instead of paying for fresh. Besides, this cookbook came out during the Depression. Few people had the means to side-eye economization, even if it made our white sauce look like I was making the brownies of sin.

We're told to line a pan with mashed potatoes, "allowing the potatoes to come about one-half inch above the dish on the sides." I imagine this is so that you get a lot of crispy potatoes on the rim of the pie. Since I halved the recipe, I would have needed to get the potatoes about as thin as a pie crust. And I think we can all agree that trying to use a rolling pin on mashed potatoes is not worth the unrepeatable language that would ensue.

And now, as Mrs. Mary Martensen promised, here is the leftover fish!

This recipe both was and wasn't quick to make. On one hand, it is just a creative assembly of fish, potatoes, and white sauce (with some cheese to make it all better, of course). On the other hand, mashed potatoes and white sauce both put a lot of dirty dishes in the sink.

I'm not surprised this was good. I'm pretty sure you can put almost any protein in this and it would be delicious. (Imagine it with mushrooms...) The parsley sauce did wonders for the fish underneath it. I don't mean the parsley hid the fishy taste-- instead, it somehow made it work with everything else.

In full disclosure, we didn't always get nice slices of this pie. Some portions came out looking like messy glop.

Now, fish is somewhat infamous for befouling microwaves. This pie didn't make the kitchen air unbearable, but it did smell just as strong in the microwave as when it was in the oven. So I wouldn't reheat this in a breakroom (or any other shared microwave), but it's fine to reheat at home.

In closing, this is a lot better than I expected it to be. A lot of times, those leftover-based recipes are a bit underwhelming in a practical-minded way. But this was plain (very plain) good.