Baggie ice cream never worked for me

I made this for six-year-old me.

Baggie ice cream Multiply amounts by how many you servings you're making. 1 cup milk 1 tbsp sugar ½ tsp vanilla About 2 tbsp rock salt Put the ingredients in a ziploc sandwich bag and press closed. Put the bag in the quart bag. Fill with ice, add the rock salt, and press closed. Shake until the milk in the inner bag theoretically becomes ice cream-- though it never worked for me and I ended up putting it in an ice cream machine instead.

The other week, my mother was out of town visiting her grandchild. She asked me to send a picture of a page out of her recipe notebook so she could cook together with the baby. I couldn't help flipping through the other recipes just to see the food I grew up on. In the midst of various old friends' names and other causes for reminiscence, I saw... this.

In theory, you can put unfrozen ice cream in a baggie, put that bag in a larger one full of ice and salt, and shake it until it turns into ice cream. This was a staple activity in classrooms and at birthday parties when I was growing up. And now, after more years than I'm happy to admit, I would like to know: Did it ever actually work for anyone? No matter how long I shook my bag of ice, I only got very cold milk. Some people I knew got a few feeble crystals that melted on contact with the bowl, but I don't remember anyone getting ice cream.

The last time I did this was at a nostalgia-themed dorm event. At the time, I thought that perhaps I would get better results than I did as a daft and impatient child. I didn't, but neither did anyone else. Fortunately, the RA who put the event together had done what every wise parent and teacher did back in the day: purchase a massive bucket of backup ice cream.

Looking at this with a broader perspective than I had at age six, I can see why parents would do this as a party activity. You can keep all of those little hands full and busy for a long time before the kids start whining that nothing's happening in the bag. Also, this is relatively healthy as far as party food goes. Really, it's just a glass of milk with a tablespoon of sugar in it. Your kids probably added more sugar to their milk at home if you let them use the chocolate syrup bottle unsupervised.

But now, I have an ice cream machine that can do a lot better than anyone ever could with a baggie of ice and salt. I wanted to give my present-day self the ice cream that 4-foot-tall me was denied.

Whole milk might be the better choice for this, but I used the same 2% milk that 1990s parents poured by the gallon into their children. I don't remember my mother or any unfortunate school chaperones buying whole milk, and I don't think any of them would have dared. Doctors had firmly banged into our heads that 2% milk would save your children from future osteoporosis, but whole milk would turn them into eight-year-old heart patients. 

 

This started to set a lot faster than I thought. (If only it had done that when I was shaking a plastic bag of the stuff...) Within 5 minutes, I could see the same half-hearted ice crystals that some of my more persistent friends managed to get. And just like all those classroom parties, they were swimming in a melty soup. 

This didn't churn easily as I thought it would. Instead, it stubbornly wanted to coat the sides of the bowl in solid ice. I had to reach through the little hole on top and press the dasher down and into place.

After just five minutes on the machine, the ice cream (it can be so called) had set enough that it didn't move anymore. It just hung onto the dasher in a frozen blob. I was ready to finally taste the success that no plastic bag had ever yielded.

 

Of course, as soon as I removed it from the machine it dripped and melted on contact with room-temperature air. So, I turned put it back where it came from, turned the machine back on, and knocked the ice cream around with a wooden spoon to force it to freeze better. In retrospect, this stage might have gone better had I turned off the motor and stirred with a rubber spatula for a few minutes.

Remembering how quickly this always melted (even before it reminded me upon my first attempt to serve), I had put a bowl in the freezer earlier. This meant our "ice cream" landed like fluffy snow. I know that no parent with a houseful of kids high on birthday cake would have the presence of mind to put twenty little bowls in the freezer ahead of time, but I really wanted to taste success even though this recipe had never let me.

 

So, in the absolute, almost unrealistic best case for this recipe, you get a sort of milk granita. You might want to leave out the vanilla though- it only makes this slightly bitter. If you think ice cream is too heavy and rich, you might like this. However, even success doesn't make this good.

Had this ever actually frozen in a baggie, I think kids would only like it because they made it themselves. So if you're a parent trying to put some novelty on your child's umpteenth glass of milk in the same day, it might be worth trying. As for me, I'm going to give six-year-old me one bowlful of retroactive success and move on to better recipes.

Blue Lotus Cream: They forgot to mention the strainer

Today, we at A Book of Cookrye are making a recipe that I've thought about for a long time.

Lotus Cream Juice of 3 lemons 2 cups sugar Pinch of salt 2 lemons, sliced thin  4 cups milk 2 tbsp sugar 1 pint whipping cream Combine lemon juice, 2 cups sugar, and salt. Mix in the lemon slices and let stand for 2 hours. Combine milk and 2 tablespoons sugar in a separate bowl. Freeze, stirring occasionally, until it is mushy. Pour the lemon mixture through a strainer into the milk, discarding the peels. Mix well. Lastly, whip and stir in the cream.* Freeze in an ice-cream machine. *There's no point in worrying about folding in the whipped cream. The ice cream machine will stir it anyway. Mrs Claude Earnest, The Cotton Country Collection; Junior League of Monroe, Louisiana; 1972

 

The Cotton Country Collection, 1972

It looks fairly easy, doesn't it? If you said yes, then I agree except for one sentence: "Slice lemons very, very thin." When I first saw the recipe, I could barely manage to insert the correct part of a knife into food. Slicing things very, very thin was absolutely impossible. As a reminder, this used to happen whenever I tried to cut up a cake:

I'm amazed I remembered to insert a knife into food sharp-side first.

When I first saw today's recipe, the rest of the directions looked just as intimidatingly difficult as knife competence: putting the milk in the freezer and getting out when it is the perfect consistency of "mush," whipping and folding in cream.... the whole business seemed like such a long and complicated procedure when I first read it and every time thereafter. Also, I realized that no one but me would like ice cream with lemon slices suspended in it.

But thin lemon slices need not scare me anymore. I have gotten a lot better at using a knife. Also, I've become almost fanatically obsessed with keeping the good knife sharpened. I always knew sharp knives are safer in the kitchen, but I grew up in a house where the knives kind of knocked loosely around the kitchen drawer. It took me a while to experience a truly sharp knife.

So, let's start off with the most daunting part of the whole recipe:

That wasn't nearly as bad as I feared. We should all sometimes revisit the things we thought were too hard and see if our skills got better while we weren't looking.

Knife intimidation aside, this recipe lodged itself in my head because I couldn't imagine how it would possibly turn out. It was starting to starting to look like it's going to be like marmalade ice cream for people who don't want to make marmalade. 

Would you believe that even with all that sugar, this was still puckeringly tart? 

After freezing, our lotus cream looked so cute with its little lemon slices peeping out.

As is often my way, I tried a spoonful before putting it in the freezer to firm up-- and found that I really should have taste-checked this before turning on the machine. The lemon peels were hard and almost woody. This wasn't a nice crunch like adding nuts, it was a dental trial. 

I should have known this would happen. Back when I used to make marmalade, I once used a recipe that called for both orange and lemon peels. Long after the orange peels were practically a mush, the lemon peels were still as hard as when I dropped them into the pot.

Back to the lotus cream, I had thought that perhaps sugar would penetrate them and do something, but instead I had made ice cream that you couldn't safely eat. I know the recipe says to slice the lemons "very, very thin" and perhaps I'm just not that good with a knife, but I don't think better slicing would have fixed this. Unfortunately, the ice cream also tasted good enough to keep. So, I put it through a sieve and back into the machine.

This is an act of culinary salvage.

By this point, the kitchen mess had finally gotten to me (we had racked up a lot of countertop splats and sticky spots by this point). The stress of future wipedowns combined with the futility of our our super-special thinly sliced lemon peels was too much vexation for one dessert. So, I therapeutically dyed the ice cream blue.

This is actually pretty good if you don't put a lot of raw lemon peels into it. Soaking the peels in sugar sludge gave the ice cream a depth of flavor and a really nice kick. But you should strain them out before anything goes into the ice cream machine.

 

Hump-Day Quickie: Spinach-Cheese Rice

A lot of our nearly-heatless recipes have been desserts because, well, it's nice to treat yourself when you're hiding indoors from the weather. Also, most of our low-heat suppers have been a simple matter of "put it in frying pan and cook until done." I've also made the occasional batch of haluski even though it involves two burners, and maaaaybe turned on the oven to serve frozen fish alongside it. (Shhhhhh....) But today, we're presenting a vegetable side that barely heats the kitchen.

Spinach Rice You don't need to precisely measure out anything except the rice and cooking water. ¾ cup rice 4 oz spinach (about a third of a 12-oz package, just eyeball it) ½ cup shredded cheese (use more or less depending on taste. Choose a kind of cheese that melts well.) Salt and seasonings to taste Squeeze the juice out of the spinach and add enough water to make 1½ cups. Add salt to taste and cook the rice in this, whether you use a rice cooker or a saucepan. When the rice is done, add the cheese and stir until melted and mixed. Then stir in the spinach and seasonings to taste.

Not to go all Agatha Thrash on everyone, but whenever I use frozen spinach in anything, I try to put find some room in the recipe for the juice I just squeezed out. (Or sometimes I don't bother draining it at all) The spinach juice takes a lot of flavor away with it when you drain or wring it out. It's hard to eat your spinach when you've reduced it to blank fiber wads. 

I guess I also halfheartedly worry about throwing out water-soluble vitamins, but mostly I don't want my vegetables to taste like nothing. For today's recipe, the spinach juice adds a lovely flavor to the rice in a way that you simply cannot get by cooking the rice first and seasoning it later.

You may wonder why we bother draining the spinach at all if we're going to put the juice back in later. Well, I tried skipping that and got a soppy mess of rice-and-spinach glop. It kind of looked like the savory baked rice before we baked it. It was edible and I reluctantly didn't throw it out, but I didn't do it twice. With that in mind, the easiest way to drain the spinach is to stack another bowl on top of it and then squeeze it over the rice cooker. 

This is the only annoying part of the whole recipe.

Today, we're also getting some of the beef stock out of the freezer from the most expensive meatball pie I have ever made. You know, since we can't buy beef at any price until further notice. I didn't bother completely thawing it- I just let it half-defrost enough to gently mash the ice into the rice cooker. I figured it would melt in its own good time if I didn't mind the wait.

When that the rice is done, it's time to improve it with cheese. I like to mix the cheese in before adding the spinach so that I can be sure the rice has enough retained heat to melt it. (And I do like to add a lot of cheese. We're eating our vegetables, not punishing ourselves.)

I ended up adding "just a bit" more.

At this point, I like to try a small spoonful and make sure it has enough salt in it. If it doesn't, I add it with our spinach which has been patiently waiting next to the rice cooker. The spinach does want to stay in little hard clumps, so you have to kind of spoon-jab it to break it up.

So there we have it: cheese and spinach rice! It doesn't heat the kitchen any more than a single rice cooker, it's mostly good for you (I think), and it's low-effort enough for when it's too hot to lovingly cook anything. It may not be the most exciting thing anyone's ever made, but it's pretty darn good.

Coffee Ice Cream: Wheeee!

Today, we're playing with our new toy!

Coffee Ice Cream 1⅓ cups (14-oz can*) sweetened condensed milk 2 cups half-and-half 1 cup water 1 tablespoon instant coffee 1 tablespoon vanilla Dissolve the coffee in the water (You can warm the water in the microwave if you need to, but my coffee dissolved in water right out of the tap.) Mix all ingredients, then put in an ice cream machine and freeze until done. Transfer to a storage container and put in the kitchen freezer until firm. For vanilla ice cream, omit the coffee. For chocolate ice cream, omit coffee and melt 2 ounces unsweetened chocolate in the condensed milk. You can microwave it, stopping in stirring every 20 seconds, until the chocolate is melted. Or, you can use a double boiler. *The original recipe calls for a 15-oz can, but it seems Borden did a bit of recreational shrinkflation and nipped one ounce away from the cans. This recipe didn't mind the loss, but you should still be bothered. Borden's Eagle Brand Magic Recipes, 1964

I make this ice cream recipe out of a Borden condensed milk handout more often than any other.  Everyone wants this one over and over again. On one hand, it's nice when everyone wants you to make something where the instructions are just "stir everything together." (If I never hear "I thought we'd do chicken marsala tonight" again...) On the other hand, it's almost insulting for the same reason.

Borden's Eagle Brand Magic Recipes, 1964

The instructions may look daunting because they're so long, but that's because the writers decided to write out every single detail of using an ice cream machine. They end with the direction to "Cover freezer with burlap, heavy paper or carpet until serving time." Did everyone have carpet scraps lying around the house back then?

Regardless of whether we're temporarily unseating the welcome mat for the sake of ripening ice cream, we're trying a variation that The Nostalgic Cook suggested the first time we posted this recipe: add a spoonful of instant coffee. 

Now, when I got my new ice cream machine, I didn't think anything of it still being in the box. I used to believe people who keep their kitchen gadgets in the original box were being stupid and snobby, like all the people my age who have shrines of still-in-box action figures. But now, I see why you'd do it. After all, you need to store your doodads in something, and each one came with a box that's just the right size. So when I saw this was still in the original packaging, I simply figured the previous owner always put it neatly away. Then the box exploded styrofoam inserts all over the countertop.

After unpacking and examining, I don't think someone bought it in the late 1990s and never touched it. The ice cream scoop was still in its box with the tissue paper.

Also, this thing is so old that neither the registration card nor the instructions have a website on them. 

How long has it been since you got a mail-in registration card with something like an ice cream maker?

Aesthetically, you can tell it comes from a more prosperous time. They printed things like "EXTRA VALUE!" in cheery-colored text on the box--- twice. 

In the 1990s, we still put colors on our packaging. These days, everything is black, white, and gray.

Getting to the recipe, I couldn't decide if I wanted vanilla or coffee ice cream. Then I remembered that our machine came with two of those ice-pack bowls.

I do like how instant coffee is just as good as brewing it yourself in recipes like this. Or maybe I have a tragically undereducated taste for coffee since I almost never drink the stuff.

I'm going to have to get the hang of figuring out when this machine is done. But for today, I decided it was ready when our ice cream stopped moving. 

It turns out that letting your ice cream keep churning for extra time doesn't make it come out firmer or better. It just means that more of it turns into solid ice on the side of the machine. 

This is what learning looks like.

This tasted like a cup of coffee made to A Book of Cookrye standards. In other words, it's like an iced coffee-- the kind with lots of syrup and whipped cream. I absolutely loved it. 

Lemon Sponge: or, Lemon fluff for hot weather

Halloween is approaching! Animatronic witches and zombies are appearing in various people's yards. A few people have already bedecked their houses with orange Christmas lights. However, no one is putting out ornamental porch pumpkins because it is still too hot out. Pumpkins may last half a year if you put them in the back of a closet, but they wouldn't survive a week in the Texas sun. Therefore, we are making more oven-free delights.

Lemon Sponge 1 (¼-oz) envelope unflavored gelatin ¼ cup cold water 1 cup boiling water ¾ cup sugar ¼ cup lemon juice (for me, it was 2 small lemons) 2 egg whites (save the yolks for the custard) ¼ cup whipping cream Custard (see below) Maraschino cherries for garnish Sprinkle the gelatin over the cold water. Let stand for about 10 minutes. Then add the boiling water, sugar, and lemon juice. Stir until the sugar is dissolved. Let cool in the refrigerator until almost completely set, stirring occasionally. (You can speed this up by putting the bowl of gelatin in a larger bowl of ice water and stirring for a few minutes.) With an electric mixer, beat the gelatin until frothy. Then, with fresh beaters (or just rinse the beaters real quick), beat the egg whites to soft peaks. Fold them into the gelatin. Lastly, whip and fold in the cream. Refrigerate overnight. Serve with custard on top, garnished with cherries. Custard: 2 egg yolks ½ cup milk 4 tsp sugar ½ tsp vanilla (or more if desired) Whisk together in the top of a double boiler, beating well. The sugar won't completely dissolve until it gets hot, so don't worry about the persistent grains at the bottom of the pot. Put over boiling water and cook, stirring constantly, until thickened. After the sugar has dissolved, taste and see if you want to add more of it. Remove from heat, transfer to a small container, and cover with plastic wrap. Press the wrap onto the surface of the custard, making contact (this prevents a skin from forming). Let cool for a few minutes, then add the vanilla. Refrigerate. Note: If raw egg whites are a concern for you, use pasteurized-in-the-shell eggs. - Hannah O'Brien Notebook of Hannah D. O'Neil (née Hanora Frances Dannehy) Notebook of Hannah D. O'Neil (née Hanora Frances Dannehy)- recipe credited to Hannah O'Brien

To make this recipe for a large number of people, use the following amounts: 4 (¼-oz) envelopes unflavored gelatin 6 egg whites (save the yolks for the custard) 1 cup whipping cream 1 cup boiling water 4 cups cold water 1 cup lemon juice 6 egg whites Maraschino cherries for garnish For the custard: 6 egg yolks 1½ cups milk ¼ cup sugar 1 tbsp vanilla

Apparently they really liked lemon sponge at my great-grandmother's house. She rewrote the ingredients in triple quantity under the heading "For large number to be served." And if they didn't like lemon sponge by the platterful, then it must have been one of her go-to recipes when she needed to come up with dessert for 20 with minimal effort. 

Based on various papers I've looked through, "H. O'Brien" was my great-grandmother's cousin. Come to think of it, I've never swapped a recipe with any of my cousins, so it's interesting to see my great-grandmother did at least once. 

We previously made a variation of today's recipe from the Dormeyer cookbook (which, like my great-grandmother, came from Chicago. Is this a local dish?). Today's version has a few extra steps, and I was curious if it'd be better or if you can't taste the extra fuss. Just like the first time, our lemon sponge begins with the foundation of so many things: gelatin!

I never really got involved with gelatin before I started going through this binder. My most ambitious  creation was canned peaches suspended in red Jello. Given my current progress, I may find myself attempting multiple layers if I don't have a sudden attack of sanity.

Just look at that crystalline loveliness in the mixing bowl!

After adding the lemon juice and boiling water, it looked like an innocent bowl of clear water and tasted like lemonade. A part of me I'm not quite comfortable with asked "why didn't I just use a box of lemon jello?" And indeed, given the path of American food history and the massive infusion of pre-canned and pre-packaged foods in the 1950s (all those canneries and factories didn't want to go out of business just because "our brave boys" had come home from fighting Hitler) this recipe may have later evolved to lemon Jello and Cool Whip.

We put the, um, fortified lemonade aside to chill while making the "soft boiled custard." Since we don't get any instructions, I cracked open my favorite cookbook of the moment, Mrs. Mary Martensen's Century of Progress Cook Book. It's accidentally period-correct and location-appropriate, but I actually picked this book because I've liked every recipe I've made but one. To my surprise, Mrs. Mary Martensen does not provide a plain custard recipe, though I did find a custard sauce. I think a custard sauce is meant to be runnier than a custard?

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

Anyway, Mrs. Martensen doesn't use a lot of sugar in this recipe. I first thought I should change that, but then I realized we're pouring this onto a sweet dessert. Besides, I could always stick a tasting spoon into the double boiler and see if our sauce needed a little help.

The custard takes us to the only part of the recipe that heated the kitchen (assuming you boiled your gelatin water in the microwave): standing over a steaming double boiler for a few minutes. I have to admit that I doubted Mrs. Mary Martensen as the custard came to a close. Sure, it passed the finger-swipe test on a spoon, but it still seemed very thin and runny.

Setting aside our custard, it was time to beat our gelatin until frothy. I've never tried to make gelatin pretend to be whipped cream, but I kept an open mind. It turned into a foam, though it melted in the process. (Remember the room-temperature air that ruined our prune whip?) I re-refrigerated our gelatin and then beat it again to hopefully firm it up and make sure the bubbles wouldn't slowly break.

Now, we fold white into white!

Lastly, we add a surprisingly small amount of whipped cream. I couldn't help thinking over and over that this recipe is a lot of white mixed into white. Or if you prefer to get a bit sociological, it's a big fluffy cloud of showing off that you own an eggbeater and an icebox.

As I was double-checking the recipe, I noticed a helpful hint on the other side of the page:

Since I always like to make recipes exactly as written, I refrigerated our first custard and made another. This involved cracking out another two egg yolks, but I figured I would find a use for the whites soon enough. Besides, extra custard has never made a day worse.

After everything had spent the night in the refrigerator later, it was time to serve our hopefully delicious lemon sponge. It turned out I didn't fold in the cream quite as well as I thought. But I think I could get away with calling it visible strata instead of ineptitude.

So, as far as topping our sponge, Mrs. Mary Martensen's custard slid right off. I didn't mind with this recipe because that meant we had a lovely moat of custard at the bottom of the bowl. But it's nice to know in advance that I shouldn't use this recipe for any attempt at aesthetic drizzle.

Yes, I bought cherries just to put on top of this.

The other sauce, made to my great-grandmother's cousin's specifications, did a little better.

I liked this recipe a lot more than I expected to. It's light and airy, which makes it great in the summertime. (And since summer keeps getting longer and longer...) The custard gave it just enough substance without turning it into something rich and heavy. And the whole creation had just the right amount of lemony flavor to make it refreshing.

Pineapple Bavarian Cream: or, Self-Supporting whipped Cream

When all else fails, just eat the whipped cream.

Pineapple Bavarian Cream 1 (¼-oz) envelope unflavored gelatin (or 1 tablespoon) ¼ cup cold water 1 (8-oz) can crushed pineapple, undrained ¼ cup sugar 1½ tsp lemon juice 1½ cups cream If you don't have an ice maker, put a large bowl or pot of water in the refrigerator ahead of time and chill until very cold. Sprinkle the gelatin over the cold water, let stand for 5 minutes. Meanwhile, heat the pineapple and sugar until the sugar dissolves. (You can do this in the microwave or on the stove.) Add the lemon juice to the pineapple. After the gelatin has soaked 5 minutes, microwave it until completely melted, about 15-20 seconds. Then add it to the pineapple. Whip the cream and set it aside. Transfer the pineapple mixture to a large bowl. Set it in a pot or large basin of ice water (or the water you refrigerated earlier). Stir until it begins to thicken. Then fold in the whipped cream. Pour into a gelatin mold (I don't know if you're supposed to use cooking spray but I did) and refrigerate overnight. Or if you don't have a gelatin mold, use whatever container is the right size. If it's not a shape you think would look good unmolded, you can easily serve this (as they say in many an old gelatin recipe) "attractively heaped in small bowls." Note: This is halved from the original recipe and still makes plenty. Handwritten notebook, probably 1930s-40s Notebook of Hannah D. O'Neil (née Hanora Frances Dannehy)

Our August electric bill came in a couple of weeks ago, and the air conditioning hit us as much as we expected. I don't want to imagine what the final price would have been if I hadn't avoided the oven. (I think I turned it on four times in the whole month.)

So, since the heat wave shows no sign of giving up, we are continuing our heatless recipes! (Or, mostly heatless. Sometimes you need to put a pot on the stove for a little bit.) This recipe comes from my great-grandmother's book. I've never made a Bavarian cream, pineapple or otherwise. I always thought they were a super-fussy and fiddly undertaking, which is why I didn't exactly rush to make this one. (Her intimidating cursive didn't make the recipe look any easier.) But today, I decided to make a Bavarian and find out what it is.

This recipe starts with unflavored gelatin, which I like to keep on hand anyway. Don't tell anyone with puristic opinions, but I often slip an envelope of it into my custard pies to make very sure they set enough to slice. 

Because I have learned at least a little bit about using gelatin, I popped this into the microwave after it had soaked for a while so it could melt. (I learned this from making the whiskey thing.) Because I looked away for about ten seconds, I cooked it too long and it came out steaming-hot. I've said this before, but hot gelatin smells like boiled rawhide. I can't believe the food industry successfully sold it as the foundation of ladylike desserts.  

Next, we get to our starring ingredient: canned pineapple. I've learned so many ways to use canned pineapple since I started using my great-grandmother's book. Before this, I only knew about pineapple upside-down cake and pineapple on pizza. (While we're briefly on the subject, I'm not particularly wild about the "traditional" "Hawaiian" pizza with pineapple and Canadian bacon. But I do like pineapple, pepperoni, and green bell peppers.)

For reasons only known to gelatin, this got sudsy as it thickened.

I was surprised at how quick this recipe was. For some reason, I thought a "Bavarian cream" was one of those recipes that involves far too much labor for far too little payoff. But after cooling off the pineapple until it was about as thick as a half-finished custard, we were nearly done.

Apparently they really liked pineapple Bavarian cream at my great-grandmother's house. I cut the recipe in half and it nearly filled the gelatin mold, which can contain up to a slightly heaping quart (about a liter for our metric friends) of magnificent salad. This is a lot of Bavarian cream.

I tried a spoonful before refrigerating. My hopes then dropped faster than the elevator descending from the top-floor observation deck at the Hancock Tower.^note Our magnificent Bavarian was nothing more than whipped cream with occasional interspersions of pineapple. Like, straight whipped cream. Since I had already made the thing, I refrigerated it anyway just to see if it would get any better.

To my surprise (and unlike the last time we used this thing), the mold let go of our gelatinized creation, which rose to a magnificent height. Keep in mind, this is half the recipe. Had I made it in the amounts my great-grandmother wrote down, we would have two of these.

My gelatin molding skills are not yet church-social ready.

I wasn't happy with my pineapple Bavarian cream. It is exactly what you put in the mold: whipped cream with just enough gelatin to keep it together. Aside from a small bit of canned pineapple, this is essentially the same as the secretly gelatin-fortified whipped cream that I put in the trifle last Easter. (The gelatin may unnerve you, but the whipped cream didn't deflate after a night in the fridge and three hours in the car.)

With our stabilized trifle in mind, I almost want to say that perhaps my great-grandmother meant we are supposed to put this in a dessert instead of making it be the dessert. However, she decisively ended the recipe with the words "mould and chill."

I almost want to say this dessert is perfect for the summer because it's light and airy. But it's also (almost) entirely made of heavy cream, which probably isn't appealing in hot weather regardless of how whipped or well-chilled it is. So while I was disappointed, this recipe mostly left me saying "I don't get it."

*Which, technically, my great-grandmother could have gone to see. They (barely) managed to finish the building during her lifetime, and it was only an el train ride away. ↪