Italian Delight (featuring canned corn)

I was going to talk about how there's no way this could possibly be Italian. But the last time I did that, someone in the comments pointed out that the recipe in question was actually a pretty faithful copy of an actual recipe from Italy.

Italian Delight 8 oz shell macaroni 1 pound ground beef ¼ cup olive oil 1 large onion, finely chopped 1 clove garlic, pressed or finely chopped 1 green bell pepper, finely chopped 1 12-oz can tomato paste 1 16-oz can of corn, drained 1 can mushrooms (or 16 oz fresh sliced mushrooms) 1 tbsp Worcestershire sauce ½ cup grated cheese (use a cheese that melts well) Cook the beef in a large frying pan. Then remove it from the pan, drain it, and set aside. Add the onion, garlic, bell pepper, mushrooms, and olive oil to the hot pan. Cook until the mushrooms are done. Then stir in the tomato paste and Worcestershire sauce. Add salt and pepper to taste. Stir in the meat, cover, and simmer. While the sauce is simmering, heat oven to 350° and cook the pasta in salted water. Drain the pasta and mix it with the sauce. Pour into a large casserole coated with cooking spray. Top with cheese and bake about 20 minutes. Mrs. Anna D. Wendt; 233 North Street, Harrisburg, Pennsylvania; Philadelphia Inquirer Recipe Exchange; 16 August 1935; page 8

The Philadelphia Inquirer Recipe Exchange, 16 August 1935, page 8

I'm fond of recipes from before people started worrying about "authenticity." Italian food crossed the Atlantic, got filtered through the grocery stores that didn't have half the ingredients, made its way to areas where no Italian-American person ever trod, and gave us recipes like this. It starts out with an all-American mound of beef.

So many older recipes with browning beef. If you had no idea what to cook on any given night, you only needed to put hamburger in a frying pan and then see where the contents of your refrigerator took you.

Mrs. Anna D. Wendt directs us to use a half-cup of olive oil-- which is a lot of oil for a single pan of food. 

The Philadelphia Inquirer Recipe Exchange printed the submitter's address under each recipe. (This will be relevant to the cooking oil very soon.) I'm always curious to see what sort of house begat any given recipe.  And so, as I can never resist doing, I looked up Mrs. Wendt's house on Google Street View. Mrs. Wendt's neighborhood is near the river that runs through town. Ignoring the appalling real estate prices of today, it looks like it was initially home to people who worked in the various warehouses and commercial docks on the water. 

This brings us to the excessive amount of oil that starts the recipe. Since I don't need to come up with enough calories to sustain a family working laborious jobs, I cut the oil in half. It still made a respectable slick in the pan.

Because I love modern conveniences as much as anyone else, I used frozen bell peppers and frozen onions. I could have properly weighed them out, but instead I eyeballed what looked like one onion and one bell pepper's worth of frozen vegetable confetti.

Our next ingredient caused problems: canned mushrooms. I usually like to follow recipes as written. After all, why bother with someone else's instructions if you intend to ignore them and cook as you always do? Also, as I have often said, following a recipe as written means I can blame someone else when things go bad. But I refused to ruin beef with canned mushrooms. They are bitter, slimy, and revolting. I try to keep an open mind and try things before I don't like them, but I refuse to touch canned mushrooms.

Things were looking good so far. The vegetables had exuded a lot of flavorful juices as they cooked- almost enough to turn this into a vegetable soup. It may look like I added water, but everything in the pan came from the vegetables cooked in it. 

I forgot to purchase fresh garlic, so I had to cheat a bit and use powdered garlic instead. When I stirred it in, the skillet exhaled the scent of the best garlic bread I can imagine.

And now we get to the tomatoes. You may think that spaghetti sauce made with canned tomato paste sounds (to put it delicately) inauthentic. But is canned paste really any worse than the pasty-pink out-of-season tomatoes you can purchase these days?

The taste of the sauce reminded me of the lasagna an ex-roommate's mom dropped off when we were in college. You could tell upon the first taste that it had been lovingly assembled from canned tomatoes with cheddar cheese on top. And while it was as "inauthentic" as you can expect such a creation to be, it really hit the spot after getting all our posessions up three flights of stairs.

 

At this point, we were ready to get out the most expensive part of this recipe: the beef. It was surprisingly hard to see after stirring it into the rest of our Mediterranean fantasy.

We were now one ingredient short of completing our Italian delight. Mrs. Wendt calls for a can of corn or peas. I choose to pretend she never mentioned canned peas. As the can of corn hovered over the pan of beef and tomatoes, I faltered. I tried to tell myself that corned spaghetti would be perfectly fine, if less than ideal. I told myself that this recipe, corn and all, got printed in the newspaper and won a $2 basket of groceries. I told myself that polenta is really commonplace in Italy, so corn is not an alien vegetable to them,and therefore this recipe is more plausible than it seems. I also told myself that this Italian delight came from someone's house, and not some corporate test kitchen trying to shove their products into as many recipes as possible.

Ultimately, I couldn't tip out the corn. It definitely didn't help that most stories about "my awful mother-in-law sabotaged my cooking" seem to involve somebody sneaking into the host's kitchen and ruining the homemade spaghetti sauce (it's almost always spaghetti sauce) with something from a can. 

I didn't think Mrs. Wendt was maliciously sabotaging everyone clipping dinner ideas from this week's Recipe Exchange, but I couldn't ignore the similarity. Maybe she actually liked canned corn on her spaghetti. Or, she may have simply added corn to nearly everything she made, and subjected her Italian delight to the same treatment. Or, maybe she was using canned corn to "volumize" the recipe (as my mother puts it). After all, there was a Depression on and she probably had a lot of kids and a husband to feed.

 

Even though I couldn't bring myself to add a can of corn to a massive vat of spaghetti sauce, I wanted to know if it was any good. And so, I removed some of the pan's contents and added the unbelievable ingredient. The corn kernels, with their bright yellow color, looked horribly out of place. It was like the Italian delight had suddenly sprouted yellow warning lights.

If Mrs. Wendt was "volumizing" the spaghetti with canned corn, she must have had a very large family at home. The Italian delight nearly overflowed the skillet. And keep in mind that I have removed about a quarter of the delight so that I could put corn in a test sample of it.

I thought that Mrs. Wendt had skimped on the cheese, but then again there was a Depression on.

As the cheese melted, it dripped into the pits and crevices all over the the top of the Italian delight, unveiling the corn that it had halfheartedly hidden before baking. I think the corn made it look like a sort of beef-noodle casserole instead of a pasta bake. To Mrs. Wendt's credit, she never said this was a pasta bake but an "Italian delight."

The Italian delight with, um, "corned beef" was surprisingly good. You just had to reframe your mind. It isn't the baked pasta we would make today. It's more like more like a beef-tomato casserole with macaroni in it. Honestly, I would have gone ahead and added chopped celery with the canned corn.

It's easy to forget that even simple things like baked pasta can change a lot in 90 years. I was really thrown off because this was similar to something we'd make today. When I make something so old it's archaic (such as mincemeat with raisins and kidneys), it's easy to act like I'm trying foods from a country I've never been to. But I wasn't prepared for the food to be so similar to modern-day dishes, yet unignorably different. 

But for those who can't countenance corn in spaghetti, here is a plate of the corn-free Italian delight.

The corned spaghetti was good enough that I would have kept the leftovers even if they didn't contain a lot of beef. Like a lot of things we've made from the Recipe Exchange, it's not fancy but it's something you'd love to come home to. In a weird way, the remaining pan of "normal" corn-free Italian delight tasted like something was missing. Or maybe I'm daft-- or both. Either way, after nixing the canned mushrooms, this recipe was a delight.

Copper Pennies: or, Cool off with carrots!

Who would guess carrots could be so good on a hot day?

Copper Pennies 8 ounces of carrots (4 or 5 medium-sized), thinly sliced crosswise ¼ cup canned tomato soup, undiluted ¼ cup sugar 1 tbsp cooking oil 3 tbsp cider vinegar ¾ tsp dry mustard ¾ tsp Worcestershire sauce One-quarter onion (white or yellow), finely chopped One-quarter bell pepper, finely chopped 1 stick celery, finely chopped Lettuce leaves for serving Place carrots in a small microwave-safe bowl. Add a little salt and a spoonful of water. Cover with a dinner plate (or anything that will keep in the steam without forming an airtight seal) and microwave until fork-tender, about 4 minutes. In a medium or large microwave-safe bowl, whisk together all remaining ingredients except the onion, bell pepper, celery, and lettuce. Microwave until it comes to a rolling boil, about 1 or 2 minutes. Remove, and stir to mix. Then add the carrots, onion, and celery. Transfer to a container with a well-sealed lid. Refrigerate overnight. Serve cold. You can serve it on lettuce leaves if desired. Miss Lennee Lacey; The Cotton Country Collection; Junior League of Monroe, Louisiana; 1972

 I saw this one in The Cotton Country Collection a long time ago, and always was a bit skeptical. It looked like nothing but sliced carrots with some inadequate attempts to improve them. The recipe may look underwhelming, but it periodically pops into my head when I'm trying to use up the last of a bag of carrots. 

The Cotton Country Collection; Junior League of Monroe, Louisiana; 1972

Unfortunately, I could not get the recipe simply by opening the book I first saw it in. As mentioned in earlier posts, my copy of The Cotton Country Collection fell apart and therefore went to the municipal hereafter, taking the copper pennies with it. However, when I was windowshopping at an antique store with friends, I found a copy for sale. 

You may think I promptly bought it, but you would be wrong. I took it off the shelf, "casually" sauntered to another part of the store where the clerk couldn't see me, and whipped out my phone. The hardest part was discreetly reshelving the book right in front of the clerk and pretending I happened to change my mind.

As I was reading the directions, I realized that we can modernize the recipe with the microwave. Cooking this on the stove is as outdated as the recipe name. (These days, it should be called "copper-plated zinc pennies.") There's no reason to boil the carrots when the microwave will do the job faster.

If you're quartering the recipe like I did, you finish cutting everything pretty quick. After slicing the carrots, we only had to chop these.

Having finished everything that involves a cutting board, we could get to the dressing. The instructions tell us to simply put everything in a pot and boil it. Like the carrots themselves, this seemed easier in the microwave than on a stove. As we got everything into the bowl, I realized I had underestimated how much sugar this recipe uses.

Things looked more normal after getting all the spices in there.

As I removed the steaming-hot tomato dressing from the microwave, it smelled sharply and pungently of the 1970s in a way I didn't expect and can't explain.

And so, after a bit of microwaving and a smaller-than-expected amount of chopping, our copper pennies were ready to stir together and put away. I liked the pretty and bright colors. Also, the vinegary tomato sauce tasted better than I thought it would.

The next day, the colors on the fresh produce had dulled a bit. But the bell peppers and onions were just as crunchy as the day before. (I didn't bother serving this on lettuce because I didn't want to purchase a head of it and let the rest rot in the fridge.)

The copper pennies are downright refreshing after being outside in this heat- like the vegetable equivalent of an iced tea. I expected to say that this recipe is better if you reheat it the next day, but it's surprisingly good served cold. I didn't think I would like it cold, but somehow it works.

Of course, the cooked carrots don't really taste like much of anything, though marinating them overnight in a tomato-vinegar sauce definitely helped. The onions and the bell peppers added all the flavor that the carrots lacked. I think copper pennies would be a really good choice any time people get together in hot weather. Heavy rich foods just aren't as appealing when it's hot outside. (At many summer picnics, the fruit tray gets completely demolished while the decadent cakes sit nearly-untouched all day.)

Picnics and other encounters with people aside, I think this recipe makes a great side dish while it's so hot outside. As a bonus, very little effort goes into actually making this. And if you use the microwave instead of the stove, you won't even heat up the kitchen.

In conclusion, this recipe is a lot better than I expected, and worth making again.