Hot Macaroni Salad: or, Hold the baloney

Happy leftovers weekend to all who celebrate!

Hot Pasta Salad 8 oz elbow or shell macaroni, cooked in salted water 3 tbsp finely chopped onion ¼ cup oil or drippings 1 tbsp flour 1 tsp salt ½ tsp dry mustard 1 cup water ¼ cup vinegar 1 egg ½ pound fully-cooked sausage (summer sausage, salami, or something like it), sliced and cut into bite-size pieces Cook the sausage until crisp to render out the excess grease. This can be done on the stovetop or by baking them. (You can also do this ahead of time and refrigerate.) Blot with paper towels and set aside. Cook the onion in the drippings until lightly browned. Stir in the flour, salt, and dry mustard. Cook until it stops bubbling. Then pour in the water and vinegar. Add the sausage and stir constantly until the mixture thickens a little bit. Lower heat to a slow simmer and cook 5 minutes. Crack the egg into a medium-sized bowl and start whisking it while you slowly spoon in about one third of the sauce in the frying pan. Then pour it back into the pan and cook for two minutes. Add the pasta, mix well, and serve. Source: Unidentified magazine or pamphlet clipping, probably 1952-1953 Notebook of Hannah Dannehy O'Neil

For those who celebrate Thanksgiving in the US,* today is the day we barely fall out of bed and then start the day by microwaving all the rich, buttery things from yesterday. (As a regional variant, some people forgo the dinner leftovers in favor of the pies that no one put away the night before.) I really don't understand how the Black Friday stampedes became a thing in the mid-2010s. If you do Thanksgiving right, you should be too stupefied to move the next day, much less have a parking lot riot over discounted TVs.

Unfortunately, our Thanksgiving got cancelled at the last minute because a lot of people got sick. ('Tis the merry season, isn't it?) I somehow evaded whatever's going around, but was left with the dreadful prospect of Thanksgiving without leftovers. I like Thanksgiving food enough on the day of, but I really love the week after. It is utter bliss to simply reheat lovingly cooked carbs while the stove stays cold. But this year, I had to make my own damn leftovers.

This brings us to today's recipe, which comes from my great-grandmother's binder. I think she cut it out of the same handout as the domecon chocolate cake. If we put the two side by side, the typography is identical.

I was going to cut the recipe in half, but then I decided that I wanted to have the traditional week-long post-Thanksgiving carb stupor if I had to cook it myself.

I did make one recipe change. The recipe calls for half a pound of bologna meat, which I traded for summer sausage. Yes, I used to eat sliced balogna right out of the package when I was like six or so (I am sure my parents appreciated my cheap taste when they were paying for groceries). But the last time I had any, I was like "What was wrong with me?"

But summer sausage has a lot of fat in it. Those aren't water beads on the sausage skin. That is grease. 

So I decided to cook the sausage just to get rid of the excess. I could have done it on a griddle, but I decided to enjoy the modern life and use a sandwich press.

After about a minute, the sausage was crispy and swimming in its own grease. Speaking of which, I don't understand why sausage is so fatty. They add extra fat to the meat in the factory, and then it seems like the first step in most recipes is "Cook sausage to remove excess fat" or "prick sausage skins so the fat can come out."

Now that we were finished with that detour, the recipe starts with three tablespoons of "grated onions" and a lot of grease. I figured that the extra fat is either supposed to add flavor or bond with the flour to make the gravy. I also underestimated just how much drippings go into this recipe until the onions started swimming in it. 

We are next directed to add the flour and cook "until bubbly." That didn't make sense until I saw it happen.

I dumped in the water and vinegar at their appointed moment, and thought the salad was ruined. This was the runniest, soupiest mess I've put on the stove in a long time. It eventually thickened, but not before I had convinced myself that the salad was only fit for the local wildlife.

I decided to add the sausage to our simmering mess. It had gotten hard and leathery as it cooled. In theory, it would reconstitute in the water and perhaps release some of its salt into the rest of the salad.

Lastly, we are directed to stir in an egg. At first, I was going to temper it like a good person would. Then I decided that if that step was superfluous in the hot potato salad, then clearly I was overthinking it. The directions simply say to "add egg and cook 2 minutes," so that's what I did. The egg got a little scrambled, but I decided I could live with it this time.

And lastly, it was time to add the macaroni and call it a salad! As a reminder, this contains 3 tablespoons of chopped onions and no other vegetable.

Definitely try the sweet potato boulettes.

If you like mustard, this is the pasta salad for you. It's basically noodles in mustard sauce. It's just thick enough to stick to the noodles without being too heavy. The worst part of this was the damned sausage (which was also the only reason this recipe took more than 15 minutes). But this recipe has potential. I already have plans to try it again with mushrooms.

*Canada celebrates Thanksgiving on the second Monday of October. ↪

Evelyn's Pizzelles

Today, we are making more pizzelle recipes that I could have bought!

Evelyn's Pizzelles 3 cups flour 1 tsp baking powder 6 eggs 1 tsp anise oil or other flavor 1 cup sugar 1 cup cooking oil Combine flour and baking powder in a sifter, set aside. Beat eggs and anise oil (or your flavoring of choice) with an electric mixer until very light. Gradually add the sugar, beating the whole time. Beat until very thick. Gradually pour in the oil, beating on high speed the whole time. Then set aside the mixer. Sift in the flour and stir it in by hand. Cook on a hot pizzelle iron until crisp and golden. Source: handwritten recipe taped onto a pizzelle iron box

Some readers may recall that I was recommended (and then did not buy) the same pizzelle iron I already have, which came in its original box with a lot of recipes pasted onto it. For whatever reason, I loved the idea of making pizzelles that could have been made on the same iron that is perched above the refrigerator (or at least, one that came out of the same molds). And recipes with a name attached always seem extra-special, even if they're all strangers to me.

Obviously, I have no idea who the Evelyn in "Evelyn's Pizzelles" was. But we lived up the street from someone named Evelyn, who presumably had a last name but was "Miss Evelyn" to everyone who knew her. (Her husband, "Mister Evelyn," was just quietly in the background.) Every time we came by her house, she treated us like we were there every week. She also always gamely bought overpriced gift wrap and figurines whenever we went door to door selling things from those horrible school fundraiser catalogs.

Anyway, today's pizzelle recipe looks similar to a lot of the other ones we've made, except for one crucial ingredient change: 

Yes, instead of melting shortening or butter, Evelyn uses cooking oil! I've always associated cooking oil with cake mix, which (especially these days) tastes like a placeholder for a real cake. But who am I to dispute someone's written directions? More so than any other time I've made pizzelles, this part felt like making mayonnaise. After getting all the oil into the batter, it was noticeably deflated but still foamy.

Our recipe says "anise oil or other flavor." I was not sure that anise extract (which is not the same as anise oil but it's what I had on hand) and peanut oil would go together. But who am I to argue with a barely-legible recipe? If it's written down, it must have worked for someone.

This seemed like I should have poured it into cake pans instead of spooning onto a waffle iron. I have never made pizzelles from such a runny batter. (Though of course, I am still barely experienced.)

Because I wanted to try these without a stovetop fuss, I made them the modern, electric way.  I use the stovetop irons when I want to have a lovely meditative experience in the kitchen, but the electric one is so fast I almost think I'm cheating. It feels like I'm zapping pizzelles into existence.

Our pizzelles were ready just a few seconds after closing the iron. Evelyn's batter didn't expand as much as I thought it would, so our first pizzelles were sad and runty.

These pizzelles challenged all my previous beliefs about cooking oil and lousy baked goods. They were really good. I can't tell if the oil made a difference or if I was imagining it. They were a lot like the Fante's pizzelles, but lighter and less substantial. It's easier to eat five instead of two of these.

I will say that these weren't bendy like the other ones from this box, but they weren't as fragile as the other pizzelles we've made either. I don't think I could wrangle a stack of Fante's pizzelles into a cramped sandwich bag like this. So Evelyn's pizzelles are perfect for giving away.

Whoever Evelyn was, she had a darn good recipe. I hope whoever actually bought the iron tries it.

Candied Sweet Potatoes with Pineapple: They're not bad if you like sweet potatoes with pineapple

The calendar says autumn is here, and the weather sometimes agrees! This means it's time to put pumpkins on the doorstep and sweet potatoes in the oven. Today, our friend who wrote in her copy of the Woman's Club of Fort Worth Cook Book an exciting idea for us.

Candied Sweet Potatoes and Pineapples About 1 pound sweet potatoes One (8-oz) can diced pineapple 2 tbsp brown sugar 1 tbsp butter ½ tsp nutmeg 1½ tsp cinnamon ½ tsp salt Cook the potatoes, whether by boiling, baking, or microwaving. Then remove the peels and cut into large cubes (one- to two-inch--- no need to be too uniform). Drain the juice from the pineapple can into a large pot (preferably nonstick). Then add the brown sugar and cook over medium heat until syrupy, about 3 to 4 minutes. Turn off heat. Add butter, spices, and salt. Stir until butter is melted. Then add the potatoes and pineapples. Cook over medium heat until syrup thickens too much to drip off of the potatoes, stirring constantly and scooping the syrup from the bottom of the pot and spooning it over the potatoes. Then remove from heat and serve. Handwritten note from The Woman's Club of Fort Worth Cook Book (1928)

This recipe comes from the person who gave us Elizabeth's rolls. It is one of the few handwritten recipes in the book that has nearly no instructions. Most of the others look like they were meant for someone else to use, but this reads more like a hasty note-to-self. I didn't even know if I should bake these until I deciphered some of the more ambiguous cursive and read "Sweet potatoes in well buttered cas," which presumably stands for casserole. No one puts food in a well-buttered casserole unless it goes in the oven. 

I think this recipe comes from the pencil of someone who knew how to bake sweet potatoes and only needed an ingredient reminder. It's like if someone today wrote out the ingredients for a soup and the line "simmer until done." Unfortunately, I don't know how to make sweet potato casserole. Even our anonymous friend gets a bit uncertain, ending the list with a question mark on "paprika?"

Our recipe has nearly no directions, so I didn't know whether the pineapple chunks go into the potatoes or on top. I tried stirring them in, and they turned into flavorless wads of fiber. But I should note that the pineapple juice was really good in the potatoes.

I figured we are probably supposed to put a lot of the ingredients on top instead of mixing everything together. After all, aren't baked sweet potatoes supposed to have something on top to get crisp and (hopefully) delicious? I imagined the paprika in the topping would have the same sweet-savory contrast as pineapple and pepperoni on pizza.

As aforesaid, our friend was uncertain about the paprika. I tried it a small spoonful before baking, and didn't like it at all. The paprika tasted out of place and oddly bitter. I tried making another batch with less paprika, thinking I may have overdone it the first time. But even the subtlest hint of paprika was subtly wrong. (In case you think I'm making multiple successive pounds of sweet potato casserole for this recipe, I made only a single-serving pan at a time, slipped next to whatever was already in the oven.)

I was ready to dismiss the recipe as a badly aged oddity. Then I made my great-grandmother's candied sweet potatoes and thought "Maybe these weren't supposed to be mashed..."

I had never heard of candied sweet potatoes before borrowing my great-grandmother's recipe, and genuinely thought that you always, always mash sweet potatoes if you're loading them with sugar. I also thought you were semi-required to put mini marshmallows on top and bake until browned and sticky. I never knew you could leave the potatoes intact.    

Because I wasn't already baking and didn't feel like turning on the oven for a single potato, I decided to try this on the stovetop. Mrs. Wilson of the Philadelphia Evening Public Ledger did sweet potatoes on the stovetop, and her recipes have never failed me.

Philadelphia Evening Public Ledger; April 23, 1919; p. 12

And so, I more or less borrowed Mrs. Wilson's directions for our handwritten friend's recipe. This involved pineapple and, yes, paprika. (The part of me that really likes pineapple-pepperoni-and-bell-pepper pizza thought that paprika had potential.)

 

We only had to stir and baste this for a minute or two before the potatoes looked like they had been in the oven for hours. My great-grandmother's sweet potato recipe in the oven had made me think that the long baking time allows the syrup to really soak into the potatoes. But after making these in a saucepan, I couldn't tell the difference.

As I noted when making rice pudding, recipes like this have made me really appreciate nonstick pots. All this time, I thought the nonstick coating was merely a reason my mother hated seeing me use metal whisks at the stove. But now, I am willing to permit a few nonstick pots in the kitchen as long as they don't crowd out the stainless ones.

This turned out exactly like I imagined it would, but I didn't like it as much as I thought. The pineapple was a firm, juicy contrast to the soft potatoes, just like I hoped. The spiced syrup brought out a lot of delicious flavors in both of them. But it just wasn't very good. 

This recipe was a lot better than when I mashed the sweet potatoes and mixed everything together, though. (The paprika just added an out-of-place bitterness, and this is coming from someone who really likes paprika.)

If you omit the paprika (and even our handwritten friend wasn't too sure about it), this is a pretty good recipe if you like candied sweet potatoes. Or at least, I am pretty sure it is. But this is like me trying to decide if a steak was any good when I don't like steaks.

I should note that the pineapple juice was really good in this. If I make a pineapple upside down cake, I may save the juice from the can for future sweet potatoes instead of just pouring it over ice.

As I was putting the last of the sweet potatoes in the refrigerator, I realized that I have now made every recipe written in the book except one: 

To borrow a popular cop-out from math textbooks, this will be "left as exercise to the reader."

This is the only one with somebody's full name under it. I'd sooner have signed Elizabeth's rolls. The handwriting looks different, suggesting that our friend handed her cookbook to a dear acquaintance and said something like "Grace," (I think it says Grace), "You simply must write your chicken mousse in my book!"  1 cup cooked white chicken meat
1 small can mushrooms
1 tbsp unflavored gelatin
1¼ cup chicken stock, divided into ¼ and 1 cup portions
1 cup heavy cream

Sprinkle the gelatin over ¼ cup chicken stock. Set aside for at least five minutes.
Meanwhile, finely grind the chicken meat, being sure you have one cup after grinding. Drain and chop the mushrooms. Heat the remaining chicken stock.
Dissolve the gelatin in the hot stock. Then mix in the chicken and mushrooms. Refrigerate until it is about as thick as whipped cream.
When the gelatin mixture is ready, whip the cream and fold it in. Transfer to a gelatin mold and refrigerate until firm. Unmold when ready to serve.
Note: I still don't know how to unmold a gelatin, so I'm not giving instructions for that.

For anyone who's curious what other handwritten delights (and misfires) are locked away in my old school's copy of the Woman's Club of Fort Worth Cook Book:

• Elizabeth's Rolls (The best handwritten recipe in the book)
• Brownies (This would have been the best handwritten recipe in the book, but Elizabeth's rolls are hard to beat)
• Cranberry-Celery Salad (Unexpectedly good if you leave out the nuts)
• Fruit Cookies (These make regular appearances in our domicile, especially during the holidays)
• The Whiskey Thing (Nowhere near as good as I hoped, but if you like to get smashed without a shotglass you might like it)
• Chicken Mousse (If you make this I would love to hear how it went)

Second-Stab Saturday: Pear Upside-Down Cake

When first we made the apple upside-down cake (or apple pudding if you believe the recipe title), I speculated that it would be really good with pears in it. And wouldn't you know it, some pears landed in the kitchen!

Apple (Or Pear) Upside-Down Cake 3 tablespoons butter ¾ cup sugar, divided into ½ and ¼ cup portions ½ teaspoon salt 2 teaspoons baking powder 1 egg 1½ cups flour (cake flour if you have it) ¾ cup milk ½ teaspoon vanilla 2 cups pared and thinly-sliced pears or tart apples (2 apples unless the apples are very big or very small) Heat oven to 375°. Grease an 8"x12" or 9" square pan. Be sure to spray the edges and corners very well. If desired, line the bottom of the pan with paper cut to fit after you spray it. Then press the paper firmly into place, eliminating as many air bubbles as possible, and spray the top of it. Line the bottom of the pan with a single layer of apple slices and set aside. Cream butter, ½ cup of sugar, salt, and baking powder. Beat well. Add egg and vanilla, beat until light. Alternately add the flour and milk. Sprinkle the remaining ¼ cup of sugar onto the apples in the pan. Then pour the batter on them, carefully spreading it as needed. (Batter will be thin.) Bake 20-30 minutes, or until the center of the cake springs back when gently pressed with the finger. Ida H. Boerner, 916 Grand Avenue, Port Washington, Wisconsin. Chicago Tribune Recipe Contest, probably 1930s-1940s.

Aren't they pretty? I think they look like fruit that a Renaissance painter would have used for a still life.

Just like last time, the only tedious part of the recipe was peeling and slicing the fruit. I didn't bother carefully nicking off every last bit of apple skin, but the pears had tough, leathery peels. I had to peel them properly. This was how I discovered that our paring knife is a waste of drawer space. I had just gotten it sharpened, so the first parings all but fell off. But before finishing the first pear, I couldn't tell if I was pushing the sharp or dull side of the blade into the fruit. 

Well, now I don't need to feel guilty about ruining the blade by stripping wires. It wouldn't survive a single fruit salad.

After getting the batter into place, I realized I forgot to sprinkle the sugar into the pan. You might think that I'd simply bake the cake anyway, but I wanted that super special crispy layer on top. And so, I fished all the fruit out of the pan and tried again. Keep in mind that this recipe barely makes enough batter to cover the pan if you get it right the first time. We really needed the rubber spatula.

All right, let's try this again...

Here it is with that slightly shiny sugar layer that mattered so much!

I know the lightly-battered fruit ruins the look. But despite my fumbling, this is a good recipe. Once you cut into it, you can see that the cake has a really nice texture. And it tastes just as good as the batter did (which doesn't always happen with cakes). 

 

The pears didn't taste as different than I thought they would. They were a bit firmer than the original apples. If anything, they just tasted like fruit. 

I didn't think that switching species would make so little difference. But changing fruits didn't affect how quickly the cake vanished, either.

 

Kimbell Banana Bread

The Kimbell flour company's attempt at cake may have been a bust, but maybe they can do better with banana bread!

Banana-Nut Bread 2 cups flour ½ tsp salt ½ teaspoon baking soda ¼ tsp baking powder 1 tsp cinnamon (or more if desired) ½ cup shortening* ⅔ cup sugar 2 eggs ¼ cup buttermilk or sour cream 2 ripe bananas, mashed 1 cup pecans Heat oven to 350°. Grease a loaf pan. Mix flour, baking soda, baking powder, salt, and cinnamon. Set aside. Cream the sugar and shortening. Add the eggs one at a time, beating well after each. Then alternately add the milk and the dry ingredients. Mix in the bananas and nuts. Pour into the pan and bake until the center springs back when lightly pressed, about an hour. *Or butter, or oleo Source: Kimbell flour canister, probably 1940s or 1950s

I made this purely because we had two bananas slowly blackening on the countertop, and the recipe calls for exactly that. At first I was very happy to keep our grocery money out of the dump. Then I realized: am I really economizing if I throw a lot of flour and eggs after nearly-rotten fruit?

Because I didn't want to make bland banana bread, I used oleo instead of shortening. A lot of older recipes use the word "shortening" to mean "any solid fat," so it's probably period correct. But mostly, I distrust shortening unless I am brushing it onto a hot waffle iron. It does not seem like it came from this good earth. 

I also added some uncalled-for cinnamon and vanilla because I could tell we would need it.

We are told to use "well beaten" eggs. Instead of getting out a little bowl for this, I figured the eggs would be well beaten by the time our mixer was done with them. We may have a dishwasher, but that doesn't mean I need to fill it as often as possible.

Even though I didn't add nuts, I will give the Kimbell Flour people credit: they explicitly call for pecans instead of walnuts. Pecans are what walnuts wish they could be. And they are so versatile: if you wish you had walnuts, simply let your pecans go rancid! But even through the Kimbell people got their nuts right, I just do not like nuts in cake.

I was going to put the batter into a loaf pan as specified, but cupcakes suddenly seemed like a better idea. After baking, I chose not to ice them. You see, this recipe is called banana bread. It is not banana cake. Therefore, these are not cupcakes but muffins. Therefore they are a healthy breakfast.

They baked up nicely, but in full disclosure a lot of them had deep holes on top. I figured anyone who complained didn't want muffins. (There were no complaints.)

All in all, these weren't bad. I didn't have to discreetly drop them into the trash after a few days. But like so many muffins, these were not as good as I hoped. They were so bland that I could have convincingly lied and said they're good for you. 

But with that said, this recipe has a really nice pound cake texture. I don't think the Kimbell people can top Mrs. Kahn or the Slovak-American Ladies Association, but I didn't violently scribble out Kimbell's banana bread like I did their marble cake.

 

Est! Est!! Est!!! Pizzelles

Somebody really liked this recipe.

Est! Est!! Est!!! Pizzelles 6 eggs 1 tsp vanilla 1 tbsp anise extract, or ¼ tsp anise oil 1 tsp orange or lemon extract 1 cup sugar 1 cup butter or oil Pinch of salt 2¼-2½ cups flour 2 tsp baking powder If using butter, melt it and set it aside to cool. Combine flour and baking powder in a sifter, set aside. Beat eggs and flavorings with an electric mixer until very light. Gradually add the sugar, beating the whole time. Beat until very thick. Gradually pour in the butter or oil, beating on high speed the whole time. Then set aside the mixer. Sift in the flour and stir it in by hand. Cook on a hot pizzelle iron until crisp and golden. If desired, take out about a third of the batter. Mix in ¼ cup cocoa powder. Cut this into the rest of the batter for a marbled effect. (Note: Apparently lots of people can make chocolate pizzelles, but the cocoa powder makes them stick horribly to the iron every time I try. So beware!) Source: handwritten recipe on a pizzelle iron box

I've been rehoming unwanted clutter on Ebay, which is kind of fun if you're not in it for the money. It's amusing to see how far across the country your junk--- I mean, your under-cherished treasures--- can go. Every now and then while I'm waiting for my listing photos to upload, I'll look at the suggested merchandise. Because I've already gotten everything I want, I am now immune to ill-advised purchases. (However, I am not above helping myself to interesting things I find on the curb.) This pizzelle iron turned up, and I knew I wouldn't buy it because I already have the same one perched on top of the refrigerator. (Again, I already have everything I want.)

Whoever first owned this iron wrote today's recipe on the box in big enough letters to cover the entire side of it. That is even more commitment than permanently writing a recipe into the blank pages at the end of a cookbook. Maybe they were like "This is the recipe. There are other pizzelle recipes, but I choose this one for now and for always." Naturally, I had make it.

As with so many pizzelles, this recipe starts off with beating the eggs until Miss Leslie would have approved. This is why I really love having a stand mixer in my life. I simply had to turn it on and leave it alone, which freed me to clear off counterspace to make room for the impending cooling racks. Within a minute or two, the egg (just the one, we're cutting down the recipe) looked like this.

This is only one egg.

This really is the kind of recipe that electric mixers were made for. Whipping everything into a beige custard would be an arduous ordeal if we were doing it by hand. Even a handcranked eggbeater would have left our hands a bit sore. But today, our pre-flour mixture formed peaks in less than five minutes. It also tasted insanely good, in large part because I added a truly excessive splash of almond extract.

Our recipe box (literally a recipe box!) tells us to add anise. I've learned that apparently anise is the traditional pizzelle flavoring, but it's not my favorite extract to add to the batter. So I left it out. (However, I love adding powdered star anise to chocolate fudge. As a bonus, everyone else thinks it tastes weird, so I get to eat all of it!)

After adding the flour, I could tell this was supposed to be on the cake-batter end of pizzelles instead of a firm dough. However, it was a little bit curdled. So I added a smidge more flour than the recipe called for. 

Now, if I wanted to make these exactly like the original writer did, I would have made these on the stovetop iron that is identical to the one this recipe came with. But I wanted to get out the electric one and justify having bothered some unsuspecting electricians to fix its wiring. The batter looked unexpectedly pretty when it landed.

The lid put up some resistance when I tried to open it. I was already bracing myself for failure, because that usually means the batter has stuck to both sides of the iron and glued it shut. But after a few moments of gentle prising, the iron opened without tearing the pizzelless. However, they were were firmly attached to the lid of the iron.

I still haven't gotten the hang of putting the right amount of batter onto my electric iron. They're either runty or they ooze.

To my own surprise, I managed to lift them off in a single sheet. I fully expected to destroy them in my attempts to dislodge them from the iron. On a barely-related note, I love imagining generations of people saying that those fluffy bits of hot dough between the pizzelles are for the person working the iron.

These tasted like they wanted to be crisper than they ended up. I know I didn't undercook them because they had turned a lovely golden color. But even after these cooled completely, they were almost soft. On the one hand, I like pizzelles to be really crispy. But on the other hand, these didn't break into messy shards when you bit into them. And of course, I don't know enough about pizzelles to get away with being opinionated about them. These seem like they'd be really good with some sort of custard or cream spread onto them, or maybe clapped together with a filling like stroopwafels. Which I just might do in the near-ish future.