Category Archives: Gastronomical Delights

Want Not With Milnot®? Cheesecake Phenomena

13 Sunday Oct 2013

Posted by in Gastronomical Delights

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

, , , , , ,

Cheesecake in the Strange house was made with Milnot®. “What?” you say. Where was the New York style, the white, chocolate cheesecake, the Amaretto cheesecake topped with almonds? Where was the calorie-laden cheesecake of today’s obese America? The answer quite simply is-that variety of cheesecake was absent, unknown, never heard of before in the Strange family. All we knew growing up was that cheesecake was made with Milnot® and lemon Jell-O®. Didn’t everyone eat that brand of cheesecake?

Mother’s cheesecake was simple and allowed our less than agile hands to occasionally help her whip up the cool, delicious dessert. For those of you who are not aficionados of canned milk, Milnot® was a brand name for a canned evaporated milk product. It was very inexpensive and was a constant staple in our kitchen.

Of course, Mother also used the proverbial Philadelphia Cream Cheese for our simple cheesecake. Once the cream cheese softened at room temperature, she folded the whipped evaporated milk into the prepared Jell-O ® and stirred all the ingredients into a buttery, yellow liquid. While she whipped and stirred, Sissy and I crushed the graham crackers with a rolling pin and added melted butter to the crumbs. We took turns gingerly patting the crumbled crust into the bottom and sides of the rectangular pan as the crumbs started to congeal with the hardening of the melted butter. Mother then poured the liquid mixture into the pan and we sprinkled the remaining crumbs over the top of the blended ingredients. It would take several hours for the mixture to set in the refrigerator, and we eagerly awaited Mother’s announcement that cheesecake was ready. Sometimes before dinner, Mother allowed us to take a spoon and take one bite out of the corner of the pan to satisfy our cravings. At dinner, no one mentioned that one of the corners of the pan was missing its filling.

When it was time for dessert, Mother cut the final product into squares, which jiggled slightly as she placed the dessert on the plate, and it was passed to our waiting hands and watering mouths. The deliciousness of that cool, light sweetness. Ah, the memory is so sublime!

As an adult, I was eventually introduced to the classic rich taste of the New York style cheesecake, but I still occasionally ventured into the past and made Mother’s version. Many years ago, I prepared this cheesecake for dinner guests and when served, I was quite impolitely informed by one of my guests that the dessert was not real cheesecake, to which I responded “Really?” I was not only surprised at the arrogance of my guest, but I thought to myself that Mother’s version of cheesecake was certainly real to the Strange kids. We loved our Milnot® cheesecake and often begged for more than one helping, not realizing that it wasn’t real by other people’s standards.

Recently, I whipped up three packages of cream cheese to make a real (very calorie-laden) cheesecake remembering the light, lemon-chiffon taste of Mother’s recipe. I didn’t imagine that Milnot® was still available in the grocery stores of today, so I executed an online search to discover whether Milnot® had met its demise or was still in existence.

Surprisingly, I found that Milnot® was in fact “alive and well”, albeit the company is now owned by Smuckers, and still available for purchase at grocery stores or through Smucker’s Website at https://onlinestore.smucker.com/. In addition, through www.cooks.com, the recipe has been preserved in perpetuity.

Once I knew of its continued existence, I decided to go in search of this treasure at my local Kroger and celebrate the simplicity of that favorite childhood dessert. As I set out on my quest, with spirits high, my mouth watered and I thought about Mother standing in the kitchen, carefully explaining the less than complicated steps to creating our perhaps not-so-real cheesecake, and I was thankful. In that moment, I was thankful for her love and for the fact that she gave me the opportunity to revisit my childhood with smile on my face, a yearning in my stomach and a place in my heart to keep the memory alive. This Jell-O-Milnot version of cheesecake may not have been real to my long ago guest, but it was very real to me. Hey Sissy-the next time we are together, do you want to go get some Milnot®? I have a yearning to crush some graham crackers and whip up a cheesecake.

Milnot® Cheesecake (www.cooks.com)
1 (3 oz.) pkg. lemon Jello®
1 c. boiling water
1 (8 oz.) pkg. cream cheese
1 tsp. vanilla
1 (13 oz.) can of Milnot®
3 c. graham cracker crumbs
1/2 c. butter, melted
Dissolve gelatin in boiling water. Chill until slightly thickened. Cream together cheese, sugar and vanilla; add gelatin and blend well. Fold in stiffly whipped Milnot®.
Mix graham cracker crumbs and melted butter. Pack 2/3 of mixture on bottom and sides of 9 x 13 x 2 inch pan or larger. Add filling and sprinkle with remaining crumbs. Chill overnight. Can top with fruit.

Enjoy!

The Resurrected Devil-ed-Egg, That Is!

31 Sunday Mar 2013

Posted by in Gastronomical Delights

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

, , , ,

Eating deviled eggs on Easter is a paradoxical situation considering the reason for the Easter celebration. However, for us the Easter celebration, which included new shoes, a new dress, grass filled baskets and a celebratory church service, always included the deviling of eggs. Our traditional egg hunt took place after church and in our own yard-both front and back. Quite naturally we used those carefully dyes eggs from the day before, and knew that regardless of the outcome of the hunt, they would eventually land in our stomachs resurrected in the form of deviled eggs. Boiled eggs spoil quickly so we had to eat those eggs as soon as possible and recreating them for lunch was a perfect resolution.

Once we arrived home from church, and still dressed in our Sunday best, the egg hunt was set into motion. We stayed in the house while Mother and Daddy hid the eggs in various and unusual locations throughout the yard. One egg might end up within the crook of a low hanging branch or among a cluster of newly sprung grass. Another egg might sit on the edge of the evergreen bushes or within the lightly tilled dirt of the flower garden. In addition, we could not rule out the possibility of finding an egg in one of the gutters’ down spouts or even inside the doghouse of the current Strange dog. Our parents carefully hid each egg so that a portion of its colored shell peeked out from its unique hiding place, which made it more easily discovered by one of us.

“On your mark, get set, go!” was the usual cry emitted from our parents as we eagerly romped out of the house to find the eggs. When it was just Sissy and me, the competition was great, but when BQ and Yordy joined the hunt, we usually helped our younger brother and sister load their baskets instead of filling our own. Whatever the outcome of the hunt, Daddy was usually following behind us with the 35mm camera in hand.

After the hunt, Mother first counted and then rescued the eggs from our pastel colored baskets. It was important to know how many eggs we found, as we did not want to find one later, still stuffed inside the gutter or doghouse. Rotten eggs emit quite an odor!
Occasionally one of the treasure hunters crushed an egg, which was hidden among clusters of grass, and for obvious reasons, that egg was discarded and not included in the deviling process.

Setting the task of preparing the eggs into motion, Mother cracked each shell against the edge of the kitchen counter top to release the egg from its protective covering. Sometimes the egg had cracked during cooking and if the crack penetrated through to the yolk, the hardened yolk had already started to turn dark and greenish in color. When released, the yolk rolled into the bowl waiting to be smashed into an unrecognizable mound. Mother added salt, pepper, mayonnaise, a pinch of mustard and a small amount of sweet pickle juice to the mound and then thoroughly mixed the ingredients together.

Now it was our time to assist in the preparation. We carefully scooped the seasoned mixture into the halves of each hard-boiled egg white and lay them on the designated plate. Due to their oval shape, it was difficult to line the them up so that the half portions of the eggs did not continually roll in the other direction. Now I understand the invention of the plate solely designed for deviled eggs.

The eggs were now ready for the final touch-a sprinkling of paprika on the top of the yellow filling. When finished, Mother returned the plate to the refrigerator to chill the eggs before eating. Delicious and unforgettable!

Well, unforgettable except for the fact, that one of those eggs, quite recently might have been plucked from inside a gutter, or the dog house, or the garden or the……I’ll never tell.

Peanut Butter Fudge and Snowy Delights

17 Thursday Jan 2013

Posted by in Gastronomical Delights

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

, , , ,

Peanut butter, milk and sugar were all the ingredients Daddy needed to make homemade fudge. Dinner was over. The dishes were done. Pajamas on and teeth brushed. We were ready for bed. But then…we would hear Daddy puttering around in the kitchen, opening and closing the cabinet doors and drawers, asking Mother for the whereabouts of the objects of his quest. He was looking for a bowl, a spoon, a pot, a pan, waxed paper and a reason to satisfy his sweet tooth. He rummaged through more cabinets finding the peanut butter and sugar. He retrieved the milk from the refrigerator and with pot and spoon in hand; he was geared up to prepare peanut butter fudge.

From the living room, we heard the quiet metallic sound of a pot being placed on top of the stove and patiently waited for the sweet treat we knew would follow. Unlike most men of that era, Daddy liked to cook and it wasn’t unusual to find him in the kitchen with Mother preparing a meal or his favorite bedtime snack, which was fudge. When there was no cocoa or peanut butter to be found, he made plain old vanilla fudge, which was equally delicious. He started by melting the butter or peanut butter, and once softened and almost liquefied; he added copious amounts of sugar. Remember-sweet tooth!

The two ingredients merged into one as the crystals dissolved from the heat of the melting butter and through the action of the continuous stirring. Burned sugar and peanut butter on the bottom of a pan was no fun to clean, so careful attention to continuous stirring was required. The sweet combination of the ingredients permeated the entire house and with anticipation we waited for our bedtime treat.

Waxed paper was a kitchen staple in our house and made the perfect surface on which to pour the hot mixture. Daddy tore the measured piece of paper from its cardboard container and placed it in the pan he selected to house the fudge. When sufficiently cooked and thickened, he poured the mixture onto the waxed paper and we eagerly waited for it to harden and cool. If we were really hungry for that late night sweet treat, he put the fudge in the refrigerator for ten or fifteen minutes to speed up the hardening process. Once hardened, he pulled the wax paper out of the pan and placed the candy onto the table to slice into small pieces. We were allowed only one taste, but we went to bed satisfied, knowing that there would be more treats tomorrow. And of course, we were marched right back into the bathroom to brush our teeth again.

In winters because snow was a regular occurrence in Indiana, we were often treated to a different late night delight-a snowy delight-during the cold days of January. On those cold blustery nights when the snow was fresh and clean and his sweet tooth was begging to be satisfied, Daddy went outside to collect a pan of snow. He added the pure white, crystal powder to sugar and milk and somehow magically transformed the snow to ice cream, or snow cream as we called it. He added vanilla extract for flavor and if we had Hershey’s chocolate syrup in the house, the vanilla snow cream would be converted to chocolate snow cream with a squeeze and a few stirs. The icy taste of the natural, homemade treat was a sweet tooth’s dream come true.

This week I had the very last of my silver amalgams replaced with a crown. I thought about how much the procedure cost and what a pain it was to go to the dentist to have the procedure done. Then I thought about peanut butter fudge and snow cream and my father cooking in the kitchen all those years ago and I decided….that trip to the dentist wasn’t so very bad after all.

Divine Intervention

15 Saturday Dec 2012

Posted by in Gastronomical Delights

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Heavenly divinity-at Christmas time! Divinity was one of my favorite sweet treats of the fifties and it only appeared in our house during the Christmas season. Making divinity with Mother was part of the annual Christmas cookie tradition we shared, even though it was a candy, and not a cookie.

On a day during the holidays when Mother decided to bake, we usually began with Mexican wedding cookies drenched in powdered sugar. Then the more difficult and complicated sugar cookies shaped like Santa, a candy cane or a Christmas tree. The butter rich oatmeal coconut cookies with either walnuts or pecans were also on the list, and warm from the oven, Mother allowed us to taste the cookies that fell apart when she lifted them off the cookie sheet. The richness of the butter took over the presence of the other ingredients, and it often required a batch or two before she perfected the mixture, usually adding more flour as she experimented.

After the cookies were finished it was finally time to make the divinity. Mother started with sugar and corn syrup-Did I mention that divinity was very sweet? She combined the sugar and corn syrup on the stove stirring and cooking, while either Sissy or I whipped the egg whites. The one holding the hand mixer used two hands to control the device, while the other one of us held the bowl in place to keep the whirling speed of the attachments from forcing the bowl into its own uncontrollable spin. Making divinity was definitely a team effort.

We whipped the egg whites until they became very stiff peaks, holding the bowl upside down to test the readiness of the egg whites. If they were stiff enough, nothing slid out of the bowl. If not, well you can imagine-with liquid dripping down the sides of the bowl, we returned to the task of whipping the eggs!

When the sugar mixture was ready, Mother gradually added the stiff egg whites to the combination that she would turn into a divine display of artistry. Sometimes she added pecans to the ingredients and at other times, she added food coloring to make the divinity either red or green. The red was more often a pink rather than a red, but fulfilled the requirements of the traditional holiday colors of red and green. When we were very adventurous, we had a mixture of red, green and white divinity, or just red and white. We never knew what the end product might look like.

Once all the ingredients were combined, Mother dropped a spoonful of the mixture onto sheets of waxed paper creating bite-sized mounds with pointed and swirled tops, which were similar to her meringue on cream pies. It did not take long for the candy to harden and voila, our divine creations were fully realized. We placed the small mounds of the delicious treats in our mouths, and finally, in decorated tin containers to keep them fresh, or to give to neighbors and friends as gifts.

Simple, sweet and delectable. Heavenly and divine. A perfect treat for the season!

It is almost Christmas and I think it is a good day to bake. I will turn on the Christmas lights, fire up the oven, plug in my iPod to my holiday music and check out the refrigerator to see if I have any eggs and corn syrup. Yes, it is a perfect day to bake. If only Sissy were here to help me hold the bowl…

Toasts of the Town

17 Saturday Nov 2012

Posted by in Gastronomical Delights

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

, , ,

White bread was a staple in every household in the fifties and primarily used to make sandwiches. The bread was sliced thin and sold in a long slender plastic bag with the word Wonder Bread emblazoned on the bag. Fried bologna and mayonnaise, Peanut butter and bananas, cream cheese and olives-whether it was used for sandwiches, toasted or eaten smothered in butter, no Midwest kitchen would be absent the proverbial loaf of Wonder bread. As the main ingredient of a sandwich, it was difficult to be creative with white bread unless cutting off the crusts counted as being creative. We weren’t allowed to cut crusts; it was wasteful and there was absolutely no reason not to eat the crust. Mother told us that the crusts were the most nutritious part of the bread, but I doubt that her statement was true. It was more than likely a ruse to encourage me to eat the crusts. There were no wasted crusts in the Strange house.

Creativity with bread arrived in the form of toast. All different kinds of toast. Orange toast, milk toast, cheese toast, chipped beef on toast, cinnamon toast. These were the Strange versions of creativity with toast and we ate every kind of toast imaginable-true gastronomical delights (except for chipped beef on toast).

Have you ever heard of orange toast? I don’t know anyone who knows what orange toast is except my siblings, my cousins and our kids. No recipe today could match the simple and delicious version of this childhood treat, which is clearly connected to the memory of Saturdays mornings when we were allowed to sleep late and lounge around in our pajamas watching Howdy Doodie.

By the way, orange toast was not made in a toaster. We didn’t own an actual toaster, but we did have an oven, so Mother made all of our versions of toast in the oven, under the broiler. For orange toast, she used nothing more than white bread, butter, sugar and orange juice. It was delicious.

Mother always freshly squeezed the juice with an old-fashioned clear glass juicer, which was a kitchen necessity at that time. Frozen orange juice concentrate did not arrive on the scene until the late 50’s so a juicer was a kitchen necessity at that time. After squeezing the oranges, she separated the seeds from the bottom of the circular juicer and then added 1 teaspoon of sugar to the juice. She placed pieces of the white bread on a cookie sheet and arranged four slices of butter on top of the bread-four squares on one square.

She spooned the sweetened juice onto each slice and popped the cookie sheet into the over under the broiler, leaving the door to the oven cracked so that we could peek in and watch our delicious treat materialize. As the broiler coils turned a bright reddish-orange, we watched the butter melt and the edges of the bread crisped and darkened in color.  The juice bubbled as the liquid heated up and the bread became toast. When the orange toast was done, Mother used a spatula to lift the toast off the cookie sheet; otherwise, the toast fell apart with the softness of the middle portion of the bread-now toast-tearing easily.

From the plate, I chose to eat the delectable crispy edges of the toast first. Or maybe the mouth-watering soggy, sweet middle part of the toast, or maybe I cut the toast in two and ate the crispy edges and the soggy middle together. Regardless, the entire experience only lasted seconds as I enjoyed every scrumptious bite.

Milk toast?  That was a very different experience. I had to be sick to get milk toast and no one wants to be sick. I would venture to say that the words milk toast reminds most people of timidity and little joie de vivre. The comic strip character, Caspar Milquetoast was the reference for this image, so those people would be correct. However, what I think of when I hear the words milk toast is comfort food-Mother’s special treat when we were sick. It probably has medicinal value, but as a child, I felt infinitely better after a batch of her milk toast. After a night of fever or stomach ache, I would smell the aroma of the warming milk from the bedroom without having to even ask. From my bed, I anticipated the arrival of the warm bowl of milk poured over, once again, that iconic piece of white bread-toasted, that is.

Back in the kitchen, Mother sliced butter into the hot liquid and then added salt and pepper to the steaming concoction. The black flecks of pepper floated to the top of the liquid and jumped out from the whiteness of the milk and the melted butter. She allowed the mixture to cook, while she once again broiled her buttered bread in the oven, toasting it quickly so that it would be ready for the steaming hot milk.

When it was ready, Mother carried a tray to my sick-bed, careful to keep from spilling the heated liquid. She placed the bowl in front of me and steam rose over the bowl and into my face as I leaned over to capture the delightful aroma of the mixture. No matter how sick I was, I eagerly placed my spoon into the now softened toast and cut it into small pieces. Soggy, sweet, buttery and salty. When I finished the bread, I scooped cooling liquid into my mouth as my whirling stomach settled and the fever dissipated into oblivion.

Sick or well, I hated chipped beef on toast. And right now, I’m off to the grocery store to buy a loaf of white bread and oranges. It’s going to be cold in the morning and I just might lie around, drink coffee and eat orange toast. I wonder where that juicer is. And, I probably should buy whole wheat instead of white-my cousin reminded me that whole wheat is after all, healthier.

Mamaw’s Big Ben

11 Sunday Nov 2012

Posted by in Gastronomical Delights

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

, , ,

Part of the thrill in going to Kentucky to visit my cousins and other relatives, was to help prepare and sample the delectable homemade biscuits made by Mamaw. This truly was a ritual that took place almost every morning you spent with her. Whether it was during one of our visits to her or one of her visits to us, biscuits were always on the menu.

She was one of those truly grandmotherly types, who wore the plain cotton house dress that buttoned up the front, black orthopedic shoes and elastic bands around the lower part of her thighs, which held up her stockings. Towards the end of the day, the elastic bands appeared around her ankles, as she must have tired of the binding higher up on her legs, but was not yet ready to take off her hosiery.

Her silver peppered hair always looked as if it had just been permed, and the tight curls lay in ringlets against her scalp. She didn’t wear any jewelry that I can remember, but wore lipstick on special occasions. Inevitably when visiting, she always asked me to bobby pin her hair after she washed it.  She sat in the bench in front of her dressing table and I stood behind her, looking at the two of us in the mirror. She kept her bobby pins in one of the two milk glass,  chicken-shaped containers, which graced both sides of the dressing table. To begin the task, I carefully separated her hair into small sections, wrapped the hair around a finger, placed the coil against her scalp and then positioned bobby pins in a criss-cross fashion to hold her hair in place. Mamaw’s job involved handing the bobby pins to me one at a time. We talked the entire time I was fixing her hair, which generally revolved around stories about my father as a child or other people who had died. I often teased her that she knew more dead people than I knew who were living.

Once I had finished pinning her hair, I wrapped her head with a hair net to hold the sections in place. She went to bed secure in the knowledge that in the morning-Voila!-she had a head full of curls. We slept in her full-sized bed and as I dozed off to sleep, I listened for the sound of the trains, which passed her house nightly. The train’s whistle and the clanking of the train’s’wheels against the metal tracks mixed in with the soft snoring of the older woman I loved.

In the morning, the visit’s ritual continued as she adroitly and artistically set about making her batch of biscuits. First, she found the rectangular box of Diamond brand matches that she kept on top of the gas stove. In one quick action, she struck the wooden match against the strip of flint, which was on either side of the box, and the smell of sulphur permeated the air. She lit the over and began gathering her baking ingredients on top of the small kitchen table.  She mixed the flour, baking powder, ice water and lard and the magic of the motion mesmerized me. She never measured her ingredients, but used her watchful eye to determine the appropriate amount of “this and that” as she carefully weighed the texture of the dough with eyes and hands, which were  slightly knotted and gnarled, with closely trimmed and unpolished nails. She worked the dough furiously in the crockery and melded the dryness of the flour with the moisture of the ice water and the smooth, white, greasy lard. No one bakes with lard now, but it was a staple in Mamaw’s kitchen and was the one  ingredient, which gave her biscuits their flaky, rich texture and taste.

Once mixed, she gathered the dough in a ball, sprinkled flour on the table’s top and began the artful kneading of the dough. She punched the dough gracefully, yet forcefully, continually alternating between adding additional flour and rolling the dough around in her hands until it lost its stickiness. When she deemed the dough ready, she pulled her old, wooden rolling-pin out of the cabinet, floured the table and the rolling-pin to keep the dough from sticking and used the force of her hands to roll the dough into a less than perfect circle, which was a half to one inch thick. She used a jelly jar, which had a small opening, dipped in flour, to cut the dough into the pre-cooked circles.

She repeated the reshaping and rolling of the dough until she didn’t have enough dough left over to roll. At that point, she gathered all the scraps into one large biscuit, which was not symmetrical in shape or height. This leftover biscuit was her special biscuit-the biscuit that all her grandchildren wanted to eat-the privileged biscuit.

If Sissy and I, or one of our cousins both at her house, we would have to draw straws or pick a number between 1 and 10 to see which of us earned the honor of having that particular biscuit. That biscuit was called Big Ben.  To Mamaw, Big Ben was the memorial biscuit in honor of my grandfather Benjamin Robert Strange, who we called Papa, and her husband.

Whoever received the honor of eating Big Ben, smeared it with butter and some of her homemade plum jam. She never told us why she named a biscuit after Papa, but I suspect that she made biscuits for him often and he loved her biscuits, and this was how she honored him after he died.

I made biscuits for my own children on occasion and carried on the tradition of Big Ben that was a special part of my childhood; the careful attention to the process of mixing the dough, the rolling and cutting, the gathering of the scraps into one large biscuit, the smell of the gas oven being lit and the taste of the plum jam on my lips.  A sausage biscuit at McDonald’s? Ha! Can’t even come close to my Mamaw’s Big Ben.

 

Deep Fried and Delicious-Corn Dogs and Donuts

09 Tuesday Oct 2012

Posted by in Gastronomical Delights

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

, , , ,

Today’s push for healthy eating would be the total antithesis of fried foods in the 50’s.  We owned an old-fashioned deep fryer with a slightly twisted metal basket, which fit into the deep interior of the rectangular shaped device. It had a thick, striped cloth covering the electrical cord, which was slightly frayed, signifying the many years of its existence. This portable, electric device was the precursor to the Fry Daddy of the late 70s, but, oh-so much better. Mother had inherited this deep fryer from her mother. She stored it in a lower cabinet in the kitchen and it only came out of its hiding place for certain gastronomical delights-cinnamon sugar donuts, fried oysters, fried ochre and corn dogs. Fried chicken was cooked on the stove in a cast iron skillet, just in case you are wondering. I didn’t like fried oysters or ochre so I only paid attention when she made donuts or corn dogs.

Usually, we ate fried bologna sandwiches, PB & J or peanut butter and banana sandwiches for lunch,but as a special treat on a rainy day, Mother treated us to deep-fried corn dogs. When she announced the choice for the day’s lunch, we happily pulled out the deep fryer with the weathered wire basket and volunteered to help. Our mouths watered at the mere mention of crisp fried meat on a stick-our version of the all-American hot dog.

Mother fixed the batter with egg, milk and cornmeal, while Sissy and I dug deep into the kitchen drawers to find the used Popsicle sticks we needed to insert into the dogs. We speared the meat with the sticks and rolled the raw hot dogs in the batter until they were completely covered in thick meal. Carefully leaning over the fryer, Mother supervised our efforts warning us not to get too close to the popping, hot grease as we placed our uncooked dogs into the basket. We watched as Mother dipped the basket into the boiling oil.  As the wet batter mingled with the grease, loud popping noises filled the air as bubbling grease filled the space within the basket. After several minutes, the yellow corn meal turned brown. Mother carefully pulled the basket from the grease and allowed the excess grease to drip onto a plate set out specifically for that reason. After waiting for the corn dogs to cool, she collected them from the basket and served them on our plates. We waited patiently for the sticks to cool so we could pick up the corn dogs to first roll them in catsup or mustard, and then eat them. Satisfied and full after only one corn dog, we returned our unused Popsicle sticks to the drawer and returned the fryer to its rightful place.

Today, I don’t usually eat fried foods, except perhaps when I go to the ballpark and think about eating a corn dog. I walk around the large stadium scouring the selection of vendors and their respective menus until I find one that sells corn dogs. Regardless of the price or the length of the line, I stand there waiting to place my order. The corn dog of today looks no different from how it looked in the fifties-meat on a stick, covered in crispy, fried cornmeal. It comes served by itself in a paper container. As I make my way over to the condiment stand, my mouth begins to water. I cover one corner of the container in catsup and I return to my seat to enjoy my treat of deep-fried and delicious.

Since 1992, there has been a National Corn Dog Day.  It is celebrated on the first Saturday of the NCAA Men’s Division I Basketball Championship, and along with corn dogs, Tater Tots and American beer are honored.  What more could a girl from Indiana want-basketball and corn dogs?  I wonder where the event is being held next year. Surely one more corn dog won’t clog my arteries.

 

Popsicles, Puddings and Pies

19 Wednesday Sep 2012

Posted by in Gastronomical Delights

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

My sister and I have a mouthful of silver amalgams! Even though flouridated water arrived in the early fifties, it wasn’t until Proctor and Gambol launched its Crest with Flouristan that the positive effects of fluoridation on tooth decay were realized. By then it was too late. Kool-Aid was our drink of choice. It only cost 5 cents a pack and cost much less than the colas on the market. Just a cup “or two” of sugar mixed in with the granulated flavored mix and water, and we were ready to drink or lick-licking the popsicles we made with Kool-Aid, that is.

We first poured the sugary liquid into ice-cube trays to freeze. Those frozen delights  gave us much-needed relief on hot summer days, and when the ice cream man rode by on his bicycle powered ice cream wagon, it was not quite so painful to not have fifteen cents to buy the real Popsicle. We knew we had our very own version waiting for us in the freezer. Once frozen, we’d crack the metal handle of the ice-cube tray to release the cubes of frozen sugar, and then wrapped them in a paper towel or napkin to lick quickly, before they melted.

But home-made popsicles weren’t the only sugary treat that contributed to our cavities. Puddings and cream pies made especially for the Strange kids, by none other than Mother, were included in our gastronomical delights. Mother made the best cream pies-ever. Unlike the pies of today, she made the crust from lard-yes, I said lard. Not healthy, but flaky, rich and delectable. Even more inviting were the cream fillings. Chocolate, banana cream, coconut cream, butterscotch or lemon-all topped off with golden brown meringue. Or in some cases-slightly burned-depending on whether Mother was paying attention to the broiler or not. Nevertheless, each pie was a masterpiece.

Our treat, before the pie was done, was licking the spoon or the pot which contained the leftover cream.  One of us got the spoon, and one of us got the pot. The pot was the top prize just by virtue of the quantity of leftover cream. And, while we finished off the remnants of the cream, Mother busied herself with the meringue. Depending on whether she had an operating electric mixer at the time or not-which was not always the case-she sometimes beat the meringue by hand. Do you know how long it takes to beat egg whites by hand?

After much beating, when the meringue was ready (measured by whether or not it stood in peaks), Mother spread the stiff egg whites over the cream and immediately placed the pie under the broiler. With the oven door slightly ajar, the three of us watched the peaks of the meringue quickly brown. We had to be diligent in our watch because in a matter of seconds the meringue could turn from slightly browned to completely burned. And sometimes it did.

Regardless of the meringue’s final condition, the pies were always delectable. And if the cream was still warm when eaten, it was even better. Banana pudding was also best when eaten warm. Another favorite treat and a typical dessert of the fifties.

On occasion, I have tried to replicate Mother’s cream pies, but the crust is never quite as good and the cream not as rich. She never used a recipe or a cookbook, so I have nothing to use as a reference. What I do know is that a cream pie must be enjoyed warm. It cannot be cold. It must not be chilled. For me, the essence of those pies was the warmth of the cream on my tongue. The essence of the experience was the memory that melts my heart. And the silver amalgams?-well, they’ve just been replaced by crowns. And I still use Crest toothpaste.