It’s no secret that I love a cookbook. In fact, it’s from reading all these cookbooks in our kitchen that was the impetus for this little weekly correspondence.
This Spring, I had lofty ideas of full garden beds and loaves of leavened bread every week. Life, however, has a way of throwing us curve balls; and this Spring has packed a wallop. The Christmas holidays are always busy, but busy with cooking and gathering. All we’ve been doing is gathering—whether it’s gathering up art to hock at a festival or gathering up our suits for the usual wedding fever that comes with the heat.
In the meantime, I’ve done some proper eating. Downright decadent, some might argue. My cousin just got hitched, and one of the hors d’oeuvres was mini ham and cheese biscuits, with a touch of dijon mustard. If you know anything about our kitchen, we love Durkee’s sauce. That biscuit reminded me that I should start putting Durkee’s on my biscuits next time I fry up some ham. I could go on a rant about the dire state of biscuits and gravy across the southeast, but that’s more of an investigative piece.
No matter the outing, if there’s a bookstore nearby, you best believe that’ll be one of the first stores I’m going to. The two sections I always zero in on are poetry and cookbooks. When you think about it, there’s a similar formatting with both, as far as the page is concerned. They also allow us to interact, exchanging our lived experience with something more sustaining, nourishing.
A recent find is The L.L. Bean Game & Fish Cookbook, procured on the same wedding trip. Why I keep mentioning this trip, well, it has something to do with today’s recipe. Well, it’s not so much a recipe, as much as it is a bit of humor.
You see, one of the older Alabama-born cookbooks we own was published right around the turn of the century. Tried and True Recipes (edited by Elizabeth Bashinsky) is a interesting, complicated, and sometimes exhaustive cookbook. On top of having a dozen recipes for Silver Cake and some kind of pudding or other, this cookbook suffers from what cookbooks of a similar vintage suffer from: ambiguity.
To be sure, sewing and cooking would have been a large part of a young woman’s education—even for young men. The means of cooking also weren’t what they are now, in that we don’t rely on wood-fired stoves for our cooking nowadays. Well, maybe you do, but you’re living quite a novel existence if so.
Measurements were also dubious at this time. The imperial vs. metric system, using dainty teacups and bespoke spoons, and (most mysterious of all) “a little bit of this, and a little bit of that” all conspire against the modern cook trying to decipher some of these more illusive recipes. Directions like “bake in a quick oven” can sound like anything other than the Queen’s English to someone used to hearing specific temperatures. Worse still, some ingredients will just be given by name, with no recorded measurements.
My favorite example is in the pudding section of Tried and True Recipes. There’s three recipes given for Ginger Pudding, with specific measurements and the directions “Bake or steam until done.” The other two recipes only have the ingredients listed. How am I supposed to know when a ginger pudding is done? What even is a ginger pudding?
That brings me to today’s recipe, brought to my attention by your very own Editor-in-Chief. This is a satirical recipe lifted from a Godey’s Lady’s Book published in 1853, which goes to show that we aren’t alone in our modern frustration over the vagueness of past recipes.
Mrs. Mudlaw’s Potato Pudding
Take as many potatoes as you think you will want—you must be governed by the size of the pudding you intend to make. Boil and mash them. Add butter according to the size of the pudding. If you have an abundance of cream, put in a considerable amount, but be careful not to add too much. If cream is scarce, use more butter. Add more or less sugar depending if you are going to eat it with sweet sauce or not. When eggs are plentiful, add plenty of eggs—when they are scarce you can make do with less. Be governed by your own judgement as to whether to add fruit. Whatever flavoring you make up your mind to use, add a sufficient amount, or else your pudding will be bland.
Bake till it is done. A cool oven will take longer than a hot one.
Speaking of puddings, what would a potato pudding be like? How is it different than a soufflé? Or just baked mashed potatoes? Honestly, take a stroll through the pudding section of these antique cookbooks—they just adored a pudding!
Not to mention, there’s puddings named for just about every historical figure: local or otherwise. If anyone wants to name a rice pudding after me, don’t let me stop you. I tried one recently that was called “Belvedere Rice Pudding” which is really only worth talking about because it includes fresh orange zest.
That’s all? What if I just throw some cardamom in mine and call it “Marion Pudding” or “Muckles Ridge Pudding”? You could make your mother a pudding for Mother’s Day and call it “Mother’s Pudding.” As a bonus, it could be your contribution to the Norman Bates Cookbook.
Now this has me wondering: if there’s a ginger pudding, is their a blonde pudding? Or a brunette pudding? Oh, who am I kidding? That’s just chocolate pudding.
