It Came From 1962: Chicken Breasts With Seedless Grapes and Marie's Crusty Peach Dessert

As promised, I made a whole meal. Well, I skipped the salad, because I think I had reached my monthly, if not annual, jello intake. However, making a main course and a dessert is a meal by my standards, which are the standards of an unemployed 22-year-old who hates to wash up.

So appreciate what you get, damn it.


Even if it's this. Again, this is supposed to be "Chicken Breasts With Seedless Grapes." Now, I spy plenty of seedless grapes (green instead of the white ones called for - apologies, Zada), but where's the chicken breast? Let's go to an oh-so-appetizing closeup to find out.

Hint: It's to the left.

Yes, it's there in the middle, gasping for air under a wine-infused cream sauce, ham, mushrooms and bushels of grapes. They should have just called this recipe "Sauce For Closeted Alcoholics" and let all the desperate housewives finish off the rest of the "dry white wine." It would have made more sense. Then again, there's a lot about the sixties that doesn't make sense to me, but I'll just drink up, be merry and learn to love the cigarette smoke.

In spite of its alarming colour scheme, which reminds me of '80s prom dresses, it's surprisingly edible. Or maybe that's just the wine talking. And here's dessert:


Fortunately, Crusty Peach Dessert is just another name for a peach crumble or crisp or whatever, so it is DELICIOUS. However, I do think the name would make for one hell of an STD euphemism.

It Came From 1962: Alice's Ginger-Citrus Mold

I decided to wade bravely back into the jiggly fields of Jello-dom this week. And I'm glad I did, because this gelatinous mass is DELICIOUS. Sure, it might look like some kind of deep sea dweller, but it's good.

Probably because it doesn't have any meat, cheese, or other foodstuffs that belong out of my gelatin.

Anyway, this is Alice's Ginger-Citrus Mold. Yes, it's still from the salad section, but since it has two -TWO - different kind of fruits in it, I'm prepared to accept it as the fruit variety. And because the addition of grated candied ginger makes it delicious, I'm feeling a little generous. I ate this thing for breakfast. Willingly.

If I might digress though, the fact that both the grapefruit segments and the mandarin oranges have to be canned is such a sign of the times. This cookbook is proud to boast its "California flavor", but they'll eagerly bypass citrus trees that were probably growing in their backyward to grab a can opener. And I, for one, don't blame them. Little Todd has Scouts tonight and my 60s husband (Art McKenzie, FYI) has to go to the lodge. So I can't be assed to peel a grapefruit's worth of segments.

It Came From 1962: Old Family Beef And Noodles

Since I needed something in my diet that would provide me with more nutrition that the goodness of gelatin, I turned to the casserole portion of the book. There's no more painful sign of the fact that this book dates to 1962 than the fact that there is no "Main Course" section. Only Casseroles. Even wraps are somehow casseroles. And pork chops. And stuffed zucchini.

Since I was still recovering from the green-tinged madness of last week, I landed on a recipe that was pointedly unadventurous. There's mostly ground beef and noodles in this thing, along with canned tomatoes and mushrooms. That led to this conversation with my Mom:
Me: At least this one has honest-to-god vegetables in it. Even if they are canned.
Mom: Well, couldn't you use fresh mushrooms instead?
Me: Pardon me? St. Zada accepts NO SUBSTITUTIONS. Nutrition be damned!

However, a scant 1/8 of a teaspoon of basil and 1/4 a teaspoon of pepper are all the flavorings you'll get in a large-sized casserole. Even by 1962 standards, when having more than two spices was to be suspiciously continental and perhaps a little light in the loafers, that's sad. So, I played the rebel and - hold on to your pillbox hats, ladies - doubled the amounts! Just don't tell Zada, or her vengeful spirit.

Verdict: Edible.

It Came From 1962: Ginger's Pineapple And Roquefort Cheese Salad

It's only the second week of cooking and partying like it's 1962 and already I've hit a wall. A wall labeled PEOPLE IN 1962 ATE CRAP.

Okay, not literally, but almost. Which brings us to the second recipe from A Time For Cooking, Ginger's Pineapple And Roquefort Cheese Salad. A few weeks ago, I decided just to pick a number at random and make whatever happened to fall on that page. I realized the folly of that plan when the page happened to contain this... "salad."

I like pineapple. I LOVE Roquefort cheese. I even enjoy stuffed olives, celery and lime jello, the other major constituents in this recipe. However, I've decided that I like them when they're kept far, far apart from each other. Just imagining the flavour sensation of pineapple and blue cheese together was bad enough, without even factoring in the strong tastes of the other ingredients. I shuddered just reading the recipe. But I soldiered on.


Then, I slipped the salad out from its mold. And I felt nauseous. Quivering on a plate sat a big... pile... of bloody mucus. The sour smell of the lime coupled with the earthier scent of the cheese even smelled like vomit. The recipe wanted me to put this thing on lettuce leaves and serve with mayonnaise, but I just couldn't bring myself to do that. I had created my own little torture porn movie with nothing more than a grocery list.

But reader, I ate it. Or at least no more than one slice, the flavor of which I can barely describe. I told someone it tasted like mothballs, not because I've ever tried one, but because that was the worst thing I could think of someone eating at the time. It starts off citrusy and sweet, before suddenly turning salty and sour and, I swear to Christ, MOLDY because of the frigging blue cheese. I couldn't even finish my bit before throwing out the whole thing.

So, from now on I am going to pick randomly, unless it looks like cold molded ass in which case I will move on the next thing that could be passingly edible.

And if I ever meet this Ginger character, I am punching her right in the goddamned face.

It Came From 1962: Molded Feminine Fare

This requires cream cheese, a cup of sour cream, sugar, salt, canned apricots, canned pineapple, cherries and miniature marshmallows. As you might expect from those ingredients, it is filed under "salads."

There's hardly any prep to this thing at all. You just beat the cream cheese, add the sour cream, the sugar and the salt, then mix in the fruit and marshmallows. Put it in a loaf pan and freeze over night and you should be more than ready for your Cribbage Society's meeting in the morning.
Sure, it's a little alarming-looking. And it's worse when you slice it, when it looks like it probably got it's name 'cause it looks exactly like a woodland fairy's menstrual pad. Although that might be my fault for going with the coloured marshmallows.

In any case, it doesn't taste entirely awful. However, it produces enough Feminine Fare to turn even Clint Eastwood femme, so I've been eating it for dinner every single one of that past three days. And now I kind of want to take three Valiums, have an affair with the lawn boy and drunkenly ask my husband for a divorce in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner.

It Came From 1962: The Beginning

Last weekend, there was a $1.00 Used Book Sale at one of my favorite bookstores in the city – S.W. Welch. Actually, I didn’t care all that much that it was at one of my favorite places. The fact that somewhere books could be had for $1.00 was enough. I would have probably shown up if it was run by the Church of Latter Day Saints.

Among the 10 prizes scored that day was this little cookbook. It looks unassuming enough on the outside, but inside this book shares pages with the Necronomicon. Alright, I’ve never read the latter, but I’m sure it would have just as many recipes for gelatin and canned crap salad as this.

The brain trust behind this book is comprised of Zada Taylor, “well known among California librarians” and Betty Herman, “the daughter of the late, beloved Lloyd C. Douglas.” I’m not sure about Mr. Douglas, but I think Ms. Taylor was more well feared than well known, since she starts off the book with a salvo like “A time for cooking is cooking when it is convenient” (But what are your thoughts on fucking, Zada?) and later follows it up with “A good cook never takes the chance of upsetting the balance by subtracting from or adding to the required amounts.”

The shaggy-haired Beats and their bongos may have already started to turn her California topsy turvy by 1962, but by God, their rebellious ilk would be kept out of the kitchen.

Anyway, I’m in love with and terrified by this thing, from the “Idiot’s Delight” on page 14 involving dry onion soup mix, goose liver sausage and sour cream to the “Steamed Salmon Loaf” on page 132. Basically, it’s as if Mary Worth had written a cookbook. And, since I’m about to be bored and unemployed, what better way to pass the time than attempting to cook from it? So, for the next 52 weeks – or until my death from gelatin overdose, whichever comes first – prepare yourself for It Came From 1962.

Tomorrow: I tell you what it’s like to spend three days eating Molded Feminine Fare (page 58.) Here’s a hint: I’m off to my Ladies Bridge Club meeting.