I Tried Recipes From a 1920s Cookbook and Here's What Happened
Would my family notice that our dinner just transported united states back in time 100 years?
I stumbled upon Mrs. C.H. Leonard'due south Melt Book, copyright 1923, on Etsy when I was looking for some other, unrelated, rare book. I went down a rabbit pigsty of antique cookbooks and found myself intrigued, suddenly realizing there was a time that one time existed earlier prepackaged ingredients, the Instant Pot and Pinterest. I had to inquire myself: What were people making for dinner 100 years ago? Was it simpler? More difficult? Did they accept to kill their own chickens? I ordered it immediately.
When the book arrived, it looked all 94 of its years—faded and scuffed, with yellowing pages that made a crinkly audio when you turned them. When I held it to my nose—because in that location is always an uncontrollable urge to smell old books, isn't at that place?—it had the unmistakable aroma of a musty library basement.
The title page let me know 2 things: This volume once sold for $1 (I paid $20—inflation hurts) and Mrs. C.H. Leonard compiled the book with Mrs. W.H. Whittier. A Google search revealed that Mrs. Leonard was the wife of Charles Leonard, owner of K Rapids Refrigerator Co., the largest refrigerator manufacturer in the world. Mrs. Whittier was their girl. Disappointingly, Google did not tell me the women's first names.
But I digress. It was time to attempt out some of these gems. I decided to brand a handful of recipes from Mrs. Leonard'southward book and see if my family could tell that I had transported us all dorsum to 1923. Peradventure my picky 1- and 3-yr-olds would enjoy food from a simpler fourth dimension. Or perhaps it would wind upwardly on the floor like nigh everything else that isn't pizza.
I establish that many of the recipes were more similar basic cooking know-how—to brand fried fish, roll in flour, salt, and plunge in hot lard. Many included ingredients I either didn't recognize or would not be acquiring at my local grocery shop, similar partridge breasts or something chosen "Pettyjohn's breakfast food." (A Google search told me it was a cereal beginning introduced in 1889 that was, essentially, bran flakes.)
Ingredient amounts were frequently vaguely described—"add together i tumbler of milk" or "a slice of butter every bit large equally an egg." I was instructed to set my oven at "a moderate temperature." Sometimes I was told for how long, sometimes non. Each recipe was only a pocket-sized paragraph—no more than three to 4 sentences of instructions.
In that location was a chance I was going to spiral this up, patently. I decided to simply arroyo it like a scientist time traveler.
Recipe #1: Plumage Cake
This was described as "a nice plain cake to be eaten fresh." I decided to pair it with Cream Frosting, which I was told "tastes like Charlotte Russe." I know that just every bit a clothing shop I frequented in my teens. From the proper noun, though, I expected something light and fluffy, possibly similar angel nutrient. This one had to exist good, right? I mean, all these vintage cakes are delicious.
How It Went: Information technology seemed odd to mix dry out and moisture—flour and milk—correct off the bat, but I trusted Mrs. Leonard. I questioned the beating of the egg whites—should I stay true to 1920 and beat them by mitt? I didn't have one of those erstwhile-timey egg beaters. I ended upwardly going with an electric mitt mixer. Don't estimate me.
Decision: I don't know where the feather connotation comes from—this cake is dense. A friend told me it's because the recipe called for blistering powder instead of baking soda. In any case, it was yet succulent—soft, sweet and simple. Definitely the family'due south favorite. No one questioned why we were having cake on a Midweek night without annihilation to gloat. Because, cake.
Recipe #two: Ocean Foam Candy
I liked the sell for this one: "A homemade candy that 'melts in your oral cavity' … it is not hard to brand nor is it expensive." Though I expected this recipe to go spectacularly awry (I've never fabricated candy before!) I gave it a shot.
How It Went: Equally I measured out the third cup of carbohydrate and put information technology in a saucepan to heat, I started having my doubts. This was a lot of sugar. My kids were going to exist wired. Around minute fifteen, the mixture of sugar, water and a tablespoon of vinegar (odd) looked nothing like syrup. I messaged my friend Christina, a much better cook than I. "Settle in," she said. "You might be stirring that for xl minutes or and then." It took nearly 30.
Conclusion: Later on folding the syrup into more beaten egg whites and calculation some vanilla and chopped nuts, I dropped the dark-brown blobs by the spoonful onto waxed paper and realized I'd just made false dog poo. I obviously notwithstanding tried it. It tasted like meringue candy with an extra stiff carbohydrate rush. It made my teeth hurt. Not surprisingly, my kids liked it.
Photographing it proved the well-nigh challenging role—how exercise I make it non look similar pet droppings? I started to stress until my friend Leigh put it into perspective for me: "If you lot really were a home cook in the 1920s, y'all wouldn't accept been Instagramming any of the food. Yous probably would have saved photography for actually special occasions and funeral portraits."
Recipe #3: Turkish Soup
I was intrigued by the egg yolks in this one. Would it be like egg drop soup? I searched for this recipe online. The recipe was nothing like Turkish Hymeneals Soup, or corba. I judge the name meant something else in 1920. According to the ingredients list, though, it was essentially craven goop and rice—my family would like this.
How It Went: The instructions requested I "melt the stock," which made me wonder how stock used to be sold back in the twenty-four hours. I poured mine out of a carton. I was besides supposed to "rub the rice through a sieve." I'g not certain in what earth that is possible. I used an immersion blender instead. Thanks, engineering. The final instruction was to "take soup from fire." Information technology sounded like the line of a poem near saving soup from its own demise.
Decision: I institute this soup delicious—and information technology did remind me of egg drop soup. It was salty and comforting. My 3-year-old at least tried it, and so that was a win. My husband wasn't a fan, saying it had "a weird taste." He also asked if that'due south all we were having for dinner. It was a petty calorie-free on the poly peptide. I told him he would accept been thankful for this if information technology were 1920. He looked at me skeptically.
Recipe #four: Johnny Cakes
We apparently needed bread to get along with our soup, and the proper noun Johnny Cakes just made me laugh. I assumed the "Indian meal" it chosen for was cornmeal. Google confirmed my suspicions. This recipe, and so, had to be a basic cornbread, though the directions were vague. There wasn't fifty-fifty an oven temperature listed. Or any mention of an oven at all. Perhaps I was supposed to put it in the fire I merely pulled the soup from?
How It Went: Even though I didn't have the "gem tins" the recipe chosen for—though I pictured muffin tins in the shape of large jewels, something my princess-obsessed toddler might savour—these still turned out just fine in a regular muffin pan. The "1 loving cup sugariness milk" threw me for a second, simply I learned this verbiage was often used to distinguish whole milk from buttermilk.
Conclusion: Holy dry cornbread. Even my carb-loving children shoved these to the side of their plates. I tried dipping one in the soup and it disintegrated. Johnny Cakes were a mystery. My parents afterwards told me these were a staple of their childhoods, only that yous needed to serve them warm and cover them in honey. That tip fabricated all the difference.
At the end of our soup/staff of life/block/candy repast, I revealed to my family that they had actually been sampling the flavors of a century before. Everyone cheered and said how astonishing I was to recreate such historical dishes. Just kidding. No i was impressed and my toddler asked what a 1920 was. Nevertheless, the experiment was fun and I will continue to pore over the book, looking for more classic inspiration. For case, the next time my children decide to throw their breakfast on the floor, we're going to be enjoying a little something chosen Jellied Craven for dinner.
Source: https://www.tasteofhome.com/article/tried-recipes-1920s-cookbook-heres-happened/
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