When I was twelve years old, we moved from a semi-suburban, overwhelmingly Mormon neighborhood to a neighborhood full of hippies. My Jell-O consumption, already shaken by the disappearance of my beloved Jell-O 1-2-3, took a nosedive. Gone were the block parties and playdates with their lime Jell-O jigglers and [...]]]> Jell-O and the Kewpies. New York: American Lithographic Co., 1915.

When I was twelve years old, we moved from a semi-suburban, overwhelmingly Mormon neighborhood to a neighborhood full of hippies. My Jell-O consumption, already shaken by the disappearance of my beloved Jell-O 1-2-3, took a nosedive. Gone were the block parties and playdates with their lime Jell-O jigglers and pistachio puddings; my mother started buying fruit leather and hummus from the local food co-op instead. Over the last few years, in my own mildly reactionary way, I have found my way back to Jell-O. I now own at least three Jell-O cookbooks and a variety of molds. I even had myself convinced at one point that Bavarian Creams (Jell-O style, of course) were just the thing for summer entertaining.

Jell-O did not worm its way into my heart by accident. Orator Frank Woodward, who bought the rights to Jell-O in 1897, was determined to dominate the American gelatin industry. He proved adept at marketing. In 1902, his company, the Genesee Pure Food Co., advertised Jell-O as “America’s Most Famous Dessert,” long before most Americans had ever heard of it. Catchy slogans were only one part of their plan. They also wrote, and cleverly gave away, colorful pamphlets with recipes for Jell-O. These pamphlets created a demand for Jell-O, as Woodward had hoped. Beginning in 1904, these pamphlets included pictures of the “Jell-O Girl.” Her face was displayed prominently on Jell-O boxes and advertisements, and was meant to differentiate Jell-O from its competitors. In 1908, the Kewpies made their first appearance. They were also used in advertisements, pamphlets, and packaging.

This pamphlet, published in 1915, begins with an earnest introduction of the Kewpies. They are “cheery little imps, who are always doing something to lighten tasks and brighten the dull spots in life, to make the easy Jell-O way still plainer and easier” (emphasis added). Jell-O was selling a lifestyle, not just a dessert. They were also, just to be safe, attacking other desserts: “Twenty years ago everybody ate pie and nearly everybody had dyspepsia…. Now there is scarcely a housewife in America who does not make and serve Jell-O desserts, and stomach-ache is not so common as it used to be.” Jell-O was easily molded *and* cured stomach ailments–a wonder dessert!

And, I admit, the desserts do look pretty wonderful. Marion Harland’s Pineapple Bavarian Cream (ingredients: lemon Jell-O, canned pineapple) and the Delmonico Dessert look great. Even the unadorned Raspberry Jell-O in the lower right looks beautiful. They had nicer molds in 1915.

Jell-O, as it happens, is more than just a pretty dessert. It is also, according to the Kewpies, “good for little folks, sick or well.” And though he goes unnamed, “one of the greatest physicians in America says that he found that by combining nuts and fruits with Jell-O he produced a diet which is both sustainable and delightfully palatable.” I might find an all Jell-O diet “delightfully palatable” for about a day, but I find it hard to believe that anyone would want to go much longer than that.

 The pamphlet comes with a little bonus: a section about Jell-O Ice Cream Powder. The box claims that the powder can be used to make “puddings, ice creams, sherbets, and ices.” Jell-O eventually abandoned the ice cream powder idea, and focused their attentions on pudding. These ice creams, though–tutti frutti, walnut, Neapolitan–look rather exciting.

The pamphlet ends with the Kewpies, this time in strange (military, housewife) costumes, guarding the Jell-O, and a reminder that “the famous Jell-O desserts can not be made of anything sold in any other kind of package.”

Jell-O has published countless pamphlets and recipe books. I recommend Carolyn Wyman’s excellent Jell-O: A Biography for those interested in learning more.

Brief infatuation with From Mr. Bingle’s Kitchen aside (the recipe for fruit pizza was and is awesome), I never had much interest in children’s cookbooks. I was a strictly Better Homes and Gardens kind of girl. (I have a weakness for binders, not [...]]]> Oliver, Michel. La Cuisine Est Un Jeu D’Enfants. Paris: Plon, 1963.

Brief infatuation with From Mr. Bingle’s Kitchen aside (the recipe for fruit pizza was and is awesome), I never had much interest in children’s cookbooks. I was a strictly Better Homes and Gardens kind of girl. (I have a weakness for binders, not to mention plaid.) From what I could tell I wasn’t missing much, just a lot of knife-less, stove-less, fun-less recipes. My position has softened a bit lately. I’ve found a few good books (see Alice Waters, Marion Cunningham, Heston Blumenthal), and at least one great one: Michel Oliver’s La Cuisine Est Un Jeu d’Enfants*. It has whimsical illustrations, ambitious recipes (coq au vin, cheese soufflé), and an introduction by Jean Cocteau. I would have *loved* this book when I was eight. Take, for instance, this recipe for Lapin à la Moutarde:

I like the idea of this refined, bib-wearing rabbit having a mustard snack in preparation for becoming dinner. If the rabbit already loves mustard, why not slather him in it? As this recipe suggests, Oliver’s definition of children’s food was generous. He kept the ingredients and the steps to a minimum, but the flavors were complex (in a traditional French kind of way) and he wasn’t afraid to involve knives or an oven.

If your French (like mine) is a little lacking, there is also a lovely English translation, called Cooking is Child’s Play, by Charlotte Turgeon. The entire book is reproduced in the original French, with monochrome English translations after each recipe. Like this, for our friend the rabbit:

The translation includes a small note at the top about buying quartered, frozen rabbit if whole, fresh rabbits are not available. This is apparently not a problem when the recipe is in French.

One last picture, because I love this chicken and his swimsuit. (English version here.)

Also by Michel Oliver: La Cuisine Est Un Jeu De Grands Enfants, La Patisserie Est Un Jeu D’Enfants

*Apologies for the somewhat crappy scanning. This book is HUGE, and my poor scanner couldn’t handle it.

The Food Control Division of the War Shipping Administration (the agency that oversaw Merchant Marine ships during WWII) published several books about managing food and cooking while at sea. Though I don’t use it much for recipes (they all [...]]]> War Shipping Administration, Food Control Division. Cooking and Baking on Shipboard. Washington: GPO, 1945. 358pp.

The Food Control Division of the War Shipping Administration (the agency that oversaw Merchant Marine ships during WWII) published several books about managing food and cooking while at sea. Though I don’t use it much for recipes (they all serve 100), I have a copy of one of them, Cooking and Baking on Shipboard. Published in 1945, it is full of bland food and remarkable illustrations of butchery. Pages and pages of how to cut up a cow. Followed by pages and pages of how to cut up a pig. And then a couple of recipes for biscuits and mashed potatoes thrown in for good measure. In the earnest letter that accompanies the book, Harold J. O’Connell (Director, Food Control) explains that it provides “the most up-to-date and efficient suggestions for planning and making better meals,” exactly what the stewards, cooks, and bakers need to run “the best-feeding Merchant Marine in the world:”

What Mr. O’Connell doesn’t say is that being the “best-feeding Merchant Marine” appears to have involved a lot of beef and some creepy illustrations. In the spread below, our friend the cow has been enlisted to point out his “less-tender” cuts and how best to use them. He seems so happy! He’s gleefully pointing at the butchery chart while rubbing shoulders with the captain and the cook! He’s even (in the lower left corner) carrying a box of “WSA Beef,” looking pleased as punch to play his part. Is he happy that it’s not him not cut up into tiny pieces in that box? Or is he just thrilled that the WSA likes beef? Hard to say.

The chicken in this next illustration doesn’t look quite so happy, unfortunately. It does, however, provide a fascinating look at the changes in chicken anatomy over the last sixty years. Aside from the fact that this chicken still has its head and feet, unlike its neatly packaged modern supermarket counterpart, this chicken is clearly different. Just look at its breasts: small and seemly. Not at all the puffed up, bloated chicken breasts that are de rigeur today. The legs clearly have at least as much meat, if not more, than the breasts! For an idea of just how much things have changed, look at this. It’s as if someone took the chicken below and blew it up with a bicycle pump. Yuck.

More publications of the War Shipping Administration: How to Keep Food Records on Shipboard; How to Stow and Take Care of Food on Shipboard.

My mother barely drinks at all, and while my father does, it’s in a decidedly unglamorous cans-of-bud-lite and jugs-or-sometimes-even-boxes-of-red-wine kind of way. Either because, or perhaps in spite of my upbringing, I’ve always liked the idea of serious, [...]]]> Erlanger, Baba and Daren Pierce. The Compleat Martini Cook Book. Illus. Elizabeth Fraser. New York: Random Thoughts, 1957.

My mother barely drinks at all, and while my father does, it’s in a decidedly unglamorous cans-of-bud-lite and jugs-or-sometimes-even-boxes-of-red-wine kind of way. Either because, or perhaps in spite of my upbringing, I’ve always liked the idea of serious, yet controlled, drinking, the kind done by ad men and literary types in movies from the 1950s and 60s. Hence my fondness for the The Compleat Martini Cook Book. Clearly a farce (the authors report being “shoved” from their “Newport nest” at the tender age of 34), the book nonetheless includes some fairly edible-seeming recipes, arranged in order of how many martinis should be drunk before attempting to cook them. The instructions take into account the sobriety of the chef, suggesting, sensibly, that knives should probably be avoided after four or five drinks. I chose the recipe below because it includes pickled beets (yum!) and because I LOVE the illustration. I think it perfectly captures that green, yet languid, state that can be reached after a night of hard drinking:

In keeping with the book’s boozy, breezy tone, the authors made a few mistakes. But such funny mistakes! I have to admit, I’ve never been so charmed by errata. They forgot to list peas as an ingredient in “Mrs. Joseph Erlanger Peas Wild or Tame;” they left a spoon sitting in the “Cartier Chowder;” and they forgot to list the tuna in the “Tuna Princess.” The mistakes sound suspiciously like mistakes a tipsy cook would make, and the skeptic in me wonders if the errata were more a joke than honest omissions. Either way, they made me laugh:

Baba Erlanger (real name: Jane Trahey) and Daren Pierce went on to one more glorious collaboration: Son of the Martini Cookbook, which I will write about another day.

Published in 1931, Lovely Food was the work of an English socialite and hostess, Ruth Lowinsky. Her husband, Thomas, was a Surrealist painter, and they collaborated on the book. She wrote the menus and the recipes; he drew centerpieces to go [...]]]> Lowinsky, Ruth. Lovely Food: A Cookery Notebook. London: The Nonesuch Press, 1931. 8vo. 127pp

Published in 1931, Lovely Food was the work of an English socialite and hostess, Ruth Lowinsky. Her husband, Thomas, was a Surrealist painter, and they collaborated on the book. She wrote the menus and the recipes; he drew centerpieces to go with them. Lowinsky’s emphasis was more on entertaining than on cooking; many of the recipes are mere outlines. When preparing clear mushroom consommé, she simply tells the reader to “make a good consommé,” neglecting to go into what that might actually involve. The result is recipes that read more like instructions from mistress to cook than tips for a novice in the kitchen. The references to servants sprinkled throughout the book make it seem likely that this is, in fact, what Lowinsky had in mind.

Lowinsky, merits at the stove aside, was clearly an energetic and entertaining hostess. The menus in the book are all centered around witty, and occasionally improbable, dining scenarios. In one, she imagines that the reader’s stuffy father-in-law is coming to dinner, “prepared to judge you as either the laziest housekeeper in Europe, or the most extravagant, or even a subtle combination of the two.” Under the circumstances, she suggests consommé, smelts, chicken, meringues, and a centerpiece that looks like it might have been made from a slinky:

In addition to in-laws, Lowinsky addresses a number of other possible dining companions: those who don’t eat red meat (a rarity, one would assume, in 1931); those who fancy themselves gourmets but really only fancy their own opinions; and my favorite, a “dream party” made up entirely of her intellectual crushes. She acknowledges that “one can never hope to meet, or if met, be remembered by: Einstein, Mr Charles Chaplin, Freud, Virginia Woolf, Stella Benson, Mussolini, P.G. Wodehouse, Mistinguett, Lydia Lopokova, and Jean Cocteau,” but she suggests a menu nonetheless. Apparently, they would best enjoy a slightly exotic meal, interpreted through the lens of classic French cuisine:

Her old stand-by, consommé, makes an appearance, but this time it is bolstered by the addition of some curry powder and “desiccated cocoanut” (perhaps for Mussolini’s benefit?). The tomatoes are Spanish, the salmon “en suprise.” The centerpiece looks like a wedding cake.

Though the menu suggestions may seem a bit over the top, and the recipes occasionally under-developed, Lovely Food has an undeniable charm. It’s worth reading for the centerpieces alone. And who else would tell you what to make if P.G. Wodehouse was coming over to dinner?

Ruth Lowinsky’s other books include: More Lovely Food, Food for Pleasure, and Russian Food for Pleasure.