Carrot cake is my favorite cake.
 
And since I’ve long been a Cake Girl (as opposed to a Pie Girl or Cookie Girl, desserts that are both yummy, but nope, don’t hold a candle to cake), I’ve had more than a few decades to reach this conclusion.  This means that I’ve sampled thousands of slices of two and three-layer cakes, with a lot of frosting or just a little; sheet and Bundt versions, and even a few mixed together in a cast iron skillet.
 
I also bake from scratch.  So, when I talk about my most-loved cake, my point of view is of someone who knows that the finest ones never involve a mix and never skimp on ingredients. 
 
One terrific chocolate cake in my repertoire calls for a cup of strong coffee.  I’m also partial to my red velvet cake, a birthday favorite whose deep color goes hand-in-hand next to a perfect round scoop of vanilla ice cream. A few years ago I baked half a dozen classic white cakes in a row, including a Lady Baltimore, which has chopped nuts and raisins in the frosting.  But the Hubster’s tastes are more basic: a simple yellow cake with chocolate frosting is his choice.   
 
These are the kind of cakes in my mother’s cookbooks.  
 
But when I think about a carrot cake, I don’t remember ever seeing one in any book, much less on our kitchen cake plate.   
The Ohio-born Hubster swears his mom made them, but I don’t think the cake became popular in California, where I grew up, until the early 1970s.  Even then, they appeared exclusively at health food stores, although I also recall making my first one a few years later in college, baked in a rectangular Pyrex pan with just a bit of icing on top. 
 
But after my cousin make a birthday carrot cake for my daughter, I knew I had found The Best Cake Ever.
 
Her recipe, which instantly became mine, features two cups of freshly grated carrots and a small can of
crushed pineapple, which makes the cake super moist.  And like my red velvet cake, there’s no skimping on the
​cream cheese frosting.
 
Best of all, it’s a “dump cake.”  This means only a single bowl is required to make it, with each ingredient dumped one by one into the mixture until the batter is complete.  Wash the bowl while the cake is baking and voila, assembling the cream cheese frosting is done in the same bowl.
 
Then, a few weeks ago, my head and taste buds made an unexpected carrot cake turnaround.
 
I’d gone to an event at a park, and sitting on a picnic table was the biggest sheet cake I’d ever seen.  I assumed it was from a bakery, but in fact, it was from WinCo Foods, the largest supermarket around here and one I’m especially partial to because all of its 126 stores, located mostly on the West Coast, are employee owned.   
 
Still, I kept the bar low. 
 
I assumed this was going to be like any other supermarket cake I’d ever had, which is to say, dry and tasteless.  And when I saw it was a carrot cake, I knew, for sure, that compared to my dump cake I’d be underwhelmed.
 
Then I tried a slice.
 
Not only was the cake very fresh, there was a lot of visible grated carrot, chopped walnuts and even raisins.  It was also very dark and moist, which made me think that this recipe must also have pineapple. 
 
I later found out that unlike other markets whose cakes are assembled off site, WinCo cakes are made in-house with a 24-hour notice.  I also learned that I didn’t need to purchase a giant cake; I could order a quarter size sheet cake that measured nine by 13 inches.  And because it was a carrot cake, I also knew that I’d be able to divide it into individual servings that were going to freeze well.
 
Hubster picked up one about a week later and this one was just as yummy as the one I’d had in the park.  Plus, there was a lot of cream cheese frosting, which made the cake even higher than what is usually in a Pyrex dish the same size.
 
I don’t expect to start buying cakes from WinCo on a regular basis.
 
After all, I love to bake and I love to try new dessert recipes.
 
But if I’m in the mood for carrot cake, there won’t be any need to trot out my turquoise stand mixer or metal grater or glass measuring cups anymore. 
 
I’ll just call WinCo. 

If you’re worried and weary, as so many of us are these days, make a retro Jell-O salad.    
 
Those of us who are baby boomers know this jiggly dessert was once as American as mom, apple pie and baseball.  Plus,
it was easy to make; cost pennies, and came in dozens of bright Technicolor flavors.
 
Of course, life in the ‘50s and early ‘60s wasn’t exactly a picnic either.   
 
We didn’t have a pandemic, but we had the Korean War and the Cold War.  On its heels was Joe McCarthy’s nasty
anti-Communist crusade and the blacklisting in Hollywood that followed; dangerous backstreet abortions, and only
the most rudimentary help for those battling mental illness.  And, even though there wasn’t a name for it,
systemic racism permeated everything.   
 
None of these events affected us.    
 
We spent summer days riding bikes and playing tag and hide and seek and Cowboys and Indians.  The phrase “play date” didn’t exist; we only knew that we had to be home in time for dinner.  Inside, in our dens and living rooms and bedrooms, knees touched as we played with Barbies and plastic horses and jacks and coloring books.  Saturday mornings were for watching cartoons on TV.

Now because of COVID-19, most of us are, and should be, very cautious.

At this writing, the virus has claimed 125,033 American lives and 495,000 deaths worldwide.  Twenty-seven states are seeing an increase in new cases, with Texas, California and Arizona reporting new record numbers.  Just as troubling, a growing number of those thought to have recovered are left with permanent and serious organ damage.

As for the Hubster and me, we’re doing our best to do everything right—wearing masks and socially distancing; washing our hands often, and getting outdoors for Vitamin D.

Luckily, leaving the house wasn’t necessary to make a Creamy Lime Jell-O salad.  
 
I chose this recipe because it felt nostalgic, bringing me back to the simpler times from my childhood.    
 
The lime really screamed the color lime, and besides, there was cream cheese and mayonnaise in the mix.  Three cans of fruit cocktail in heavy syrup (and as I remembered, still not enough cherries) and chopped pecans topped off the ingredient list. 
 
After finding the recipe, I started to wonder if other boomers recalled the Jell-O concoctions they loved from the time they were small.  So, I posed that question to a closed Facebook group I’m in, one where many of the members are about
my age.
 
The first reply came in less than a minute.  Ultimately, more than 200 folks posted their gelatin memories, including orange with mandarin oranges and pineapple chunks; strawberry Jello-O with 7-Up, and plain black cherry.  Some still served the family recipe, often featuring Cool Whip and walnuts.     
 
The lime salad I had called for a mold, but I had given mine away.  That meant the end result didn’t look nearly so fancy as the pictures accompanying the recipe.  My take ended up in a rectangular Pyrex dish, but I’m sure it tasted just as good.  In fact, it was probably better because I added a cream cheese/whipped cream frosting on top, and then garnished that with lime green sugar sprinkles.
 
Just looking at this creation made me feel a little bit happier, and eating it made me feel good, too.  Plus, it’s a lot cheaper than therapy, which I can’t go to now anyway.
 
What Jell-O salad do you remember from your childhood?
 
P.S. Here’s the recipe I used.  For extra flair, mix four ounces of softened cream cheese; a pint of freshly whipped cream, and half a cup of powdered sugar together.  Then, spoon and smooth on top of the salad.
https://homemadehooplah.com/creamy-lime-jello-salad/   
  

Making snowball cookies helps keeps my worries at bay.

​And, now that the COVID-19 panademic is causing millions around the world to quarantine or shelter in place, with a major economic depression a likely consequence,  high anxiety has quickly become our new normal.
 
But there’s also a corner of joy in my teal and white kitchen, where there’s butter, sugar, flour and cookie sheets.
 
Because snowball cookies usually make an appearance around Christmas, folks forget that they can be made all year long.  
Thought to originate in England during the Middle Ages, these two or three-bite treats are also known as Mexican or Greek wedding cookies; butterballs, or powdered sugar balls.  My version calls them honey sand balls since honey is added.  But each share this: there are only a handful of ingredients, and once the dough is put together, the cookies can hit the oven quickly since the dough needs no refrigeration.
 
When snowballs aren’t part of a frenzied holiday ritual, making these cookies provides a comforting rhythm.  
 
Cream together softened butter (always use the real, good stuff) with a bit of powdered sugar, then add flour, vanilla (also use real) and a touch of salt. Lastly, mix in your favorite nuts (walnuts or pecans or hazelnuts work).  I get about
a dozen balls per sheet because even though the recipe has no baking powder or soda, the balls flatten and expand
while baking.  
 
Then comes the very best part (except for the eating): use your (very clean) hands to roll one buttery treat at a time into a one-inch or so sized ball.  Just as studies have shown that gardening in dirt may help ease depression, I think it’s also true when it comes to immersing our hands in cookie dough.   
 
You also can’t fret about anything while making snowballs. 
 
This is because you have to single mindedly be on top of the timing.   
 
Snowballs, you see, are fragile, and even in an oven set at a low 325 degrees, these cookies will burn unless carefully monitored.  Although my recipe calls for 14 minutes, I check the cookies at about 11, and usually find them done with just a tinge of very light browning around the edges.  I’ll take the sheet out and let it sit for only a minute on a wire rack.  Then, with my (very clean) hands, I gently take each ball and roll it in powdered sugar.  After all the balls are done, I roll them in powdered sugar a second time.  A third time won't hurt.  The important point of the sugar assemblage is to do the rolling as soon as possible, because the sugar only sticks when the cookies are hot.    
 
Snowballs are also pretty, so I display them in a glass domed cake stand.  They’ll stay fresh for more than a week this way, but they freeze well, too. When ready to eat one of the latter, just pop it in the microwave for about 10 seconds.  And, since these treats are much lighter than chocolate chip or heavily iced cookies, one or two make a perfect bedtime snack with tea or milk.
 
In the end, though, it doesn’t make any difference how or when you eat snowballs. 
 
Because no matter what, your taste buds will do a happy dance.
 
Honey Sand Balls
 
1 cup (2 sticks) softened butter
½ cup sifted powdered sugar
2 tablespoons honey
2 cups all-purpose flour
¾ chopped walnuts (or pecans or hazelnuts
1 teaspoon vanilla
¼ teaspoon salt
More powdered sugar for the last step
 
Preheat oven to 325 degrees.
 
In a large mixing bowl, beat the butter and sifted powdered sugar, then add the honey.  Mix until blended.
 
Beat or stir in the flour, nuts, vanilla and salt.  Mix thoroughly, and if you’d like, use your (very clean) hands.
 
Shape the dough into 1-inch balls, places about 1 ½ inches apart on a cookie sheet lined with parchment paper. 
 
Bake for about 14 minutes, but check at about 11 minutes to see if the cookies are done.  They should be very lightly browned around the edges.
 
While the cookies are still warm, roll them gently in powdered sugar, then roll again.  Roll a third time for them to be extra powdery.
 
Makes about 35 cookies.

​I discovered hibiscus tea in Guatemala.
 
This was last year, when I attended a writing retreat on the shores of Lake Atitlan, one of the most beautiful and magical bodies of water on the planet.  Encircled by lush green mountains, Mayan villages and cone shaped volcanos, my time there taught me how to up my storytelling game.
 
Then came the hibiscus. 
 
The retreat provided lunch and snacks, and iced hibiscus tea, in a large silver pitcher with a matching carafe of sugar syrup at its side, was always on the table.  Ruby red with a kick of tangy flavor, the drink comes from the dried flowers and leaves of the plant by the same name, and was the only cold tea offered.  
 
As it turns out, hibiscus not only tastes great, but has a ton of health benefits, including helping to lower blood pressure; ease depression, and aid digestion.    
 
I wasn’t unfamiliar with this tea.
 
Decades ago, in college, I knew it as Red Zinger from Celestial Seasonings, and drank it hot.   Perhaps best known for the imaginative art work on its boxes, the company’s colorful drawings seemed to be in everyone’s pantry in the 1970s, especially if you were under 30 years old. 
 
Still, I had no idea then that tea bags often sit in warehouses for years, which might be the reason that when I sipped Red Zinger, the taste was more of a suggestion of hibiscus than what I experienced in Guatemala.  (Also, while this tea is mostly hibiscus, it has traces of peppermint, rose hips and orange peel.)
 
Now, just like the tea at the writing retreat, I drink my hibiscus cold.
 
To make it, I take out two, quart sized Mason jars from a kitchen cupboard (mine cost 50 cents each at Goodwill).  Then I dump about four tablespoons of dried hibiscus into each container. (Hibiscus is sold at health food stores or sometimes, supermarkets with a large bulk section. It’s also cheap—about two cups are under five dollars, and yield about five large pitchers of tea.)   Next, I fill the jars nearly to the top with cold water, secure the tops with tin foil, and put them in the refrigerator overnight.
 
The next morning, the liquid in those jars is that deep ruby color I’ve come to love. I retreive my biggest pitcher, which is plastic, chartreuse and seemingly indestructible, remove the lid and place a strainer on top.  Then I carefully pour the contents of both jars in. 
 
But I don’t get rid of the strainer with the now-wet hibiscus just yet. 
 
That’s because I’m busy making sugar syrup, which is one cup of white sugar to one cup of water, mixed in a small saucepan over medium heat.  Turn off the burner just before the water boils, making sure there are no visible grains
of sugar.
 
Then throw in a small handful of fresh, coarsely chopped herbs to the pan and stir.  (Basil was the go-to herb in Guatemala, but rosemary and oregano and Italian parsley work, too.)  There will be the very faintest essence of whatever herb was dropped in the syrup, which adds to the overall flavor profile of the tea.   Cool a bit, then pour the syrup on top of the flowers still in the strainer.  I also go back to my Mason jars now, and fill them with about one cup of water each, and pour that in the strainer, too.   
 
Next, remove the strainer with the flowers and herbs, and stir well.  My hibiscus tea is finally ready to drink,  so I screw the lid to the pitcher back on.  But often, I’ll add one-eighth of a teaspoon of almond or vanilla extract to the mix (other folks like orange slices or a cinnamon stick or two).  Sometimes, if I’m really jonesing for a glass and can’t wait for the tea to cool, I’ll toss some ice in a cup and drink it immediately. 
 
Because I like this tea so much, I do my best to always have dried hibiscus on hand.
 
But last month I used up my last little bit, and the store where I’ve always found it wasn’t expecting a shipment for at least another week. 

My heart started to beat faster and my breathing became shallow.  Luckily, no one seemed to notice as an employee guided me to an aisle with boxes of hibiscus tea bags.  
 
I politely refused his suggestion. 
 
It took me another week, and checking out another venue that had run out as well, but I finally scored at a third place in town.  This time, I stocked up with three cups of dried hibiscus. 
 
I don’t plan to run out again anytime soon.
 
How about you?  What’s your favorite can’t-live-without-it beverage? 

I finally got around to making sauerkraut balls.
 
For those who don't know about this appetizer, welcome to my world. 
 
Not being aware of this snack was a surprise because I’m a committed home cook and foodie.  But, I’m also a native Californian, and since these treats are most popular in Ohio, it made sense that I hadn’t heard of them.    
 
However, the Buckeye-educated Hubster has rhapsodized about sauerkraut balls for years.
 
They were terrific, he said, with a beer or a Pepsi.  He also spoke of Boomer, a pet Bassett hound from years before.  Boomer frequently ran away but was easy to retrieve—since he was always busy scarfing down sauerkraut balls at a nearby tavern where the dish was a happy hour staple.  Also, my spouse remembered a certain Mr. and Mrs. Duncan, two of his parents’ best friends.  Mr. Duncan loved sauerkraut balls so much that when he and his wife came for dinner, he always made a complete meal out of them, even forsaking grilled steak or fried chicken.   
 
Here was my picture of a sauerkraut ball.
 
It was hard and icy, a wadded ball of old cabbage that looked exactly like a delicious coconut macaroon. I’d take a bite and there was the reveal—a sauerkraut ball was going to taste like the sourest pickled cabbage imaginable, held together with white glue.  
 
In other words, here was a dish I was never going to have the time to make. 
 
But my spouse never gave up. 
 
A few months ago, he printed out a recipe with a photo, and presented it to me while I was in my office.  Okay.  It didn’t look too labor intensive, and what do you know: the instructions said it made more than two dozen balls, but only called for one can of sauerkraut.  And, it featured bread crumbs, sausage, cream cheese and chopped onion, ingredients I could definitely get behind.  Also, he said that while the directions called for deep frying, his mother baked them, which meant less time in the kitchen. 
 
I was game, although I quickly discovered that the recipe wasn’t simple.    
 
For one thing, I couldn’t just drain the sauerkraut and dump it in my big yellow Pyrex bowl. Nope, I had to squeeze the stuff completely dry, using three different dish towels to do so. Then, I had to snip it all into small pieces.
 
However, I was determined to cross the finish line.  
 
After prepping the kraut, I mixed it with those other yummy ingredients, along with milk and eggs and mustard and parsley.  It resembled uncooked meatloaf, another dish that the Hubster loves.  The difference—besides the sauerkraut, of course—is that the concoction needed to chill for an hour.   When that time was up, I divided the mix into small meatball size balls and dipped each one in flour.  This part took the longest to do.  Right about then, my spouse suddenly remembered that in Ohio, sauerkraut balls are often made assembly-line style.
 
Once the balls started cooking, though, I knew everything was right with the world.
 
They puffed up a bit, and smelled divine.  Also, since the recipe instructed that they be consumed hot out of the oven, how could I not comply?
 
Sauerkraut balls are astonishingly amazing.
 
Best of all, and a revelation to me, the sauerkraut didn’t overpower the meatball.  It simply gave the snack a nice bite.  In fact, if you’ve never had one, you might find it difficult to identify the recipe’s title .     
 
I’m absolutely up for making sauerkraut balls again.
 
But there’s another Midwest recipe that the Hubster wants me to do first.  
 
It’s a cherry cola-chocolate-mayonnaise-sauerkraut cake.  

​When I make my spaghetti, all is right with the world.
 
I started refining the dish decades ago, after my mother wrote it down on a now stained and much used index card. 
 
But like most folks who are comfortable in an apron, her recipe was more of a suggestion than an instruction.  So, I’ve experimented and finessed with the ingredients and assemblage for a long time, which also means that the sauce is a little different every time.
 
Like many housewives of the 1950s on a budget, my mother’s recipe was both simple and cheap. 
 
The basic ingredients were a pound or so of hamburger, celery and an onion; tomato sauce and tomato paste, and some  green bell pepper (but only if there was some left over in the frig).  Water was added, along with a bit of cut up pepperoni, table salt and pepper, and dried spices (I knew nothing about fresh herbs until I was an adult). 
 
The sauce was spooned over whatever spaghetti noodles—pasta was a word no one had ever heard of—on sale.  And
given the times, it was topped with the only parmesan cheese any of us knew about, powdered and in a green
cardboard container.   
 
​It was delicious.
 
My jollying up begins with the meat.  I use ground chuck because it has a sweeter profile than plain hamburger meat, as well as more fat. I also buy three quarters of a pound of not-in-casing Italian sausage because that’s what The Hubster likes.  But sometimes I’ll substitute pepperoni, cut in thin nickel shapes, just as my mom liked to do.  However, I add more than she did, up to one heaping cup.
 
My mom only used one pot, which is where I make my initial big turn.
 
I do brown the chuck and sausage with a tiny bit of olive oil (if using pepperoni, that’s added later) in her Dutch oven. But once that’s going, I heat a large frying pan with more olive oil.  Setting the burner to medium, I’ll sauté one large chopped yellow onion, an entire chopped green bell pepper, three coarsely chopped stalks of celery, and 10 sliced, fresh mushrooms, all sprinkled with a bit of kosher salt.  I won’t completely cook this, so the flame goes off after five minutes.   

At this time, preheat the oven at 375 degrees, because another ingredient will go into the Dutch oven soon.   
 
Once the meat has cooked, the veggie mix and its juices are poured in. Then I’ll add a 15 ounce can of good tomato sauce and a six ounce can of tomato paste (I like Contadina).  Next I’ll fill the empty tomato sauce can with water, then put that water in the pot.  I’ll do this two more times, then add one small can of chopped black olives and if using pepperoni, that as well.  Stir completely while bringing the mixture to a slow boil. 
 
The oven should be up to temperature by now, so it’s time for roasted garlic.
 
Take one large garlic bulb and with a serrated knife, cut off the top, and even a little of the sides, to ensure that all of the cloves are showing a bit.  Place the bulb top up in tin foil with a bay leaf and a bit of olive oil, wrap well and put in the oven for 40 minutes or so.    
 
Once the sauce comes to a boil, turn the heat down so it’s barely bubbling.  Now is also the time to add fresh herbs: two heaping tablespoons each of chopped basil and oregano, and a little kosher salt.  Let it cook for about 45 minutes, then take the garlic bulb out to cool. 
 
Next, I add an ingredient that sounds odd, but works—a heaping tablespoon of honey.  It won’t make the sauce sweet, but does takes away any taste of acidity.  Squeezing the cooked garlic cloves into the pot also happens now.
 
Keep simmering for a few hours, making sure to stir and add water as needed.  It’s a good time for more salt to taste, too.  I’m also grating some fresh parmesan cheese about now. 
 
Once the sauce has bubbled for two and half hours, make your pasta. The Hubster and I like thin spaghetti cooked al dente.  My mom always poured cold water over the done pasta, but I won’t do this step because the sauce sticks much better without it.    
 
Five minutes before serving, I turn the burner off the pot and let it sit.  Then I put sauce and pasta together in a family style bowl.  But I always place the pot of sauce on the table, too, because some folks like extra.  The parmesan cheese sits next to both.
 
This sauce isn’t nearly as cost effective as my mom’s.  But it can be made for about $15—with plenty left over for another meal or a few lunches.  In fact, this recipe tastes even better the second and third time around. 
 
Someday, I hope my daughter will want to learn how to make my spaghetti.  
 
I can’t know how it will taste.
 
But I do know that a lot of room for improvisation—as it was for my mom and me—will be encouraged.     

Right off, I’ll tell you that this post has nothing to do with an adorable puppy or kitten or guinea pig joining
our household.  Also, it’s not about a human baby, because really, for that to happen now, there would have to
be a star in the East.
 
What it is about is a cookbook.
 
Those who know me, and those who read this blog, know I collect vintage American cookbooks. 
 
They’re not just for display.  I use them—a lot. 
 
Because of its nostalgic value, my favorite is my mom’s 1950, first edition Betty Crocker’s Picture Cook Book—written for the I-can’t-even-boil-water, post-World War II brides.  It’s obvious how much I get mine out, since the spine is held together with duct tape.  I also depend on an exact facsimile of the 1953 “Red Plaid” Better Homes and Gardens New Cook Book, formatted in a user friendly three-ring binder.  It was the perfect birthday present from The Hubster a few years back. 
 
Too, there’s the 1960s four-book set of good eats titled Favorite Recipes of America, which I bought from a long gone cookbook store in beautiful downtown Burbank.  Added to these are more than a dozen smaller books and pamphlets, each one stashed in my kitchen corner.  These publications always provide at least one dish that’s worth a return visit.
 
Now, I expect to be making many happy returns to my new addition--The Settlement Cook Book.

Purchased at a library sale for two dollars, I'd never heard of the title, but it called to me.  With its mustard yellow cover, it's the opposite of fancy schmancy, with only a red heart, its name and a tiny sketch of a female cook on the front.  It's utilitarian inside, too: there are no photos, not even grainy black and white ones, but it's still nearly 600 pages, and weighs in at a couple of pounds.

Yet as it turns out, there's a remarkable story behind the story with The Settlement Cook Book--one that's far more layered and therefore, goes far beyond great recipes.

First, it's the most famous, and most successful, fundraising recipe book of all time.

Indeed, this past summer saw the cookbook's 40th edition come out (mine is the 33rd edition, from 1976); it was also its 116th anniversary.  Breaking down the numbers a bit more, this book has also sold more than 1.5 million copies worldwide, and remained a best-selling cookbook well into the 1970s.  
 
Given this success, as well as how long The Settlement Cook Book has been around, I have no idea how I missed this particular circus ring.  
 
But I’m happy to learn about it now.
 
The cookbook’s origins began at the turn of the last century, in Milwaukee, Wisconsin, at a place called The Settlement House.  A sort of combination social service agency and community center for the urban poor, it serviced a large population of newly arrived Jewish immigrants from Eastern Europe.  To help these strangers adjust to America—so many were eager to learn about the life and ways of the United States—the volunteer run center offered free sewing, English and cooking classes. 
 
The latter was taught by Lizzie Black Kander, who founded the center and, no surprise, was a terrific cook.  But
soon, Kander came to regret the fact that her excited students had to spend so much time carefully copying recipes
from a blackboard. 
 
So, she came up with an inspired idea: why not print out the recipes and lessons that went with them? 
 
The female volunteer committee at The Settlement enthusiastically approved the plan, but the conservative males who held the purse strings refused to authorize the $18 that Kander needed.  Instead, they suggested that the women come up with the funding themselves, and then laughingly offered to “share in any profits from your little venture.”
 
Undaunted, the ladies raised the money themselves—more than enough, in fact, to make the project a more ambitious one than previously envisioned. 
 
Recipes were collected from not only original committee members, but other friends, as well as European dishes from the students and their families.  Finally, in April of 1901, 1,000 copies of a slim (174 pages) book appeared--The way to a man’s heart…The Settlement Cook Book.   One more thing: since it was designed for Settlement clients, one didn’t have to know much English to figure out the recipes.  
 
(Another aside: although many of the cookbook’s devoted readers consider the book to be a Jewish one, early editions actually contained very few Jewish recipes.  The new arrivals, after all, already knew how to make those dishes.) 
 
There’s no question that Kander, whose own parents were German Jews, and the other women who worked at Settlement House, wanted to help the new immigrants adjust to, and even flourish in, their new country. 
 
But there was an elephant in the room, too—one having to do with self-survival over selflessness.   
 
To be blunt, Kander and so many others noticed that these new arrivals looked, dressed, worshipped and ate very differently than the already established Jewish community, mostly German Americans, of Milwaukee.  This latter group was also a generally prosperous one, and it was feared that this latest influx of immigrants would pull them down. 
 
Worse, it was thought by many that they would inspire a new wave of anti-Semitism. 
 
In short, Kander felt it was crucial for her students and their families to “Americanize”—the swifter, the better—in order not to reflect negatively on the Jews who already had firm roots in Milwaukee.  To that end, Kander’s cookbook helped pave the road toward near-total assimilation.
 
It’s all a fascinating back story.  But the book still wouldn’t mean a whole lot to this foodie if the recipes aren’t
​worth making.
 
So far, I’ve only tried two, but both have proven so tasty that I’ll absolutely be making them again.
 
One is a Thousand Island dressing, which, until I read the Settlement recipe, meant putting together ketchup and mayonnaise, and if I felt ambitious, some pickle relish and a bit of cream to thin out the mixture.  The Settlement recipe has only one tablespoon of ketchup, but that’s all that’s needed, because there’s also chili sauce, green peppers, pimiento, onion juice and a finely chopped hard-boiled egg.  
 
The other is a vegetable beef soup that requires a hunk of beef shank (two pounds worth) to simmer in two quarts of cold water for four hours before anything else is added.  When I later put in the vegetables—cabbage, carrots, celery root, parsley and tomatoes—it occurred to me that I was also making bone broth.  (However, I will not be making the book’s chicken broth, which calls for 10 chicken feet, scalded and skinned, nails removed.)
 
Perhaps it all comes down to this:  so often, the best ideas—and that includes the best eats—are the most tried and true ones.  Thinking about The Settlement Cook Book, I couldn’t agree more. 
 
How about you?  What are your favorite cookbooks and/or recipes, and why? 
 
P.S. Learn more about Lizzie Black Kander at http://www.wi101.org/?story=elizabeth-lizzie-black-kander

Once upon a time, Halloween used to be a holiday that mostly focused around kids. At least for me, that meant going trick or treating; carving jack-o-‘lanterns, and making/buying scary or cute costumes.
 
And, all of these elements are still, absolutely, part and parcel of this uniquely American, ghoulish celebration of all things having to do with the mash-up of ghosts, cheap candy and decorating houses with toilet paper.
 
But in the past decade or so, something else has hit. 
 
Much like the 1950s sci-fi movieThe Blob (which also marked the film debut of ultra-cool dreamboat Steve McQueen), it creeps and spreads and swallows up everything in its path, invading every molecule of Halloween with astounding speed and efficiency. Moreover, it’s now making its debut in August, and it doesn’t even start to retreat until everything to do with Christmas is at full warp speed. 
 
We’re talking pumpkin spice.
 
Don’t misunderstand me.
 
I like a good slice of pumpkin pie as much as anyone else, especially when it’s ice cold and homemade; topped with real whipped cream, and uses sweetened condensed milk as a key ingredient. I’m also okay with a piece of pumpkin bread a few times during the year, and roasted pumpkin seeds are fine, too.  Actually, my savory pumpkin soup is topped with that very item.
 
But in 2003, everything began to change.
 
That’s when one mighty conglomerate decided to try its hand at something new.  Depending on what side of the arena you’re standing in, the company achieved either astounding success—or made zillions of enemies.  
 
Here are more details.  
 
Fourteen years ago that spring, on the seventh floor of Starbucks headquarters in Seattle, a small group of employees was handed the secret task of coming up with a new flavor for autumn. Through the magic of chemistry, this same team had already invented Eggnog Latte and Peppermint Mocha; now, the powers that be wanted to add a fall beverage to
the lineup. 
 
So, between forkfuls of pumpkin pie and gulps of hot espresso, they attempted to figure out what flavors best complemented their coffee. 
 
After three months of making prototypes and conducting other kinds of tests, Pumpkin Spice Latte—also known as PSL—was born. 
 
Later that year, Starbuck’s introduced the drink to 100 stores in Vancouver, British Columbia, and Washington, D.C.  The beverage had a much wider rollout the next year, and as the saying goes, the rest is history.  (A noteworthy addendum: the final result contained no actual pumpkin, and believe it or not, stayed that way until just two years ago.)   
 
But PSL quickly became more, much more, than the newest drink in town. 
 
That’s because Starbuck’s was also intent on giving the flavor its own brand—one that they hoped would evoke a sweet, rose-colored glasses view of the season. 
 
Buy one of these drinks, and soon, you, too, would be privy to watching perfect orange leaves falling from perfect maple trees; buying the most awesome pumpkin from the best pumpkin patch ever, and experiencing sweater weather coziness, always with your forever mate beside you.
 
Traditional print, TV and radio advertising, but especially social media, helped the campaign along in a big way. 
 
In fact, the beverage even has its own Twitter account (@TheReal PSL, with its profile photo the drink topped with whipped cream and wearing orange sunglasses), which means that someone in Seattle has to come up with new and witty things to say about a chemically laden, sugary high calorie drink on a nearly daily basis.  As writing jobs go, it certainly wouldn’t be one I’d be thrilled to do, but what do I know?  
 
But now, you don’t even have to like lattes to get gobbled up in the invasion.
 
That’s because, especially this month, pumpkin spice whatever-you-want seems to be, well, everywhere.    
 
This seems mostly true at Trader Joe’s, which started in Los Angeles as a little niche place for wine, cheese and bread lovers, but is now a full-service grocery with nearly 500 stores across the country featuring employees wearing faux Hawaiian shirts.  Boasting many of its own in-house labels, this year’s TJ’s offerings include pumpkin spice flavored coffee and tea, pancake mix, bagels, cookies, cold cereal, ice cream and biscotti. 
 
Elsewhere, other markets are busy hawking pumpkin spice Oreos, organic kale chips (here’s an eewww to that one) and paleo protein powder (double eewww).  One website I visited listed 65—yes, sixty-five—pumpkin spiced foods, with its list including pretzels, snack cakes, coffee creamer, yogurt and truffles.
 
However, you needn’t despair if you still can’t handle the idea of eating pumpkin spice. 
 
That’s because you can still slather your body with it.
 
Yup, a recent shopping center visit found me agog in a national chain body shop store that was hawking pumpkin spice scrubs, moisturizers, bar soaps and hand lotions.  Why anyone would want this scent all over themselves and in their hair is a mystery that even I, an admittedly nosy journalist, don’t want to solve.   Sadly, it wouldn’t surprise me if the next few years, consumers will be able to indulge in pumpkin spice toothpaste, tampons and even motor oil. 
 
(A Facebook chum has some of these fake items mixed in with the real stuff right here, at www.facebook.com/susan.jordan.5686/media_set?set=a.10206927037515021.1073741842.1250602537&type=3.  Maybe you can spot the counterfeit ones—or maybe not.)
 
But, hey, that’s the corporate world for you. 
 
Hand them a fad, and it’s bound to become a never-ending trend... one that apparently isn’t about to vanish anytime soon.     
It’s pretty obvious what side of the circus tent I’m on when it comes to pumpkin spice.  But what about you? 
I look forward to your comments and stories!     

With the weather at last beginning to cool down in our little beach town, I’ve been thinking about soup.
 
More specifically, making my favorite soup, from scratch of course. 
 
And in the coming months right after this one, when it’s pitch black by six o’clock; the wind is cold and blowing hard, and flip flops are definitely not the best footwear for the season, I’ll be putting together lots of other savory broths, too.  
 
My preferred soup is chicken with matzo balls, and there are more than a few reasons why it’s The Chosen One.
 
Nostalgia is the biggest explanation.
 
My mom made this soup for as long as I can remember, probably because it was both cheap and uber-simple.  She’d buy a whole chicken on sale, cut it up, and then dump the meat with enough water to cover the poultry by an inch or so.   The chicken would cook until it was nearly off the bone; after that, she’d add one chopped onion, some carrots cut in a circular shape, and a few stalks of chopped celery.  Final steps were putting in table salt and pepper and bringing the pot to a boil.  After simmering for an hour or so, she’d pull the chicken out, serving it separately on a platter, and keep the broth and veggies in its pot.
 
For a few years when she’d serve this dish, I would dump nearly an entire sleeve of saltines into my bowl, turning dinner into something I called gruel.  (Now that I think about it, this was also around the time I was memorizing songs from the stage play Oliver!, the not  entirely unhappy story about orphan Oliver Twist.  This staging is also where Monkee heartthrob Davy Jones got his first big break, but I digress.)   
 
Like most of my cooking, I’ve now made this soup better by “jollying up” the recipe, which consequently makes it my own.   
First, I buy the chicken already cut, going to a real butcher to get exactly what I want—four meaty thighs and one large half breast, all with skin and bone still on.  I put those pieces in my mom’s Dutch oven, along with bottled water, and bring to a gentle boil, then simmer, all the while removing the pieces of white glob that migrate to the top.  
 
The chicken is done in half an hour, so I remove it (something mom should have done to prevent overcooking), but keep the broth on low.  At this time, I’ll also add a heaping teaspoon or two of Better than Bouillon chicken flavor, but if I don’t have any of that around, a few Knorr bouillon chicken cubes will do.  After the meat has cooled, I discard the skin and bones, and chop the meat into bite-size pieces. 
 
I’ve also started my veggie mix around now.  
 
In a large skillet, I take two or three large loose carrots (never ever buy baby carrots, as they dry out more easily, and in fact, aren’t miniature carrots at all, but remnants from bigger carrots that machines make pretty and smooth and polished), peel them and then cut them matchstick style.  This medley also has one large chopped white or yellow onion (whatever is around) and two or three celery sticks, cut julienne style with a good handful of roughly chopped celery leaves thrown in.  I stir this mix for a couple of minutes in a tablespoon or so of good olive oil, then dump it into my broth.  Then I turn the heat up to a low boil and let everything cook for about 15 minutes.  Next, I turn off the burner and nope, I haven’t put the chicken pieces back in yet.
 
Oh, the matzo balls.
 
My mom would occasionally make them with her soup, but she didn’t know the tricks to making them light and fluffy. They weren’t exactly hockey pucks, but they weren’t exactly melt-in-your-mouth dumplings, either.
 
Lucky for me, I’ve received some guidance in this arena. 
 
I only use name brand matzo meal—Manischewitz or Streit’s—and I get the meal, not the mix.  I follow the directions to a tee except for these things:  I use egg whites, not the entire egg, and instead of broth or water to moisten the matzo, I add club soda.  These two tips help make the finished product light.  But the most important piece of advice I’ve received is this: when shaping the matzo balls, handle them gently and as little as possible.  After the dumplings are assembled, I bring my soup back up to a rolling boil.
 
The raw matzo balls are then dropped into the broth, one at a time. (If you’d like, you can also add a handful of Manischewitz egg noodles now, but even that’s bit much for this carb loving clown.) After the matzo balls are done—they’ll expand to about three times their original size—I lower the temperature and put the cut up chicken back in, heating the meat through.  Lastly, I add my herbs and seasonings, anywhere from a tablespoon to about one-quarter cup of fresh dill and Italian parsley, kosher salt and fresh ground pepper to taste. 
 
Now, turn the soup off and let it set up for a few minutes before ladling it out. Because this soup also freezes well, I sometimes divide the leftovers up in a few individual size containers for later lunches. 
 
I have a lot of other favored soups. 
 
There’s a recipe for the official United States Senate Navy Bean, cut out from a long-ago newspaper and found in my mom’s old recipe box, and a dried split pea made with short ribs instead of a ham hock, typed by someone whose name I don’t recognize, and also discovered in the same box.  I’m always looking for new soup ideas, too: I’ve done Ina Garten’s wild cream of mushroom soup (amazingly good and amazingly labor intensive), and recently, I made an easy cream of celery soup that I’m thinking of serving as the first course for our Christmas Eve supper.  In the next few weeks, I’ll be trying a beef soup that calls for two pounds of meat on a bone—allowed to simmer for a full four hours before any other ingredients are added. 
 
Beyond their yumminess, I make soups for many reasons.
 
One, being a foodie, I actually enjoy the preparation, and then, getting to see what I’ve created in a relatively short amount of time.  But many soups are also high fiber and low fat; provide a great introduction of flavorful vegetables to children, and fill one up without a lot of empty calories.  And for those who might not know, chicken soup has its own benefits: the traditional recipe acts as an anti-inflammatory agent and also helps clear out mucus, which makes it an invaluable menu choice during cold and flu season.
 
And lastly, admit it: during the chilliest months of the year, there’s really no better smell than a made-with-love, homemade soup simmering on the stove. 
 
What about you?  What are your favorite soups, and why?  I look forward to your stories and comments!
 

​Sunday dinner is a Very Big Deal around here. 
 
And if you don’t mind some UGA—Unsolicited Good Advice—you should feel the same. 
 
First, since this end of the week day isn’t usually a workday, it’s always nice if the meal is a bit more special than Monday through Friday fare.  Given that The Hubster is Midwest born and raised, I’m lucky in that he’s not into fancy-schmancy entrees. So, there’s often a slow cooked roast with gravy, along with a fresh veggie on the side.  Sometimes I’ll add what used to be called the starch portion—potatoes, rice or pasta.    
 
It’s not surprising that I love these dinners because I enjoy cooking them, and even more, eating them.
 
But that’s not really why I do it.
 
I do it because what’s on our plates doesn’t really matter.
 
Way more essential is the tradition itself—the consistency, and positive consequences, of a communal dining experience with those we love.    
 
These days, of course, that picture doesn’t look anything like Leave it to Beaver or the Saturday Evening Post magazine covers that Norman Rockwell painted.  But who cares?
 
Whatever one’s definition of family is, it’s the time to put away all electronic devices; sit down at the table as a united, we’ve-got-your-back unit, and discuss the past week and the upcoming one.  Heck, it may even be the place to bring up future dreams, hopes and desires.  
 
I recently asked about Sunday traditions on one of those what-our-childhoods-were-like Facebook groups that I belong to, and in fact, coming together played a big part. 
 
Lots of fellow baby boomers remembered going to church in the morning and then eating out at the same restaurant every week. Another wrote fondly of parents inviting the family pastor and his wife over, with a lavish spread of comfort food fit for a king.  
 
“Mama would fix pot roast, bake a ham and fried chicken,” she wrote. “Then there would be mashed potatoes and gravy; sweet potatoes and green beans, and candied carrots.  For dessert, my daddy’s favorite, a chocolate cake, and for us kids, coconut and banana cream pies. I guess Mama was afraid someone would get up from the table hungry.”
 
As it turns out, these feel good memories are way more than that. 
 
In fact, according to a 2015 Washington Post article by Anne Fishel, co-founder of The Family Dinner Project (http://thefamilydinnerproject.org/), breaking bread together is one of the very best things parents can do for their children.  
 
For wee kidlets, Fishel says that dinnertime conversations actually boost their vocabulary by leaps and bounds.  In fact, these children picked up an average of 1,000 rare words around the table, compared to just 143 from mom or dad reading books out loud.  Teens also benefit from regular family meals: Fishel adds that those who eat together at least three times per week are twice as likely to score A’s in school as those who don’t. 
 
And because most families no longer farm together; play musical instruments on the porch, or host quilting bees, American teens also say the most likely place to talk to their parents today is at dinnertime.  As a result, these same adolescents are likely to have less stress, and better communication, with their mothers and fathers.
 
Coming together can also be enormously satisfying even after the kids leave home. 
 
One friend with a 20something daughter told me that she has decided to return to the Sunday magic she knew as a child. 
 
“Now in the time of texts, emails and Facetime, I want to sit across the table from my daughter and listen to her tell me about her week,” she says. 
 
“I want to be able to see her smile, or even hear about her frustrations or heartbreak, or whatever her week has dished up,” she explains.  “What I don’t want is to read her week in a text message.  In five or 10 years, will people even interact at all anymore?”
 
As for me, I feel exactly the same way. 
 
That’s why I want to make sure that our Very Big Deal meal stays around for a very long time.   
 
How about you?  I look forward to your thoughts and stories—and maybe recipes—involving Sunday dinners, past
and present! 
 
P.S. No idea about what to fix this weekend?  Here’s an easy peasy spinach lasagna. Add a simple salad and
​loaf of crusty French bread, and you’re ready to gather around the table. 
 
1 lb. whole grain or regular lasagna noodles, boil until soft and pliable.
3-4 bunches of fresh chopped spinach, steam just 2-3 minutes, drain. (But not too soft, so you can still spread
out the leaves)
16 ounce can of tomato sauce
2 cups full fat ricotta cheese
2 cups freshly grated full fat mozzarella
 
Spread a thin layer of tomato sauce on the bottom of a large glass casserole dish. 
Cover sauce with a layer of noodles, add half of the ricotta, then half of the spinach.
Then add one third of the remaining sauce and one third of the mozzarella.
Lay down another layer of noodles, the remainder of the ricotta, the remainder of the spinach, another one third of sauce and another one third of the mozzarella.
Finally, lay out the rest of the noodles, the rest of the sauce, and on the very top, the rest of the mozzarella. 
Bake uncovered at preheated 350 degrees for 40 minutes.