I may have solved a mystery that has plagued me for over fifty years.
As long-time readers may remember, sometime in the late 1960’s my mother’s sister, my semi-legendary aunt Betty, decreed that Thanksgiving dessert would not be a pie, or ice cream, or cookies, or anything normal. Oh no, Betty had found something really classy and unique: First Lady Johnson’s favorite dessert.
Now. Betty did not cook, at least not since she’d attempted to make baked apples using Red Delicious (note for non-cooks: do not do this). She could throw together something that passed for a meal if everyone else was out of town, ill, or otherwise incapacitated, but by the late 1960’s her brother Louis had taken over the everyday cooking except when my mother was in town. Louie, who’d learned to cook on the exhaust manifold of a Jeep during World War II, wasn’t exactly a chef de cuisine himself, but at least he knew better than to bake a Red Delicious.
He also knew better than to attempt a Thanksgiving dinner. This is why my aunt, who’d come across a mysterious gelatin mold thing that she swore was Lady Bird Johnson’s Favorite Dessert, handed the recipe to my mother, said, “Martha, I’d like this for Thanksgiving,” and then spent several days badgering her younger sister until Mum finally said, “Fine, have it your way” and agreed.
As I later wrote:
So it was that my long suffering mother was the one who actually had to prepare Lady Bird Johnson’s favorite dessert. I’m not sure exactly what went into it, being but a child of tender years, but the final result was a giant sphere the color of diluted Pepto-Bismol that had started as a package of red Jell-O (flavor unknown), either sour cream or Cool Whip, raw cranberries, various sweet spices, and another type of small, firm, round fruit. I think cooking wine was involved, but since I flatly refused to have anything to do with it I’m not sure.
The result, which bore a startling resemblance to a cannon ball painted with a mixture of Caladryl lotion and Pepto-Bismol, sat quivering balefully on the table until my mother finally served it to her less than delighted brothers, sister, and husband:
The first person who spoke was my father. He took a bite, chewed, took another bite, and repeated the process. He looked thoughtful for a moment, and then turned to Mum.
“Martha,” he said, in a voice of utter calm and certitude, “Don't bother making this again.”
Needless to say, Mum never did. Neither did Betty (surprise, surprise), nor anyone else, and I was not even slightly surprised to discover a few years back that Lady Bird Johnson’s favorite dessert was lemon squares made from scratch. Lady Bird did use Rice Krispies in a cheese wafer recipe, and her famous Pedernales chili seems pretty bland to palates accustomed to 3 trillion Kelvin BTU Thermonuclear Death Pepper Hot Sauce and Drain Cleaner, but most of her favorites could be served today with very little alteration. The only First Lady who actually seems to have made, let alone enjoyed, gelatin molds of any sort was Pat Nixon, and as far as I can tell hers was a Jell-O salad, not a dessert.
I’ve tried repeatedly over the years to track down the False Lady Bird Dessert. I don’t want to make it — that is a huge HELL NO YOU CAN’T MAKE ME NOT FOR A MILLION BILLION TRILLION DOLLARS AND A TRIP TO THE MOON NO NO NO NO NO — but I would very much like know what was actually in it, who came up with it, and why my aunt thought that a patrician like Lady Bird Johnson would have let a gelatin mold anywhere near her kitchen, let alone the White House. A search of Betty’s suspiciously clean and unused cookbooks turned up nothing, Mum’s stained and battered Magic Chef Cooking and Heart of the Settlement Cookbook ditto, and I finally told myself that not all mysteries were meant to be solved and went on with my life.
Until last night.
I spent Thanksgiving with my friend Theresa and her dog Alba Longa. She made the turkey, I made the pie, and we feasted, watched an amusing British TV show about wine, and made merry dissecting movies. I got quite a bit done on a sweater I’m knitting, we caught up on news, gossip, and life in general, and all in all had a very good time.
Then, just as I was getting ready to leave, Theresa brought out the box of her grandmother’s recipes.
A lot of these were family favorites, like Christmas cookies, main dishes, and the cake or pie. Many more were from the local paper’s happy housewife recipe column, church lady recipe compilations, or a good friend. Some looked great, others had us laughing so hard we were practically in tears, particularly a recipe book from a local Catholic women’s college that featured treats from nuns, priests, a bishop or two, and several local politicians (including Rep. Richie Neal, who was still Mayor of Springfield at that point, and if this recipe wasn’t actually from his wife I will be stunned into silence). It was all great fun, and a perfect way to end Thanksgiving...
And then I found it.
It wasn’t exactly what Betty swore was Lady Bird Johnson’s Favorite Dessert — there was nothing particularly exotic in the ingredient list, certainly not to the point where the whole family would reject it out of hand. I’m all but certain that Betty’s version contained wine, however, and given that a) my family did not drink, b) Pennsylvania had a state monopoly on liquor that drastically limited the available selections, and c) “cooking wine” back then was notoriously bad, that might have been enough in and of itself to ruin the whole dish.
Regardless, I am proud (?) and delighted (!!!!!) to present to you, for the very first time, what is very likely as close as I will ever get to Aunt Betty’s Thanksgiving GIANT PINK GELATIN DESSERT O’DOOM, sour cream, nuts, fruits, whatever booze Mum could find at the state store, and all:
THE DESSERT THAT RUINED THANKSGIVING
Ingredients:
1 6 ounce package raspberry Jell-O (or any red flavor)
1 cup hot water
1 cup sour cream
1 can crushed pineapple
½ cup walnuts or pecans
1 pound cranberries, either whole berry sauce or fresh
1 cup cooking wine (most recipes call for port but Mum probably used cooking sherry, God help us all)
1 large gelatin mold, oiled, your choice (Mum didn’t have a mold so used a mixing bowl)
Add the hot water to the Jell-O and stir until dissolve.
While it’s starting to set, mix the cranberries/cranberry sauce, pineapple, nuts, and sour cream into a gloppy mess (Theresa’s grandmother’s version did not include wine, but Betty’s did. Port or another strong red is probably best for taste, cooking sherry is best for the true Ellid Family yuck factor. Either way, add it now if you’re going to.)
Add the glop to the gelatin and stir until thoroughly mixed. It should be some variety of pink at this point, with the fruit and nutmeats giving it a distinctive lumpiness.
Pour the mixed glop into the mold and shove it into the refrigerator until it’s firmly set. This should allow you time to cook your main course, side dishes, and a second dessert of some sort. This is very important, so make sure it’s something good.
When everyone has eaten too much, unmold what is most definitely not Lady Bird Johnson’s Favorite Dessert onto a clean plate. Bring it to the table, let it quiver for the delight of the masses, and serve.
After the delighted masses have said “don’t bother making this again, for the love of God, Montresor, don’t,” serve the actual dessert. The gelatin mold can be discarded in whatever environmentally responsible way you deem fit.
Bon appetit!
Now that everyone has been thoroughly revolted entertained, here are a few genuinely enjoyable books and podcasts I’ve come across in the last year. This year’s list is on the short side because I’ve been concentrating on handicrafts, rewriting a couple of papers for publication, and comfort reading instead of new books. Regardless, I did manage to keep myself entertained:
Books:
The Tsar’s Last Armada, by Constantine Pleshakov — comprehensive and heartbreaking account of how a bigoted Tsar, his incompetent naval staff, and stunningly poor planning brought the Russian Navy low in the Battle of Tsushima in 1905. Nicholas II, the weak and marginally competent Tsar of Russia, hated Japan and its people after he was nearly murdered by a mentally ill Japanese man during his youth, and he was convinced that his glorious navy would make short work of the people he referred to as “monkeys.” That this entailed a nine month journey around the Cape of Good Hope by a ragtag fleet of badly equipped, badly trained, and frequently drunk sailors bothered him not a whit, and it’s little wonder that result was a disaster that still ranks as possibly the greatest defeat in naval history.
Death in the Air, by Kate Winkler Dawson — fascinating dual account of the crimes of legendary British serial killer John Reginald Christie and the devastating London fog of 1952 that took 12,000 lives. The fog, fueled by the use of poor quality “nutty sack” coal during a severe air inversion, eventually led to clean air regulations in Britain, but in the meantime asthmatics choked, hospitals were clogged with gasping patients, and a meek little man committed murder after murder while the police literally stumbled about in the dark.
Norse America, by Gordon Campbell — breezy, erudite, and impeccably researched takedown of the whole “Vikings got to Minnesota/Mississippi/New Hampshire/Rhode Island/wherever” legend that’s led thousands of otherwise normal people to believe that longships plied the Great Lakes, a collection of Colonial root cellars is “America’s Stonehenge,” and a 17th century windmill was a “Viking tower.” Campbell knows his subject cold, and after watching the alt right attempt to poison medieval studies with the myth of a Pure White Aryan Europe, it’s a genuine pleasure to watch an expert differentiate junk like the Kensington Rune Stone and the Vinland Map from archaeological sites like L’Anse aux Meadows.
The Five, by Hallie Rubenhold — Rubenhold is a social historian who’s specialized in researching prostitution, sex work, and women’s reputations in Georgian England. This background has served her well as she tackles a previously neglected the subject: the life stories of the women killed by Jack the Ripper. Her conclusions — that one of the “canonical five” was probably killed by her partner, three of the others were attacked while sleeping rough because they were too poor to afford a bed, and only two were sex workers — have met with a fierce and largely undeserved backlash from amateur “Ripperologists” who are furious that Rubenhold has concentrated on the lives of Polly Nichols (married woman who lost everything when her husband fell in love with a neighbor), Annie Chapman (coachman’s wife who never managed to shake her addiction to drink), Elisabeth Stride (Swedish widow who’d first been labeled a “public woman” as a teenager when she became pregnant, probably thanks to sexual harassment/rape by her employer), Kate Eddowes (ballad seller and free spirit), and Marie Jane Kelly (high class courtesan who was trafficked to France, escaped, and went to ground in Whitechapel) instead of the identity of the man (or men) who killed them. Social history at its absolute best.
The Case of the Murderous Dr. Cream, by Dean Jobb — stunning, definitive account of a Canadian serial killer who began as the son of a wealthy merchant, trained at the finest medical schools, and blew it all by performing abortions (often with fatal results for the woman), repeatedly seducing and stealing from wealthy women (at least one of whom he poisoned), and finally moving to London and poisoning random prostitutes because he enjoyed it. Cream was such a byword for murder that he was even accused of being Jack the Ripper despite being in jail in Illinois during the Whitechapel murders, but Jobb makes it clear that Cream not only wasn’t Jack, in some ways he was much, much worse.
Podcasts:
In addition to reading, knitting, and making quilts, I’ve been listening to several podcasts this year. The following are all free, all fascinating, and several even have associated books so you can listen to the podcast, then give the book (or the link) to friends and loved ones:
Revolutions, by Mike Duncan — Duncan, a self-proclaimed history buff, first turned to podcasting after he couldn’t find a good podcast on the history of Rome. The result, which ran for several years, resulted in a nice little volume on the late Roman Republic called The Storm Before the Storm, but this one is even better. Duncan, who has an affable and frequently amusing narration style, has set out to explore nothing less than the history of revolutions in Europe and the Americas from the English Civil War through the Russian Revolution of 1917. Cromwell...Washington...Bolivar...Garibaldi ...Lenin...they’re all here, and listening to Duncan trace the intellectual, social, and cultural connections through the centuries is a great way to spend an hour or two. There’s even a new book, Hero of Two Worlds: The Marquis de Lafayette in the Age of Revolution, that traces the career of Lafayette from his youthful journey to America to his role in putting Louis Phillippe on the throne of France in 1830.
Bag Man, by Rachel Maddow — richly detailed look at the criminal career of Spiro Agnew (still the only Vice President who openly took bribes in the West Wing), the FBI and DOJ men who exposed his crimes, and the Attorney General who realized that yes, Nixon was horrible but Agnew would be a utter catastrophe. The maneuvers involved in forcing Agnew out so investigators could concentrate on Watergate are fascinating, and the book is even better.
Radioactive, by Andrew Lapin — chilling series on 1930’s “radio priest” Father Charles Coughlin, an anti-Semitic bigot who used an unctuous quasi-Irish accent, the vocabulary of social justice, and excellent marketing to build a radio empire that enriched his parish, emboldened para-military gangs in Boston and New York, and made fascism respectable to millions of largely Catholic listeners during the height of the Depression. I knew the outlines of the story, but the details, excerpts from Coughlin’s broadcasts, and Lapin’s own experience growing up Jewish in the shadow of Coughlin’s parish in Royal Oak, Michigan make this one something special. No book (yet), but one can only hope.
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Have you found any good books, podcasts, movies, or TV series to recommend this holiday season? We need something to keep us sane, now more than ever, so gather ‘round the crackling hearth, raise a frothing glass of your tipple of choice, and share….
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