tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10826343013265533412024-03-23T06:35:12.068-04:00YuckyliciousExploring The World's Worst CookbooksUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger433125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082634301326553341.post-62233986248697068742018-05-05T08:44:00.000-04:002018-05-05T08:44:22.473-04:00Marzipan and Sexism<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Once upon a time, in a land far, far away, men were married to their jobs, and women were married to their homes — hence the term “housewife.” A housewife’s job was to manage the running of the household, while a man’s job was to care for his all aspects of his employment. While the woman’s title reflected very directly her place in the larger scheme of things (the wife of the house), her husband (for they, too, were married, but in a different sense) was simply called a “man,” denoting his gender. This was because men did men’s things, like working outside the home, while women were defined by their marital status — which included both marriage to a man and marriage to a home. </div>
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Within the home, a housewife was hoped to be extremely competent at a number of tasks — money management (called, confusingly, “husbandry”), decorating, gardening, cleaning, washing, child-rearing, and cooking. In her home, the housewife was a “cook”; she cooked things. If, however, a man engaged in the same tasks outside the home — at work, say — he was known as a “chef,” which means “chief.” He might also be known by any number of professional titles pertaining to the type of “cooking” he did: baker, butcher, etc.</div>
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But if a man attempted to “cook” inside the home, it ceased to be “cooking”; his work with foodstuffs became a “hobby.” The one exception to this was the assumption that the man handled any cooking of meat accomplished outdoors, in which case, he “manned the grill.”</div>
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In this 1955 Pathé film featuring a baker named Paul demonstrating how to make the ugliest and least-appetizing cake decorations that humankind has ever been subjected to, we find these distinctions taking pride of place in the narrator’s account, for this activity is for “the housewife, or the man who finds it an intriguing hobby.”</div>
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Enjoy!</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082634301326553341.post-42639768369866752272018-04-19T11:29:00.000-04:002018-04-19T11:29:05.884-04:00This Little Piggy…<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRS_kZP2UwyZHKz4yUCvfnMkZ6QTxGh2WlGp1RC_CYOZJYTQsKcQ6w1LZ5oPp8rhOsQrGFj7hyphenhyphen3OmvR6g3SZ3lT14vDNvpeiOx8xChATSMKQhP1KzVC7pKRnV1yhjnOfZJVhTUFL0C_nNd/s1600/Cooking+With+Kids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1220" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRS_kZP2UwyZHKz4yUCvfnMkZ6QTxGh2WlGp1RC_CYOZJYTQsKcQ6w1LZ5oPp8rhOsQrGFj7hyphenhyphen3OmvR6g3SZ3lT14vDNvpeiOx8xChATSMKQhP1KzVC7pKRnV1yhjnOfZJVhTUFL0C_nNd/s400/Cooking+With+Kids.jpg" width="305" /></a></div>
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They say that human flesh tastes like pork. </div>
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This is the sort of in-the-field research you always want to
farm out to an intern; it is enough to tell them that they are making an
important contribution to your work, and that this honor is enough to
compensate them for such dreary complaints as long hours, lack of pay, and
unpalatable drudgery. This is, after all, what internships were created for.
There’s really no need for them to know ALL the details of their duties. Poke
that, light this, taste that — it’s all in a day’s work to them. </div>
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Think of it this way: you’re feeding them. They should be
grateful! Sell the task as a free lunch. Interns jump at that. Label the
samples “Mystery Meat” and laugh about how terribly droll you are. Tell them
it’s fresh. </div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Cooking With Kids</i>,
Caroline Ackerman, A Gryphon House Book, 1981</div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082634301326553341.post-19992367671555068482018-04-17T08:21:00.000-04:002018-04-17T08:21:21.623-04:00How To Please Your Man<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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An old joke says that if you think the way to a man’s heart
is through his stomach, you’re aiming too high. </div>
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If you get this joke, all it really means is that you’ve
replaced one horribly sexist mindset for another: the idea that a man’s love
can be won by either feeding or fucking him. </div>
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In 1962, recipe books and pamphlets still assumed that a
woman was doing the cooking, and that her position within the home was secured
by her doing so. Maple Leaf Mills, makers of Monarch brand flour, certainly
thought so. Their booklet is full of cartoons such as these which leave no
doubt about where the woman’s place is. </div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Soft Way to Your
Husband’s Heart</i>, Maple Leaf Mills, 1962</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082634301326553341.post-89610169069816345502018-04-12T20:23:00.000-04:002018-04-12T20:23:25.256-04:00Hey Presto! <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjefMP5vEVnYcMInaGtnlkgY43lPiVqzlNEFnZ8ufHr45EmmO7D-mvVaUym-fbJVMSaiQsU8qvpbT-Glf9ZUTF1GmtEaNRMOiPejksyJceOdLzxlfflU3qmQmXLeAJCRGhNj9wW1ZTjmprm/s1600/Presto+Control+Master1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1139" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjefMP5vEVnYcMInaGtnlkgY43lPiVqzlNEFnZ8ufHr45EmmO7D-mvVaUym-fbJVMSaiQsU8qvpbT-Glf9ZUTF1GmtEaNRMOiPejksyJceOdLzxlfflU3qmQmXLeAJCRGhNj9wW1ZTjmprm/s640/Presto+Control+Master1.jpg" width="454" /></a></div>
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In 2018, the hot household item that seems to cautious
cynics to have regret written all over it is a smart home device — an Echo,
Google Home or Alexa to name a few — which is plugged in and responds to your
every command and request by controlling other household devices or simply
answering your questions. The techno-skeptics say you should be wary of having
a device that can listen to your every move and relay it to an outside
location; that such openness is fraught with peril. </div>
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In 1962, the hot household device that had peril writ large
upon it was a Presto Control Master and any of the range of kitchen appliances
it plugged into. Whether it be a crockpot, pressure cooker, or griddle, the
idea was that in order to operate, you plugged in the control master (which
provided the electricity as well as the temperature control) and cooked away.
I’m not sure what the selling point was in investing in a range of cooking
implements which could only be used one at a time, and were all reliant on that
one essential element working properly. </div>
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Perhaps the idea was that Presto Industries was selling
safety — the freedom from an open cook top or oven, and that all you needed to
provide a family meal was a big enough counter. Certainly, the appeal couldn’t
have been in eliminating or even alleviating clean-up, because this guide is
packed full of maintenance directions as well as recipes. </div>
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Or it could be that then, as now, they are selling the idea
of control; that dream of automation that takes care of household drudgery such
as turning on the TV or cooking a meal. This is a gift for the housewife who
has no real control in her life, but who dreams of having a remote control all
her own — or at least just a cigarette. </div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Presto Control Master
Appliances Recipe Book</i>, National Presto Industries, 1962</div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082634301326553341.post-74790857629697424102018-04-11T08:51:00.000-04:002018-04-11T08:51:33.793-04:00A Slippery Slope<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Dear Friend,</div>
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It’s 1953, and you’ve just been born. Little do you know
that by the time you’re old enough to help Mom in the kitchen it will be 1963,
and she will have already begun to supplement the cooking with ready-made and
pre-packaged food. By the time you’re old enough to cook by yourself, everything
she serves you will have been heated in a microwave oven from frozen.
Therefore, the skills she learned from her mother will not be passed down to
you. By the time you cook for your own growing family it will be 1983, and you
will never have made a pie crust from scratch, let alone breads, cookies, cakes
and frosting. My good friend Betty Crocker, who is a for-profit corporation,
not a person, will facilitate this slide into ignorance by making it easy to
buy all these things from a supermarket shelf. By the time your daughter is old
enough to cook for herself, it will be 2003, and she won’t even shop for food,
let along ingredients — everything she eats is handed to her through the window
of her car. Her grandma will long be dead of heart disease brought about by the
clogged arteries she got by eating so many foods made from Spry. </div>
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Have a nice day! </div>
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Aunt Jenny</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMhwOd7eKNUdL-ibiNU8C8ysESqXHV4ONpFJh8CQ5n6qQpZz7fXqBwcaTRw8_kjLrRFPy0VUAeKBqbfERScEvZr2Mru4YYMV5sSGC9bc4k_4d_1chmjGeGDCi8iMuCbZc8eSxor1AdcuHr/s1600/Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1143" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMhwOd7eKNUdL-ibiNU8C8ysESqXHV4ONpFJh8CQ5n6qQpZz7fXqBwcaTRw8_kjLrRFPy0VUAeKBqbfERScEvZr2Mru4YYMV5sSGC9bc4k_4d_1chmjGeGDCi8iMuCbZc8eSxor1AdcuHr/s320/Cover.jpg" width="228" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Home Baking Made Easy
For Beginners and Experts</i>, The Lever Brothers Company, 1953</div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082634301326553341.post-3141750870896380732018-04-09T20:44:00.000-04:002018-04-09T20:44:00.226-04:00‘Murica<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifbbIDs87vgC3H1DzNRkHMKkZ7ZxLKP7aNwiY7nX3sTnRSV7VHJDUMiF9uRxs1rL2F_uELxFipVBq3BlIBKydGMwLMqur6m7pup3qvY3SfSk0GNJ7tVP9pywwph4iOywfQUj8B-vxv1wVo/s1600/Patriotic+Birthday+Party.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1531" data-original-width="1224" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifbbIDs87vgC3H1DzNRkHMKkZ7ZxLKP7aNwiY7nX3sTnRSV7VHJDUMiF9uRxs1rL2F_uELxFipVBq3BlIBKydGMwLMqur6m7pup3qvY3SfSk0GNJ7tVP9pywwph4iOywfQUj8B-vxv1wVo/s640/Patriotic+Birthday+Party.jpg" width="510" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because nothing screams patriotism like hatchets embedded in
cupcakes to recall the evisceration of the landscape and genocide of the
Natives who lived in it by white people. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oh, wait — this is supposed to be Washington’s cherry tree.
My bad. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWn9EKokHJzxHLnSXoJKBqkO7UmjPUIaMkwbhN2ZgkXZIQ6R4PqM-6xkj7AWIoU9iOhLRBEE7GjW0zUDRKRnaUhstDWk0dczB8BasB0L672CsRcOn8ucR0cNYjlOCkBawxFWPdYrW9ImEV/s1600/Patriotic+Party+recipe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1531" data-original-width="1240" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWn9EKokHJzxHLnSXoJKBqkO7UmjPUIaMkwbhN2ZgkXZIQ6R4PqM-6xkj7AWIoU9iOhLRBEE7GjW0zUDRKRnaUhstDWk0dczB8BasB0L672CsRcOn8ucR0cNYjlOCkBawxFWPdYrW9ImEV/s320/Patriotic+Party+recipe.jpg" width="259" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Children’s Parties Card #24 Patriotic Birthday Party, <i>Betty Crocker Recipe Card Library</i>, 1971</div>
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082634301326553341.post-32829354286256863512018-04-06T09:10:00.000-04:002018-04-06T09:13:30.128-04:00The Ides of Salad<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhIMRUYMtuhphyWfYAQqOS08qkZPzV4DldxnJ2AtLKkptyetPwNBzne-ViBAYYPavFrWBZ51b0_Wjwp9PECCVDB1uH_Hx2zkvVpjLdcCDYiuvLOw7d39yvWZti-BHGwF5uiRp80axD_aPO/s1600/Caesar+Salad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1230" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhIMRUYMtuhphyWfYAQqOS08qkZPzV4DldxnJ2AtLKkptyetPwNBzne-ViBAYYPavFrWBZ51b0_Wjwp9PECCVDB1uH_Hx2zkvVpjLdcCDYiuvLOw7d39yvWZti-BHGwF5uiRp80axD_aPO/s640/Caesar+Salad.jpg" width="512" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sometimes you want a Caesar Salad, but it’s March, and
snowing, and you’re all out of eggs, anchovies, garlic, olive oil,
Worcestershire sauce, mustard, Parmesan, and croutons. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So you have the salad pictured here instead. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzB5wT2BCr92X8d9sOvBMJa4Y2SVCOsO1pZUKT5INusuzGK5okACTM3DUICu5vtWFIxMX6rXBzf-_HXc7Qr-lgJR7jNukn9BzRanBPGN6Ohb5gyZW-dKF5ONnDZ2LMobJdJd3ZGYahvRXQ/s1600/Caesar+Salad+recipe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1548" data-original-width="1219" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzB5wT2BCr92X8d9sOvBMJa4Y2SVCOsO1pZUKT5INusuzGK5okACTM3DUICu5vtWFIxMX6rXBzf-_HXc7Qr-lgJR7jNukn9BzRanBPGN6Ohb5gyZW-dKF5ONnDZ2LMobJdJd3ZGYahvRXQ/s640/Caesar+Salad+recipe.jpg" width="502" /></a></div>
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Salads For Every Occasion Card #13 Caesar Salad, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Betty Crocker Recipe Card Library</i>, 1971<br />
<br />
See also: <a href="https://yuckylicious.blogspot.com/2018/04/making-boob-of-yourself.html" target="_blank">Making A Boob of Yourself</a></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082634301326553341.post-71302074597252170872018-04-05T10:52:00.000-04:002018-04-05T10:52:26.112-04:00Pizza Potatoes — For When You Simply Don’t Give A F*ck<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggFjHlFujjetSXZxAqeRa-mevz3uENTVttUdxHOVSTqv9V6Ao9ARClOF1iCoLJLqdmxxE1mrfqOmObe09g2t5VBigYjYWacuFjSdFAYrWmDMflq-0HYAnqH9KY9r7AYmnCmwXQJVYZbJl4/s1600/Pizza+Potatoes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1519" data-original-width="1236" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggFjHlFujjetSXZxAqeRa-mevz3uENTVttUdxHOVSTqv9V6Ao9ARClOF1iCoLJLqdmxxE1mrfqOmObe09g2t5VBigYjYWacuFjSdFAYrWmDMflq-0HYAnqH9KY9r7AYmnCmwXQJVYZbJl4/s640/Pizza+Potatoes.jpg" width="520" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Betty Crocker Recipe Card Library series from 1971 is a
plastic time capsule of grotesque food photography. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Their food stylists and photographers never met a dish they
didn’t shoot on a table set with a dizzying array of additional food
accompaniments or props. A heavy emphasis was placed on hardware: the serving
dishes, drinking vessels and various pouring devices which crowded their place
settings. The food was never enough to speak for itself, always requiring the
elaborate costume such clutter provides to suggest an appeal. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The dishes are always shot from an angle which places the
card reader at the table — from a diner’s eye-level. The scenes are brightly,
but artificially lit and appear to feature real food with a minimum of styling,
which on occasion is sorely missed, such as when an element melts, creating an
unappetizing look. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although each and every card is a brightly colored
catastrophe, one recipe distinguishes itself as a close-up which should not
have been. In Pizza Potatoes, all we see is a gooey mess in a white bowl, with
a curve of red tablecloth beyond it, chosen, clearly, to accent the pepperoni
swamped by cheese. The interior of the dish is crusted at the edges and gives
the impression of a difficult clean-up. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is not a dish which lends itself to beauty or detail.
With our faces just inches from the rim of the bowl, it feels as if we’re
leaning in for a sniff. A swampy morass of melted cheese looks like a greasy
heart attack, and there’s no hint of a salad to provide any relief. This is a
recipe for pizza toppings on top of potato, after all — all of which come from
packages supplied by General Mills. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUHPc6co21tbvPCrASrGSsVYvmIt1eXrDlYuX0A7lGHdG0CmEgs6b_IxH37yZNhOCXclHV5GLgAkATq_Y3fnTFSuoxR2oVJpiMkXsQM05jrFthvK7Jp9QIZ-_Av1yx2cjJbKemXmC9SBYx/s1600/Pizza+Potatoes+Recipe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1528" data-original-width="1234" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUHPc6co21tbvPCrASrGSsVYvmIt1eXrDlYuX0A7lGHdG0CmEgs6b_IxH37yZNhOCXclHV5GLgAkATq_Y3fnTFSuoxR2oVJpiMkXsQM05jrFthvK7Jp9QIZ-_Av1yx2cjJbKemXmC9SBYx/s320/Pizza+Potatoes+Recipe.jpg" width="258" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Budget Casseroles Card #25 Pizza Potatoes, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Betty Crocker Recipe Card Library</i>, 1971</div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082634301326553341.post-41726574683648261152018-04-04T08:48:00.000-04:002018-04-06T09:12:36.800-04:00Making A Boob Of Yourself<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuZcAS4VxhMcimbXAQB1bloffV8lQ1kdH6FbQlDHvcFRc6EVCvCM8eEr8rVweOpoUskYLRFTLLmyGaDRBhgAhkzNQxL0vv76Mn0r6ZwcEayQEt0UXXhtOIWPqXxud8XXtq7WG-B1WHOyhO/s1600/Fozen+Salad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1536" data-original-width="1227" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuZcAS4VxhMcimbXAQB1bloffV8lQ1kdH6FbQlDHvcFRc6EVCvCM8eEr8rVweOpoUskYLRFTLLmyGaDRBhgAhkzNQxL0vv76Mn0r6ZwcEayQEt0UXXhtOIWPqXxud8XXtq7WG-B1WHOyhO/s640/Fozen+Salad.jpg" width="510" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Margot’s new tits were the only topic of conversation. She’d
used part of her divorce settlement to get herself a pair of double-Ds. You
couldn’t miss them and that was the point. Wow, you thought, when they entered
a room. Just, wow. That’s just the swelling, Margot said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But they pretty much remained the same size, even six weeks
later, when she threw her Boob-Job Pot-Luck. It was part celebration, part a
chance for her to show off, and part an advertisement for her plastic surgeon,
who promised to be there to answer any questions us ladies might have about
joining the Double-D club. I don’t think any of us had any intention of fixing
our tits, but who could resist? Her surgeon was rumored to be a real stud. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most people brought variations on the boob theme: half
grapefruits with a maraschino cherry in the center; rounds of bologna with a
perky olive each. Someone brought to watermelons. Val brought pears and went
around asking people if they got the joke. But Pat’s contribution stole the
show: cylindrical blobs of cheese, fruit, sour cream and marshmallow which had
been frozen into shape and served on a bed of lettuce with a single raspberry
on the top. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When the party started, they sat there on the table hard as
rock, which would have posed a problem for anyone brave enough to try to eat
one, but once we were in full swing, they’d begin to soften. It was a very warm
day. By the time we left, there they sat, each raspberry sitting amid a lumpy
puddle of what looked like puke. Not even Pat ate one. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The plastic surgeon <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i>
a stud, by the way. Margot ended up marrying him. They divorced when he got
caught having an affair with another patient. I’m not sure what Margot looks
like today. Neither does Margot. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBOBkXIOQ9l7zaecJa6IZiEu8f3yo8LsUENXzGVAnCX1UTITPZUb0-Jdpr8TdX-5hDxkBlMPdklaRF1oEMgZcW1peYeXOAg1BAu7cGpE3EvIAQ3HWQTRVswp3kYIRwT9GWd61njTJysKC-/s1600/Frozen+Salad+recipe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1548" data-original-width="1210" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBOBkXIOQ9l7zaecJa6IZiEu8f3yo8LsUENXzGVAnCX1UTITPZUb0-Jdpr8TdX-5hDxkBlMPdklaRF1oEMgZcW1peYeXOAg1BAu7cGpE3EvIAQ3HWQTRVswp3kYIRwT9GWd61njTJysKC-/s320/Frozen+Salad+recipe.jpg" width="250" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Salads For Every Occasion Card #5 Frozen Salads, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Betty Crocker Recipe Card Library</i>, 1971<br />
<br />
See also: <a href="https://yuckylicious.blogspot.com/2018/04/the-ides-of-salad.html" target="_blank">The Ides of Salad</a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082634301326553341.post-15487834170030221052018-04-03T14:52:00.000-04:002018-04-03T17:18:27.123-04:00The Cocktail Fork Killer<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAftCjhtAglHFjJQBGWd_fWpznVGFu8Q5FVfZqF2Ztpdsa3G2UAbUU1rSUo12_HVeKjv96RY7hS27g5NtkBPcY9bffqA8tsQIEE9mr_k-5B82B0zPhd7_szuWawFzNT_yOR3L3jBQDCxh3/s1600/Cocktail+Fork+Killer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1103" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAftCjhtAglHFjJQBGWd_fWpznVGFu8Q5FVfZqF2Ztpdsa3G2UAbUU1rSUo12_HVeKjv96RY7hS27g5NtkBPcY9bffqA8tsQIEE9mr_k-5B82B0zPhd7_szuWawFzNT_yOR3L3jBQDCxh3/s640/Cocktail+Fork+Killer.jpg" width="440" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu6m3bDC-68k4zyMMSCrYOxWsiboKSssCeGqgVKwOBIhZb3qo5AtYYYoRC8G12gR9VgWS1Ln5dsN82T8X_5pv-OoCP4WLPnWAwI7346lUh9U9L5DXEXIyDhp0jUTBSscmjFGxNnGIADz5s/s1600/Cocktail+Fork+Killer+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1122" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhu6m3bDC-68k4zyMMSCrYOxWsiboKSssCeGqgVKwOBIhZb3qo5AtYYYoRC8G12gR9VgWS1Ln5dsN82T8X_5pv-OoCP4WLPnWAwI7346lUh9U9L5DXEXIyDhp0jUTBSscmjFGxNnGIADz5s/s400/Cocktail+Fork+Killer+2.jpg" width="280" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It was the diagram
that did it</i>, he said, lighting another cigarette. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">It was just dinner. It was just Dave and Jenny — nothing special. </i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
leaned forward, and hid his face in his hands. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You have no idea</i>, he said haltingly, his voice muffled. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">She pointed to a diagram, for Heaven’s sake.
There were so many circles showing where everything had to be. She was insistent.</i>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
sat up, tipped his ash. His eyes were red. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Monogrammed napkins. Candles. We were out of
candles. I don’t even know what a cocktail fork is. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Do you know what a cocktail fork is?</i> he
asked the detective. Me<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> neither</i>, he
reiterated, getting no reply. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
paused. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">She was all about precision. She followed
those books by the letter. The recipes. She didn’t start out that way. We
wouldn’t be here if she’d been like that all along. Never would’ve married her.
I don’t know what happened. <o:p></o:p></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
sighed.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">So here we are</i>, the detective said. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">So here we are</i>. The man looked at his
blood-spattered sleeve. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I couldn’t take
it any more</i>, he said. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I just snapped</i>.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Poor bastard</i>, the
Chief said, watching from behind the glass. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Cocktail Fork Killer. Whatever’s next. At least there’s no kids.</i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFOLq8h8uquhYyUOEglBOxwes1IKdKdcVdM5m1oulbYWbhCu_1pd-JDZdfvNntdfPBUzBVeyafxFNv0smSXpGbRW5aG_3A0xzvRf_JlSkIfjurc9oSqN_EsoSsO5pkGCiMp3eiE8EKJqNH/s1600/Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1184" data-original-width="1600" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFOLq8h8uquhYyUOEglBOxwes1IKdKdcVdM5m1oulbYWbhCu_1pd-JDZdfvNntdfPBUzBVeyafxFNv0smSXpGbRW5aG_3A0xzvRf_JlSkIfjurc9oSqN_EsoSsO5pkGCiMp3eiE8EKJqNH/s320/Cover.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<i>Rumford Common Sense Cook Book</i>, The Department of Home Economics of The Rumford Company, 1930Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082634301326553341.post-56137031594490167562018-04-02T17:38:00.000-04:002018-04-02T17:44:02.258-04:00An International Incident<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzJkGQwVS3m0S_Yd-3jsFoVWkBXkhYptwnluUpgbW6pD0c_mI5Liurhd9ifDkBZL8wDjziEb2kTK-jNzxHcs5x7U9Bj4pMgXpjbxCrGteOFOe2J7ffozHwt603k3MIfRYZoTBnLHHaHsh_/s1600/Far+Away+Places.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1540" data-original-width="1227" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzJkGQwVS3m0S_Yd-3jsFoVWkBXkhYptwnluUpgbW6pD0c_mI5Liurhd9ifDkBZL8wDjziEb2kTK-jNzxHcs5x7U9Bj4pMgXpjbxCrGteOFOe2J7ffozHwt603k3MIfRYZoTBnLHHaHsh_/s640/Far+Away+Places.jpg" width="508" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
In order to make the World Cake for this children’s party,
you’re going to need to start well ahead of time and have all your wits about
you to avoid World War III. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
First, you need to buy two round baking dishes. Sorry: first
you need to source two round baking dishes and then figure out how to buy them.
Good luck with that. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Next, you have to arrange the initiations. This involves
creating <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>circular invites with
plenty of precise instructions. You must “ask each child to dress in the
costume of a special country or be ready to tell about one.” Realizing
immediately that this proposition is likely to result in the faux pas of two or
more children arriving dressed or prepared to tell about the same country, the
good folks at Betty Crocker then advise: “it is a good idea to assign countries
to the children to avoid duplication.” At this point you must get down on your
knees and thank your lucky stars that Betty Crocker does not have a say in
International Relations. They don’t even use the phrase “good idea” ironically.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At this point, before you’ve written out those invites, you
must sit down and think about which child will represent which country. How ethnographically
or politically correct are you going to be? And if you assign the ancestral
home of one child, but an utterly alien one to another, what message will that
send? What if some kid doesn’t want to be Zimbabwe? And if you avoid this
problem by assigning each child random countries, how are they going to know
what to wear? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This is when you break open that bottle of Scotch, because
you’ve belatedly realized that costumes can’t be assigned to countries, as if
countries were singular culturally heterogeneous and sported a “costume.” Come
to think of it, how will the whole “tell about it” option go down? Will those
party-goers dressed normally be forced to recite facts and figures about their
assigned country before they’re allowed in? What if they haven’t done their
homework? Pour yourself another glass: you’ve just realized you assigned
homework as a condition of attending your kid’s party. You have utterly failed
at parenting. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
However, you’ve bought the two round baking dishes and cut
out 12 globe-shaped invites, so you’re committed. There’s no way out. You
consider the games suggestion: “hold a mini-Olympics” and remembered that one
of the guests has a broken leg and another has asthma. The “shoe-kicking
contest” they also suggest is out then, whatever that entailed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You decide, three drinks in, to forego the whole United
Nations parade, and just focus on the cake, and send out the invites and go to
bed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the day of the party, you make the cake (not that hard,
as it turns out), but discover, to your horror, that you have no idea how to
draw an outline of the continents in chocolate icing piped from an envelope
onto a spherical cake. You have a hard enough time doing this with a pencil on
paper. There is no room for error. Can you pipe and consult a map at the same
time? Can you stop the icing from oozing out of the envelope while you do so? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You decide to make the best of a bad situation by disguising
the truth of your incompetence by decorating the entire cake in squiggles
instead. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
You console yourself with the thought that no-one will care.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiq2y2Tsdqgv4dvcHXvte1Hc2COK-ia0E_O2hZ4-AHeB_H1dmZnqZD1ZbKVRiCtdikgh2nhCrptf1C1ioTsrllt7xUdWU9fo2-2Uy3xyxwDKSI2O81kpRrpbzKwY7sMpDbfYZNsjbUebz6/s1600/Far+Away+Places+recipe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1546" data-original-width="1225" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiq2y2Tsdqgv4dvcHXvte1Hc2COK-ia0E_O2hZ4-AHeB_H1dmZnqZD1ZbKVRiCtdikgh2nhCrptf1C1ioTsrllt7xUdWU9fo2-2Uy3xyxwDKSI2O81kpRrpbzKwY7sMpDbfYZNsjbUebz6/s400/Far+Away+Places+recipe.jpg" width="316" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Children’s Parties Card #6 Far Away Places, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Betty Crocker Recipe Card Library</i>, 1971<br />
<br />
See Also: <a href="https://yuckylicious.blogspot.com/2018/03/a-snafu-in-jungle.html" target="_blank">A SNAFU In The Jungle</a>, <a href="https://yuckylicious.blogspot.com/2018/03/raggedy-ann-revisited.html" target="_blank">Raggedy Ann Revisited</a>, <a href="https://yuckylicious.blogspot.com/2018/03/horrorscope.html" target="_blank">Horrorscope</a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082634301326553341.post-40673996291295188162018-03-31T08:50:00.000-04:002018-04-02T17:42:04.201-04:00Horrorscope<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX_tQwRKVv7x2nRQlIwyLc6YZiXbG5eFc9GDplekTCwb5CP4f8KTpUAc_3Lp9IXYMLc4oSpxn9eWH8NGe7ju3hZd9KGnKcjoNxRPg-Br-MU3JzdmFkrfrhfBH9g-C0IzKiXEwIOKOiEC3K/s1600/Age+of+Aquarius.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1527" data-original-width="1230" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjX_tQwRKVv7x2nRQlIwyLc6YZiXbG5eFc9GDplekTCwb5CP4f8KTpUAc_3Lp9IXYMLc4oSpxn9eWH8NGe7ju3hZd9KGnKcjoNxRPg-Br-MU3JzdmFkrfrhfBH9g-C0IzKiXEwIOKOiEC3K/s640/Age+of+Aquarius.jpg" width="514" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
It had begun innocently enough: Henry’s Mom and Dad welcomed
the guests and the parents dropping them off only stayed long enough to find
out when to return to pick them up. The kids rushed in bearing their gifts,
which were placed on a side table in the hall. Henry, who’d been waiting all
day for the festivities to begin, grinned from ear-to-ear as he proudly showed
off his new bike. It was purple, and had a banana seat and ape hanger
handlebars with streamers. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But once everyone had arrived, Henry’s Mom (she said to call
her Doreen) gathered everyone into the living room den and had them take off
their shoes and sit in a circle on the shag carpet. Henry’s Dad (he said to
call him Frank) turned down the lights and drew the curtains, so there was a
lot of chatter, because this could only promise a really exciting game. Doreen
put some music on the hi-fi, but it wasn’t party music; it was all sort of
swirly. Frank plugged in a lava lamp and took his tie off. “Is everyone ready
to learn what their futures hold?” Doreen asked, and all the boys shouted their
assent. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Doreen sat down in the circle criss-cross-apple-sauce style
and put her hands on her knees with her fingers pinched together, and asked
everyone to do the same. There was some giggling, but they did it. Doreen
started swaying a little, and then opened her eyes wide and said “Eric!” Eric
grinned as his friends on either side poked him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Eric!”
Doreen continued, “You enjoy sports! You’re going to play baseball and make it
to the major leagues!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Eric
approved of this future wholeheartedly. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Next,
Doreen shifted and closed her eyes and opened them again and pointed to Peter,
who hoped she’d predict he’d become an astronaut, like he hoped.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Peter!”
she called, “You are into math and have a feel for calculations! You’re going
to work at a big tax corporation as one of their accountants!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Peter
looked dejected. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And
you’re going to have a really nice car!” Doreen added. This softened the blow. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Me
next, me next!” the boys shouted excitedly. Doreen moved again, closed her
eyes, and opened them on Buddy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Buddy!”
she cried. Buddy hopped up and down on his behind awaiting his fate.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Buddy
— I have bad news for you,” Doreen said. “You will be tempted by the dark side,
and lead a life of crime.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?”
Buddy exclaimed, but Doreen had moved on. The boys jostled, uneasy at this
sudden turn in events, but expecting it to work out in the end. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Alex!”
Doreen went on. “Alex, you will be a very successful businessman!” The boys
cheered. “You will live in a huge mansion and marry a beautiful woman!” The
boys roared. “But it won’t last!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Alex
deflated. “It’s OK, nudged Ian, sitting next to him, “it isn’t real.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Doreen
focused her attention on Boris, who stared back silently. “Boris!” She
hesitated. “Boris! Your birth mother says she’s sorry, and regrets what she
did. She wants me to tell you to avoid the evils of alcohol!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Birth
mother?” Boris said. The boys sat transfixed. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Just
as Doreen was about to reveal the fortune of another boy, Frank, who’d been
smoking quietly in the corner, interrupted his wife by asking if anybody would
like to loosen up a little, to which the party-goers responded gratefully. As
they clambered up from the circle, Frank put some new music on the hi-fi and
announced it was getting awfully hot in there. Doreen agreed, and started
unbuttoning her blouse. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
the Age of Aquarius!” Frank shouted gleefully. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At
first, the boys were leaping about to the music, but as Henry’s parents began
disrobing, the merriment came to an abrupt halt. Henry himself was missing. He
must have slipped out. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
better,” Doreen announced as the last of her clothes came off, as if completely
oblivious to the mortified stillness around her. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Come
on, everybody,” Frank urged, pulling his pants down. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The boys rushed for the door, getting jammed in their rush
to escape. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where’s
Henry?” Eric cried in a panic. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They
found him in the kitchen staring at his birthday cake. It was bright yellow,
with the signs of the zodiac piped around the edge in yellow icing. The center
held a sun made out of candy corn. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What’s
wrong with your Mom and Dad?” Buddy cried. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
did she mean, my ‘birth mother’?” Boris kept repeating. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But Henry just sat there looking at his cake. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
hate candy corn,” he said. “How come she knows about everyone else but me?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHRZzkpNXNKP48dN5s2hlZy-GWHMCxdvqJzrSsJ1liPKy5r9BL-sM_GDRpj9PohL-2vced4xAsGlWrIF0AzqB6-DE7ksTshasAGohYlftTt9m7yvnw0p0gT3FOmz7zVqJHLNyoyEKtmOXv/s1600/Age+of+Aquarius+recipe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1530" data-original-width="1227" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHRZzkpNXNKP48dN5s2hlZy-GWHMCxdvqJzrSsJ1liPKy5r9BL-sM_GDRpj9PohL-2vced4xAsGlWrIF0AzqB6-DE7ksTshasAGohYlftTt9m7yvnw0p0gT3FOmz7zVqJHLNyoyEKtmOXv/s400/Age+of+Aquarius+recipe.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Children’s Parties Card #5 Age of Aquarius, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Betty Crocker Recipe Card Library</i>, 1971<br />
<br />
See Also: <a href="https://yuckylicious.blogspot.com/2018/04/an-international-incident.html" target="_blank">An International Incident</a>, <a href="https://yuckylicious.blogspot.com/2018/03/raggedy-ann-revisited.html" target="_blank">Raggedy Ann Revisited</a>, <a href="https://yuckylicious.blogspot.com/2018/03/a-snafu-in-jungle.html" target="_blank">A SNAFU In The Jungle</a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082634301326553341.post-74474122262041475532018-03-30T07:33:00.000-04:002018-04-02T17:51:20.104-04:00Raggedy Ann Revisited<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqtFt92Zg2hrMtKFZxWtTOxaj-OqGgIsrC08_4g7tFJ4BuHiULFxZx1GCCwJRVcbZxxsWOEabqA6_xG4H1mq1Yh9t5Eb7vJF6EeDtDWoOR-9xocTjw-U9RU9WQoSj3KzCdpbxE9Xe-w__-/s1600/Rag+Doll+Party.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1542" data-original-width="1221" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqtFt92Zg2hrMtKFZxWtTOxaj-OqGgIsrC08_4g7tFJ4BuHiULFxZx1GCCwJRVcbZxxsWOEabqA6_xG4H1mq1Yh9t5Eb7vJF6EeDtDWoOR-9xocTjw-U9RU9WQoSj3KzCdpbxE9Xe-w__-/s640/Rag+Doll+Party.jpg" width="505" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Do you remember Denise’s Mom?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who
can forget?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
about that time she invited us all over for a tea party and served us
margaritas?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How
old were we — six?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That
lady was broken. I mean, she tried, but come on — you can’t give kids hard
liquor!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So
check what I found the other day at a yard sale. A set of Betty Crocker recipe
cards from 1971.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My
Mom used to have one of those too!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So
I’m going through the cards for fun, because these recipes are whack — and look
what I found.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Rag
Doll Tea Party. Sweet Jesus — that’s what she served us!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I
know, right? Because what little kid expects to be served a salad instead of
cookies and lemonade?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ooh
— lettuce! Celery! Raisins!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What’s
the hair made out of?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Cheese.
Is that a boiled egg for the head?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No
— it’s a marshmallow. I remember it being egg, though. Oh my God.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wow.”
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No
— I mean Oh my God, I just figured it out.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
margaritas. She read it wrong. They were supposed to be meringues. They’re
called ‘Marguerites.’”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How
can you get that wrong?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Girlfriend,
everything about this is wrong. You need a cocktail to get through it. She was
doing us a favor.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgApOQ5TNVi82gINmHu2_EkDrj1zVXt8ReqhIZT_7VxCIaW9dl-x8jskJbYaXGm7DSvOfnpzB7sHNMeqWih7B4f_8OGs8vhZ0q68vzRvPWYvOfdeT80LWfVrPDvQdOyuK0r8aFfFYuztXBn/s1600/Rag+Doll+Party+recipe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1542" data-original-width="1225" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgApOQ5TNVi82gINmHu2_EkDrj1zVXt8ReqhIZT_7VxCIaW9dl-x8jskJbYaXGm7DSvOfnpzB7sHNMeqWih7B4f_8OGs8vhZ0q68vzRvPWYvOfdeT80LWfVrPDvQdOyuK0r8aFfFYuztXBn/s400/Rag+Doll+Party+recipe.jpg" width="317" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Children’s Parties Card #15 Rag Doll Tea Party, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Betty Crocker Recipe Card Library</i>, 1971<br />
<br />
See Also: <a href="https://yuckylicious.blogspot.com/2018/04/an-international-incident.html" target="_blank">An International Incident</a>, <a href="https://yuckylicious.blogspot.com/2018/03/horrorscope.html" target="_blank">Horrorscope</a>, <a href="https://yuckylicious.blogspot.com/2018/03/a-snafu-in-jungle.html" target="_blank">A SNAFU In The Jungle</a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082634301326553341.post-52186460666967061022018-03-29T14:55:00.000-04:002018-04-02T17:46:26.021-04:00A SNAFU in the Jungle<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoCmTdKVEp-OtDfRA1jsQ0G8HGIRAm5lK4apSgQw55evLTzleA6K6A81Dqy7C3D2AjDE6XyunSPgMDLc060t5NXBkQ7p2N1J57VlLT7ldLS-77ouyJqjIps6vbz6mjMWY2Ud9Egc6LEO5x/s1600/African+Safari.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1530" data-original-width="1239" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoCmTdKVEp-OtDfRA1jsQ0G8HGIRAm5lK4apSgQw55evLTzleA6K6A81Dqy7C3D2AjDE6XyunSPgMDLc060t5NXBkQ7p2N1J57VlLT7ldLS-77ouyJqjIps6vbz6mjMWY2Ud9Egc6LEO5x/s400/African+Safari.jpg" width="323" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Nac uoy ared shit? Fo erousc ton.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
That’s because in English, we have spelling. Spelling, a
thing that schools seem to think is the key to your future success as a human
being, is all about putting the letters in the right order. Only sadists and
serial killers mix the letters up to hide the message they’re sending —
probably just to give themselves more time to commit whatever heinous act they
get off on. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On a related note, some mothers take birthday parties a
little too seriously. They forget that the only reason little Susie wants a
party is so that she can play the Queen Bee and decide which of her classmates
she’s going to invite or leave out in the cold as a crystal-clear message
they’ve been shunned. The only reason the other kids go is to get high on sugar
and run around for two hours and see what presents the other kids brought,
hoping that theirs is the best. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The actual details don’t matter, so long as there is cake. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKcNlcs01Dz-HML_6uLUq8tV78Vq8ZFefi-qA-Ln3Ii9WYHTVbKo7YDT1sB0KipZuR3J9xkot3jBN6v9ukYWgfI6V9uZwOKorI-lFOOZoL8IHXfKwiVRpAyEv5il7JzjZ0OnZg49hQTiP9/s1600/African+Safari+recipe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1533" data-original-width="1245" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKcNlcs01Dz-HML_6uLUq8tV78Vq8ZFefi-qA-Ln3Ii9WYHTVbKo7YDT1sB0KipZuR3J9xkot3jBN6v9ukYWgfI6V9uZwOKorI-lFOOZoL8IHXfKwiVRpAyEv5il7JzjZ0OnZg49hQTiP9/s320/African+Safari+recipe.jpg" width="259" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The one thing you want to avoid in planning a child’s
birthday party is having it resemble school. This party game devised by the
sinister and tortured souls at Betty Crocker hits all the marks: </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>involves
spelling difficult words <span style="font-family: "zapf dingbats"; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: "Zapf Dingbats";"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: "Zapf Dingbats";">3</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>requires
writing <span style="font-family: "zapf dingbats"; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: "Zapf Dingbats";"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: "Zapf Dingbats";">3</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>is
timed <span style="font-family: "zapf dingbats"; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: "Zapf Dingbats";"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: "Zapf Dingbats";">3</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>is
judged <span style="font-family: "zapf dingbats"; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: "Zapf Dingbats";"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: "Zapf Dingbats";">3</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>only
exists to kill time <span style="font-family: "zapf dingbats"; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: "Zapf Dingbats";"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: "Zapf Dingbats";">3</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>provides
ample opportunity for humiliation <span style="font-family: "zapf dingbats"; mso-ascii-font-family: Cambria; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: Cambria; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-symbol-font-family: "Zapf Dingbats";"><span style="mso-char-type: symbol; mso-symbol-font-family: "Zapf Dingbats";">3</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And to put the icing on the cake, as it were, let’s look
closely at what they consider a “jungle” animal:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
lion, elephant, monkey, peacock, flamingo, rhinoceros,
tiger, bear, hippopotamus, seal, llama, giraffe, kangaroo, penguin. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Penguin, FFS. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This situation is NOT normal — it is all f*cked up. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Children’s Parties Card #3 African Safari, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Betty Crocker Recipe Card Library</i>, 1971<br />
<br />
See Also: <a href="https://yuckylicious.blogspot.com/2018/03/raggedy-ann-revisited.html" target="_blank">Raggedy Ann Revisited</a>, <a href="https://yuckylicious.blogspot.com/2018/04/an-international-incident.html" target="_blank">An International Incident</a>, <a href="https://yuckylicious.blogspot.com/2018/03/horrorscope.html" target="_blank">Horrorscope</a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082634301326553341.post-4698919735398567152014-07-19T19:45:00.003-04:002014-07-19T19:45:42.032-04:00Why We Can’t Cook<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9q3BFoTmB_vgsNkuMwoKvTjnGdieEMSpW9UZvePljg5KOFPKhREZmKbusMl7tSaZukW701xMPmRAXpuhtntUfnvMwLajskWkGC6HxLMfct4REN6djJAdXLc9DUZW2jnwN1wG97s7Mbt9D/s1600/70s+Pizza.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9q3BFoTmB_vgsNkuMwoKvTjnGdieEMSpW9UZvePljg5KOFPKhREZmKbusMl7tSaZukW701xMPmRAXpuhtntUfnvMwLajskWkGC6HxLMfct4REN6djJAdXLc9DUZW2jnwN1wG97s7Mbt9D/s1600/70s+Pizza.JPG" height="640" width="344" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Cooking: what is it, and how can I get involved?</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Cooking is a long-lost ancient skill our ancestors used to
prepare food to eat. Long ago, in order to eat, people had to “grow” “raise”
“hunt” and “cultivate” edible things that they would then “cook” to turn into
food. It took all day. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today, cooking has become popular among a select group of
hip individuals who wish to recreate this long-abandoned art in their own
homes. People who do cooking are known as “cooks.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>What sorts of things do “cooks” make? </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Take pizza for example. A cook will make a pizza using a
“recipe” and techniques learned from “books.” They will actually make the
“dough” (the stuff the base is made from) themselves using their hands, and the
tomato part and the cheese part (although many cooks still buy the cheese). *
Then they will heat it in an oven. This is also called “cooking” it, which may
be confusing. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>But why would someone go to all this trouble? </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No-one really knows. You can buy a pizza at any supermarket.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>What does homemade pizza taste like?</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Again, this is unclear. Cooks rarely allow non-cooks to
share their “food.” By the time you show up, it’s usually all been eaten. It is
thought they do this to hide the evidence of their habit. The only way to know
is to become a cook yourself. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>Cooking sounds like a religious cult. Is it dangerous? </b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As with all new things, caution should be taken before
attempting. Before trying to cook, you should document your whereabouts and
alert your family, should things go wrong. It is a known fact that people who
have taken up cooking have disappeared into kitchens, and are never heard from
again. It can take years to track a cook down, and it has proven to be very
difficult to re-integrate them back into society. Cooks have also been known to
recruit their own family and friends into the habit: it’s a discussion you
should have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">before</i> you become hooked.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
*Not the cheese you may be used to: this cheese is made from
milk and enzymes which are mixed together and left to “age.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO1XdeKYQ6xJmmXBmXZGR-GRS10UwBwG9Xp5Z4DXSFXOPSnxDAwweLKA7MgannL9-z87pY9518dJ0SRMVMvJcOhQW13SNS3x6bmsJR0ppnL222Y5UffOEnEw0cLJPam9Eiix0sqv7HDawi/s1600/SCAN0549.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjO1XdeKYQ6xJmmXBmXZGR-GRS10UwBwG9Xp5Z4DXSFXOPSnxDAwweLKA7MgannL9-z87pY9518dJ0SRMVMvJcOhQW13SNS3x6bmsJR0ppnL222Y5UffOEnEw0cLJPam9Eiix0sqv7HDawi/s1600/SCAN0549.JPG" height="200" width="148" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fast Meals Cookbook</i>,
Rockville House Publishers, 1972</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #38761d;">Also from this book: <a href="http://yuckylicious.blogspot.com/2014/02/revenge-salad.html" target="_blank">Revenge Salad</a></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082634301326553341.post-84449645839054953992014-07-17T14:34:00.003-04:002014-07-17T14:34:48.388-04:00Peppered Chicken<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtCN9vL8uEWeNujyzU-0ZR696CKI0J0juxvCrBuQxmVJ37FSWNf2GG_v_La0-eUXJ8oRXsznF5jgB57I8oo621bCnOCLg7u9wceA2ZX0X3xyXwmmAV8TQOELJm4zWCWd3XGthpWaznj8Rz/s1600/Peppered+Chicken.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtCN9vL8uEWeNujyzU-0ZR696CKI0J0juxvCrBuQxmVJ37FSWNf2GG_v_La0-eUXJ8oRXsznF5jgB57I8oo621bCnOCLg7u9wceA2ZX0X3xyXwmmAV8TQOELJm4zWCWd3XGthpWaznj8Rz/s1600/Peppered+Chicken.jpg" height="640" width="466" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stick man hungry. Stick man want chicken. Stick man not sure
how to procure chicken. Stick man think. Stick man put on thinking pants. Stick
man getting thinner by the minute. Stick man put on belt to prevent pants from
falling down. Stick man spies shotgun, has brain-wave. Stick man hunts chicken.
Stick man sees chicken dressed in best crown minding chicken’s own business.
Stick man don’t care. Stick man hungry. Stick man takes aim, shoots
own-business-minding chicken in face. Stick man happy with himself. Stick man
plucks, guts, and cuts up chicken. Stick man invites five stick friends over
for dinner. Meanwhile, chicken community hold meeting, plot revenge. Chickens
wait until sun goes down, pour gasoline around stick man’s house. Next day,
nothing left but stick man’s belt. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoeWY-fLtIX0uoNm8GZ7QGAElFDN-gnYKEzc8ewJaCK8FWKWEdzc-rV8MvnERGauvnbhYNvslqaBWzCVXtTQobQN6AEywl3ISntK0SBaPRoivoUBndZ337wENH2vWA8FdPfAZSHqaiquOK/s1600/Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoeWY-fLtIX0uoNm8GZ7QGAElFDN-gnYKEzc8ewJaCK8FWKWEdzc-rV8MvnERGauvnbhYNvslqaBWzCVXtTQobQN6AEywl3ISntK0SBaPRoivoUBndZ337wENH2vWA8FdPfAZSHqaiquOK/s1600/Cover.jpg" height="200" width="155" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Recipes from the East</i>,
Charles E. Tuttle Company, 1955</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #38761d;">Also from this book: <a href="http://yuckylicious.blogspot.com/2014/07/boobies.html" target="_blank">Boobies</a></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082634301326553341.post-72783059686127912572014-07-15T17:40:00.002-04:002014-07-17T14:35:35.121-04:00Boobies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFMBsoBBDaXNG17F4kJhS8o7HJigpHWzpasTzeWeFKQfTVJ2g-eQoU9kWXjvmJazwZHuCPvpoRAX4FKEY2En97sanGc3NfgotSIC1h61ngoU5gZOAN9TTNCpsFylBxBCnX9Oqotw6Zj_PP/s1600/Malayan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFMBsoBBDaXNG17F4kJhS8o7HJigpHWzpasTzeWeFKQfTVJ2g-eQoU9kWXjvmJazwZHuCPvpoRAX4FKEY2En97sanGc3NfgotSIC1h61ngoU5gZOAN9TTNCpsFylBxBCnX9Oqotw6Zj_PP/s1600/Malayan.jpg" height="400" width="295" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bare boobies have usually only appeared in select
publications: medical texts, National Geographic, porn, and cookbooks. These
are from 1955, that glorious period in American history in which there were
absolutely no barriers placed on the availability of nude pictures for the
whole family to enjoy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO3EwGxGK3x-i1wX9uYOpl9rehQxzoyJDk0W0l8Ff3fuAb0BO7OwfkWJA-nV10PyC8GCWJV2ZhH_777fUhTpW5qfJ7YgtTLFNNCoNUJ1ku0whg9QXslERVUX_o6p67sK0BHwCY8bpSIjwt/s1600/Jakarta.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO3EwGxGK3x-i1wX9uYOpl9rehQxzoyJDk0W0l8Ff3fuAb0BO7OwfkWJA-nV10PyC8GCWJV2ZhH_777fUhTpW5qfJ7YgtTLFNNCoNUJ1ku0whg9QXslERVUX_o6p67sK0BHwCY8bpSIjwt/s1600/Jakarta.jpg" height="400" width="277" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoeWY-fLtIX0uoNm8GZ7QGAElFDN-gnYKEzc8ewJaCK8FWKWEdzc-rV8MvnERGauvnbhYNvslqaBWzCVXtTQobQN6AEywl3ISntK0SBaPRoivoUBndZ337wENH2vWA8FdPfAZSHqaiquOK/s1600/Cover.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoeWY-fLtIX0uoNm8GZ7QGAElFDN-gnYKEzc8ewJaCK8FWKWEdzc-rV8MvnERGauvnbhYNvslqaBWzCVXtTQobQN6AEywl3ISntK0SBaPRoivoUBndZ337wENH2vWA8FdPfAZSHqaiquOK/s1600/Cover.jpg" height="200" width="155" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Recipes from the East</i>,
Charles E. Tuttle Company, 1955<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #38761d;">Also from this book: <a href="http://yuckylicious.blogspot.com/2014/07/peppered-chicken.html" target="_blank">Peppered Chicken</a></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082634301326553341.post-27699347315821497532014-07-02T13:46:00.003-04:002014-07-02T13:46:23.365-04:00Kitchen Nightmares<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD7_iavc3ErGt6xgyrSTpcCJqY32u5Jpc-B-2fkIahgOIaq_NS6MnBDAAQYxqYZb2bJOBmZj9XeZEnW_UnYrNKETdpQXYO9b9TJx0kpay4qbHM2Ea_-fC2IfMgXYJdf3uG9zjJoUSYbjZ6/s1600/Hawaii.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgD7_iavc3ErGt6xgyrSTpcCJqY32u5Jpc-B-2fkIahgOIaq_NS6MnBDAAQYxqYZb2bJOBmZj9XeZEnW_UnYrNKETdpQXYO9b9TJx0kpay4qbHM2Ea_-fC2IfMgXYJdf3uG9zjJoUSYbjZ6/s1600/Hawaii.JPG" height="640" width="452" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A local restaurant was advertising their summer special on
the radio the other day. The special was a shrimp, avocado and strawberry
salad. Good luck with that. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gordon Ramsey’s restaurant makeover show, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Kitchen Nightmares</i> used to be a good
show when it was filmed in Britain. Well-meaning people did badly because they
just didn’t have a clue. Then he did a version in America, but it featured a
smarmy narrator with pop-in quickie comments by Ramsey, and mostly him throwing
fits, which is what Americans like to see. They don’t care about sincerity;
they just want reality show drama. So they picked insane eateries run by insane
people. Thus it is that Ramsey’s reputation in America is one of being a bully
and a coarse-mouthed thug in a white jacket. It has nothing to do with cooking.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What had happened was that the American show was a TV
version of the very thing he was trying to “fix”: it was a rubbish show, with a
terrible “menu” of content and no amount of shouting could rescue it from oblivion.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Whenever I see food pairings of obvious folly, I am reminded
of Ramsey’s original show. In it, he often had to explain to hapless chefs why
strawberries don’t go with fish or some such incompatibility of nature. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There is no need to put pineapple on top of your barbecued
ribs. Don’t do it, people. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoxhAOTFuwcApdh3_0T_sru9TsqFAVn5Y8tfRQ5cNnOcVw06D-MlkafOGndOikmx5ODhdCcOQeXodROdLh5MjnIKtbART-ftC-GclGg4-4MDuoiR_CRHptEkNewjSYGMhOdSMNVIytNT-L/s1600/Cover.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoxhAOTFuwcApdh3_0T_sru9TsqFAVn5Y8tfRQ5cNnOcVw06D-MlkafOGndOikmx5ODhdCcOQeXodROdLh5MjnIKtbART-ftC-GclGg4-4MDuoiR_CRHptEkNewjSYGMhOdSMNVIytNT-L/s1600/Cover.JPG" height="200" width="145" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><i>Meat Cook Book</i>, Better Homes and Gardens, 1969</o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="color: #38761d;"> Also from this book: <a href="http://yuckylicious.blogspot.com/2014/03/common-cored.html" target="_blank">Common Cored</a></span></o:p></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082634301326553341.post-35679476121344675462014-05-11T12:38:00.001-04:002014-05-11T12:39:38.727-04:00Mother’s Day<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjirGnA1Td2WTiCG13qAV6lJeh1BnVZogEO2OuXBNMpvTvW28Z29pyQys-uUupiH1GC79n9YoO-9e8ayyAqHYlxWQ1kJKFANLstbE5gB04I4KwHuogjM8EQM7g_pP6uzwcWl_ZODwmSygtn/s1600/SCAN0515.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjirGnA1Td2WTiCG13qAV6lJeh1BnVZogEO2OuXBNMpvTvW28Z29pyQys-uUupiH1GC79n9YoO-9e8ayyAqHYlxWQ1kJKFANLstbE5gB04I4KwHuogjM8EQM7g_pP6uzwcWl_ZODwmSygtn/s1600/SCAN0515.JPG" height="640" width="464" /></a></div>
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<br /></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For years, I worked at the bakery. Most of the time I was
behind the counter, slicing loaves and putting éclairs in boxes, and keeping an
eye out for the mice — there’s always mice in bakeries, as you can imagine.
Once day Doris was out sick and an order came in for a decorated cake — <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Happy Anniversary Mum and Dad</i>, with
flowers piped around the edges. Well, Doris did all of that; she was quite
territorial about it. And the cake was a rush order, so the boss said
“Marjorie, give it a go,” and I did. I found where Doris kept the icing and
piping bag and got to work. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I think I did a decent job, and really enjoyed it too. In
fact, the people who put in the order liked it so much they told the boss, and
from then on in, Doris and I had to share the decorating duties. She’d get one,
and I’d get the next one. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Doris didn’t like this arrangement, and kept trying to
sabotage me by hiding the equipment or botching the order by spelling out the
wrong names. One time she was closing up and left my cake out on the counter,
with a trail of breadcrumbs leading to it. Well, you can imagine what the mice
did with that. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The last straw came when Doris’s own son, Carl, passed his
driver’s test and his Dad called in an order for a celebratory cake. Only it
was my turn, not hers. This is the cake. I was very proud of it, I must say.
And I’m glad we got this picture, because not long afterwards, Doris
“accidentally” sat on it right before it was due to be picked up. You’d think
she’d be upset at having ruined her son’s cake, but she wasn’t. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After that, she went on to work at the chicken plant,
bagging giblets. I stayed on at the bakery until I retired. Every now and then
I’ll get the piping kit out for old time’s sake, but my arthritis keeps me from
doing too much. Carl’s got kids of his own now. My kids all upped and moved
away. Charlie, the youngest, always remembers me on Mother’s Day. </div>
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<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFU_lSJMtLBXtFbLLdIE10Tivprlz7FYtrxF4B-9gij0mKyBUmAWOS9e8bpOSeTKtgRlQN5sxwB4JiAf4yxyoY0CFn-7UyKTNSvsJ7zFLLD3ZDRwa_BHdXgbOL3VSEBP7pKrdYoiK1Nprc/s1600/SCAN0513.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFU_lSJMtLBXtFbLLdIE10Tivprlz7FYtrxF4B-9gij0mKyBUmAWOS9e8bpOSeTKtgRlQN5sxwB4JiAf4yxyoY0CFn-7UyKTNSvsJ7zFLLD3ZDRwa_BHdXgbOL3VSEBP7pKrdYoiK1Nprc/s1600/SCAN0513.JPG" height="200" width="151" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Creative Cake Decorating, <i>Better Homes and Gardens</i>, 1983</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: #38761d;">Also from this book: </span><a href="http://yuckylicious.blogspot.com/2013/12/pablo-red-nosed-reindeer.html" target="_blank">Pablo The Red-Nosed Reindeer</a>, <a href="http://yuckylicious.blogspot.com/2013/10/will-no-one-rid-me-of-this-turbulent.html" style="text-align: center;" target="_blank">Will no one rid me of this turbulent cake?</a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082634301326553341.post-82280279111748557742014-03-30T21:05:00.006-04:002014-07-02T13:47:13.527-04:00Common Cored<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglJFuVwS4A-jNxyo1O6sOOIZYQSum2VTtXuRCGXmWax3fRgoSnDse04j7tPK_oq8y8Kq5K-fP_qjICw9CK329q3ojvU_6MAhYZQbBXOrc3lcUtl7Mpdsv-9nq5Uu9qyHDkOxrszXUiZiJu/s1600/Ham+bake.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglJFuVwS4A-jNxyo1O6sOOIZYQSum2VTtXuRCGXmWax3fRgoSnDse04j7tPK_oq8y8Kq5K-fP_qjICw9CK329q3ojvU_6MAhYZQbBXOrc3lcUtl7Mpdsv-9nq5Uu9qyHDkOxrszXUiZiJu/s1600/Ham+bake.JPG" height="640" width="460" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Common Core Standards Initiative, adopted in many states
in the last decade, has been criticized for turning formerly simple and
well-known approaches to math that have been employed for centuries into
Kafkaesque problems whose very existence causes mental anguish among not just
the poor students subject to mastering them, but to their hapless parents as
well. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Instead of performing a simple arithmetic task —
subtraction, say — by subtracting the smaller number from the larger one,
students now have to break the numbers up into chunks and draw squares and put
them all back together again to produce the answer. It takes far longer, defies
logic, and is more likely to result in a wrong answer. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV1Qi_SrFMFpukr8eu6HkrEcpjthEamlznrN_gHeM7PBGZN89Enp8Rb3AuN6Lj-UgKNa8iqLyQqMqt_Uf4vF7E6TwUgmPObYFLaSv65q-2FRSUK-M1M4bQN0Wo1v47ORYLX35jXochm2A0/s1600/Common-Core-problem-Twitter-@Hollaatme_baby.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV1Qi_SrFMFpukr8eu6HkrEcpjthEamlznrN_gHeM7PBGZN89Enp8Rb3AuN6Lj-UgKNa8iqLyQqMqt_Uf4vF7E6TwUgmPObYFLaSv65q-2FRSUK-M1M4bQN0Wo1v47ORYLX35jXochm2A0/s1600/Common-Core-problem-Twitter-@Hollaatme_baby.jpg" height="137" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">14? Right?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can speak from personal experience; my fifth-grader, who has
a natural affinity for math, can often be found in tears when confronted by the
need to do his homework the way the teacher insists, rather than just getting
the right answers. I cannot explain to him why he needs to do this. I shrug and
we do the problems the old-school way.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the spirit of the Common Core, I would like to illustrate
this with a Glazed Ham Ring from 1969. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Imagine the math problem as a pig. A delicious pig. Think of
all the lovely ways you could eat this pig: pork chops; ham; bacon; barbecued
ribs; slow roasted shoulder; pulled pork sandwich; sausages; crackling. All are
relatively simple in that the pig is broken down into various parts and cooked,
and then served. The parts still look like they came from an animal on the
serving platter, and indeed, on your plate. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now imagine taking some of this wonderful pig and grinding
some of it into a pink mush. Mix the mush with bread, eggs, and onion. Take
this mush and form it into a ring mold. Invert the oiled mold onto a baking
tray and bake. Afterwards, cover it in a bright red glaze, and fill the hole in
the middle with a mixture of half-peeled potatoes, peas, and cream. Serve with
red apples and a generous helping of parsley.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Write a word problem for this pig that takes into account
having turned all the ingredients for this dish into spheres. Then, solve the
problem, showing your work. Use a #2 pencil. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0HZyfMs3_jcL698ElN2N7h7LJpD1MvAZm-Xe96nphgCk0W4Fvxy39qkE-5Ay1x_4_1wjRyDfB8Pa-0FsVSJFU-ghse0gmPcyQzt5oTTHeCkxMSHJzI0YmCCOxRBvOiIAv_IKtd8DJPD8y/s1600/Common-Core-cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0HZyfMs3_jcL698ElN2N7h7LJpD1MvAZm-Xe96nphgCk0W4Fvxy39qkE-5Ay1x_4_1wjRyDfB8Pa-0FsVSJFU-ghse0gmPcyQzt5oTTHeCkxMSHJzI0YmCCOxRBvOiIAv_IKtd8DJPD8y/s1600/Common-Core-cropped.jpg" height="137" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Congratulations: according to the Common Core, you are now
ready to apply your knowledge in the workplace.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJvK_QLF2wLoaDmTBENRBoRUqMN2QM88P_M5jdMTULidVdjD870pOb43__SnQ-r46K8MZAWzQPeMnr7atQCQZXmVuRf6-u3Hft_ls9xJ5_KKyaIbgXB0Rpej96YOG39vdTGZAAK12p3kTJ/s1600/Cover.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJvK_QLF2wLoaDmTBENRBoRUqMN2QM88P_M5jdMTULidVdjD870pOb43__SnQ-r46K8MZAWzQPeMnr7atQCQZXmVuRf6-u3Hft_ls9xJ5_KKyaIbgXB0Rpej96YOG39vdTGZAAK12p3kTJ/s1600/Cover.JPG" height="200" width="145" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Meat Cook Book</i>,
Better Homes and Gardens, 1969</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br />
<span style="color: #38761d;">Also from this book: <a href="http://yuckylicious.blogspot.com/2014/07/kitchen-nightmares.html" target="_blank">Kitchen Nightmares</a></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082634301326553341.post-9298195613509939212014-03-02T20:12:00.004-05:002014-03-02T20:12:39.926-05:00SOS!
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The asparagus spears stared at us intently from their jelly cocoon
as we made small talk and sipped aperitifs. I tried to pay attention to the man
sitting next to me, who was relating an anecdote about his misbegotten youth —
likely the same anecdote he’d been using on unsuspecting dinner table partners
for years — perhaps since his youth, which was, it was obvious, at some time in
the distant past of the last century. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The asparagus seemed to want to make telepathic contact, to
transmit an SOS directly to my brain. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Help</i>,
they cried piteously. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Been boiled. I
think my friend is ill. Stuck in aspic. Can’t move.</i> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Something something…Ration
books and the War. Something something…Well, you’ll never guess what happened
next…Three shillings ha’ppenny</i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Save us</i>, they
silently screamed. I felt the same way. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I attempted to return their desperate communiqué. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Dilemma noted</i>, I thought. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Will attempt rescue soon</i>. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The more I stole glances their way, the less they looked
like asparagus, and more like the disembodied tentacles of some awful sea
creature, or else the severed penises of some exotic South American mammal. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our hostess clinked her glass, bringing me out of my
reverie, and temporarily releasing me from the verbal assault of my gentleman
admirer. It was time to begin. I sat, fork poised over the perfectly smooth,
glistening surface of my appetizer, aware that every second delayed the heroic
rescue I was about to perform. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What if, once freed, the asparagus leaped up from their
gelatinous prison, gasping for air and hell-bent on exacting revenge? They
stared at me, and I stared back. It was the moment of truth. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Go on,” I said to my ancient paramour. “I believe we were
rudely interrupted.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgxxRIc-RldSRiPKVk21HsJ_PBQkTgDJlgFNQkrOXbceo_-aFoeMdb8gz30LwoZV2jaJHNeyxorITWgNhT33YQDW2uUc6BSpjOhQVgPQEe-lIzaKfvnKy7Q9jlkkBiFjOn7Te9FRyHRmZ6/s1600/SCAN0545.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgxxRIc-RldSRiPKVk21HsJ_PBQkTgDJlgFNQkrOXbceo_-aFoeMdb8gz30LwoZV2jaJHNeyxorITWgNhT33YQDW2uUc6BSpjOhQVgPQEe-lIzaKfvnKy7Q9jlkkBiFjOn7Te9FRyHRmZ6/s1600/SCAN0545.JPG" height="200" width="151" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Salad Book</i>, Lane
Books, 1966</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082634301326553341.post-10254590561439648572014-02-17T22:40:00.001-05:002014-02-17T22:40:49.235-05:00When Pigs Fly
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<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhPk6fen8yexeAYqW3T8QgctLvywMHuU5nFIilIMLs7mSJcEJsEoXsrFXAPAt9Pd4zyo6TVn4tBoOvyRNOw9Y0OfGoa82wNWuBaqmJXUIyOsX701WySWaNGIJ0cjNZMYoZzMb0Lt6DLT5g/s1600/Pork+Birds.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhPk6fen8yexeAYqW3T8QgctLvywMHuU5nFIilIMLs7mSJcEJsEoXsrFXAPAt9Pd4zyo6TVn4tBoOvyRNOw9Y0OfGoa82wNWuBaqmJXUIyOsX701WySWaNGIJ0cjNZMYoZzMb0Lt6DLT5g/s1600/Pork+Birds.JPG" height="640" width="370" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">When Pigs Fly</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When pigs fly it is said that one ought not to touch </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
one’s wife’s elbow. One must refrain from </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
smelling apples and thinking of opera. When pigs fly,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
blue is registered by the eye as yellow, etc. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do not lick postage stamps when pigs fly. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Do not lace your shoes. It is forbidden to be nostalgic </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
for the days when you were small enough to sit upon </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
your grandfather’s lap and sniff his beard. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When pigs fly the stars do not align, and drawers </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
which have never moved will suddenly become </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
unstuck. Forks must not be used when pigs fly. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Neither agree or disagree with arguments made by children. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If one swears an oath when the pigs fly, it will never </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
come true. Turn all paintings towards the wall </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
when pigs fly. Do not look at the sky. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I repeat: do not look at the sky. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When pigs fly, you are temporarily released </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
from all obligations made to childhood friends </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
when standing in water. When pigs fly you must </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
refer to them as “pork birds,” for this is the term </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
they prefer. The birds will refer to themselves as “fish” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
and the fish shall call themselves “Enrico.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Those named Enrico will refrain from whispering </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
for the duration of the pig’s flight. When pigs fly </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
you will forget everything you remembered </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
about calculus, and if you know nothing of calculus, </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
you’ll be none the wiser. When pigs fly you will understand </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
wonder, and peaches, and motorcycles, and snow.</div>
<!--EndFragment--><br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMvLmhoyM4A6KEjsONH3M_iOVg43IsI_NtWNMHK6cP2t-mLlhe65CtjpQucClXxf5RZA3MQ6mWiMQ5m_1YefTR2QHLD_ChtiJvyG0phyiWdLY1VkCfJBCeuJZWiyGqIuxJkYqWnBPZb5KW/s1600/SCAN0547.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMvLmhoyM4A6KEjsONH3M_iOVg43IsI_NtWNMHK6cP2t-mLlhe65CtjpQucClXxf5RZA3MQ6mWiMQ5m_1YefTR2QHLD_ChtiJvyG0phyiWdLY1VkCfJBCeuJZWiyGqIuxJkYqWnBPZb5KW/s1600/SCAN0547.JPG" height="200" width="163" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>McCall's Book of Marvellous Meats</i>, The McCall Corporation, 1965</div>
<!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082634301326553341.post-72531004910185871642014-02-16T15:43:00.000-05:002014-07-19T19:46:25.846-04:00Revenge Salad<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now might I do it pat — while he is chatting;</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And now I’ll do it. And so he messes up his pants;</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And so I am revenged. That would be just:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I, his virtuous wife, do this cheating villain send</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To the laundry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
O, this is silliness, not revenge.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He violated his vows grossly, deliberately;</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With deceit on his lips, flushed all May;</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And he thought I wouldn’t find him out?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But he bought me jewelry, so it seems</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He knows he messed up. Am I then revenged,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To embarrass him at this cookout,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When all our friends will think me mad?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
No!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Up, platter, and wait for a crueler time:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When he is drunk asleep, or lost in sports,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Or in the adulterous pleasure of her bed;</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Gambling, cussing, or about some act</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
He shouldn’t be doing;</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then trip him, that his ass may land in salad,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And wreck his mood, as dark and black</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As our marriage. My mother-in-law arrives:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
This dilly-dallying but prolongs my plans.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
(Mrs. Hamlet)</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyNifMY9YeXwVwXXpHeFAv7iPm2t5QkMxO2QApE5yN7oxz5DVFG1fJOX4-1xgQGcouPSueyGYwdJp_hVY6P0wd8aefQdQUqMxGzn1vkExqj3zRnY9yXhXP9-10Smqldr6RoO0c_j0RQkDy/s1600/SCAN0549.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyNifMY9YeXwVwXXpHeFAv7iPm2t5QkMxO2QApE5yN7oxz5DVFG1fJOX4-1xgQGcouPSueyGYwdJp_hVY6P0wd8aefQdQUqMxGzn1vkExqj3zRnY9yXhXP9-10Smqldr6RoO0c_j0RQkDy/s1600/SCAN0549.JPG" height="200" width="148" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Fast Meals Cookbook</i>, Rockville House Publishers, 1972<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #38761d;">Also from this book: <a href="http://yuckylicious.blogspot.com/2014/07/why-we-cant-cook.html" target="_blank">Why We Can’t Cook</a></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082634301326553341.post-14398205440018271982014-01-11T21:46:00.001-05:002014-01-11T21:46:14.885-05:00When The Wheels Fall Off
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Sell the horse</i>,
she says. Sell the horse! <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You want to
keep fit, sell the horse</i>. So I sell the horse. It seemed like a good idea
at the time. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Horses are expensive</i>,
she says, rubbing her fingers together. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Horses
eat, need the vet, need shoes</i>. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I need
shoes</i>, she says, lifting one foot onto the table. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Horses are old-fashioned</i>, she says, and goes back to her magazine.
So I sell the horse. </div>
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It seemed like a good idea at the time. </div>
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And then she said <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">burn
the cart</i>. Burn the cart! <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">After all</i>,
she reasoned — <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">without a horse, how can
you pull a cart?</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You want to keep
warm, burn the cart. There is plenty of firewood in a cart</i>. It was the
middle of winter, and snow lay thick on the ground. It seemed like a good idea.
So I burn the cart. </div>
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Of course, in the winter you can use the sled. The sled is
designed to go easy on snow. </div>
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In the summer, not so much. </div>
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Still, I’m fit. It’s one foot in front of the other all day
long pulling this sled across the pasture while the cows look on. I know what
they’re thinking: they’re thinking here I am wearing a fine brass bell doing
nothing but sunning myself all day and there he goes, wearing a funny hat,
dragging cheese back to his fat wife. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAK-TfzwbNZKYxuRFpSkPJf8c8VRKS7MnbqJLHGDT9VVswaZKwSu-TlWAdtCFCBS3yj8bxNqDs5EH8xGiwLorHN-TggAhaxpkxLnALjXv3t_eXi2DDu2eqyoZGvNxZSVtN9OUQ_xXM1zDp/s1600/SCAN0501.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAK-TfzwbNZKYxuRFpSkPJf8c8VRKS7MnbqJLHGDT9VVswaZKwSu-TlWAdtCFCBS3yj8bxNqDs5EH8xGiwLorHN-TggAhaxpkxLnALjXv3t_eXi2DDu2eqyoZGvNxZSVtN9OUQ_xXM1zDp/s1600/SCAN0501.JPG" height="200" width="148" /></a></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Cooking of Germany</i>,
Time-Life Books, 1969</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #38761d;">Also from this book: <a href="http://yuckylicious.blogspot.com/2013/07/sauerkraut-stuffed-pineapple.html" target="_blank">Sauerkraut Stuffed Pineapple</a>, <a href="http://yuckylicious.blogspot.com/2013/07/potato-pancakes.html" target="_blank">Potato Pancakes</a>, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #38761d;"><a href="http://yuckylicious.blogspot.com/2013/10/a-fate-worse-than-death.html" target="_blank">A Fate Worse Than Death</a>, <a href="http://yuckylicious.blogspot.com/2013/07/ludwig-boltzmanns-steak-tartar.html" target="_blank">Ludwig Boltzmann's Steak Tartar</a></span></div>
<!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1082634301326553341.post-52823800664721864792014-01-09T22:21:00.001-05:002014-01-09T22:21:19.354-05:00A Child Model Speaks
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Yes, I was a child model. I did all sorts — clothing
catalogues, TV spots, book covers. My Mom took me to all the shoots and they
saved the money I earned for a college education. Well, that was the idea;
that’s what I was always told. As it turns out, when I turned 18, there wasn’t
anything left. My Dad had used it all to pay bills. I think my Mom wanted to be
a model herself. You know; same old story. I loved it, actually, because it
meant getting out of school. It was my “job.” I thought it was pretty cool. It
was easy work, let’s face it. </div>
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Ah yes — the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fast
Fixin’ Kids’ Recipes</i>, that one was memorable. I did a bunch of stuff for
Better Homes and Gardens. They wanted to be “multi-cultural” and all that, so
they hired kids who all looked real different. This kid on the cover with me
was a sweetheart. He just giggled and smiled. Honestly, I think he was on something
— cold medicine or something, Some Moms did that to keep their kids obedient —
pliable, you know. Would just smile and smile and do whatever they were asked
then fall asleep. </div>
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The photographer for this book got some terrible shots. Real
clunkers — kids with their eyes closed, weird facial expressions, etc. In one
picture a boy dressed up as a cowboy was literally crying when the shot was
taken — and they used it! He looked just miserable, my God. </div>
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They had this enormous cookie made in the shape of a bear,
covered with frosting. This one girl had to pretend to eat it. She was a
trooper. She threw up constantly. Her Mom said it was nerves, but it was
because she nibbled the entire time. </div>
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I’ve got this gape-mouthed, wide-eyed look going. I’m
staring at a burger, or was supposed to. In fact, they took this picture when I
was looking at the hand puppet the photographer was waving. They do that, in
kid’s shoots, to produce the kind of expressions they want. Well, you don’t
want to know what he was doing with that puppet. </div>
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Seriously, look at that cover. Why would anyone look like
that over a burger? Was it made of gold? No. Mostly it was made of glue and
lacquer and all the shit they put on the food to make it look fresh. The food
never smelled like food, you know — it smelled like fumes; chemical fumes. You
never wanted to lean in too close. </div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Fast Fixin’ Kids’
Recipes, </i>Better Homes and Gardens, 1988</div>
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<!--EndFragment-->Unknownnoreply@blogger.com