Salad Daze

 

Child’s Play

Shakespeare’s contributions to the English language are legion; one of these is Cleopatra’s comment upon her romance with Julius Caesar, which she describes as “My salad days, / when I was green in judgment, cold in blood….” Note the repetition of the idea of “green,” meaning raw and innocent, as are nature’s new shoots. She regrets her affair as the naivite of youth, before she knew better. The term “salad days” has come to refer to the carefree time when one could just have an affair with the Emperor, or simply be young and stupid. 

 

This Creamy Fruit Salad is merely stupid. Instructions include tinting the whipped cream pink with food coloring. Why? I can hear the grapes whining in that particularly weary teenagers use when they are embarrassed by their parents, as they attempt an escape over the side of the bowl. They’d like the strawberries to join their rebellion, but the strawberries, still under Mom’s sway, remain posed with a sickly sweet smile, only faintly aware of their complicity in this tragic enactment of the end of culture as we know it. 

 

 

Creamy Fruit Salad, The Betty Crocker Recipe Card Library, 1971

The Miracle of Birth

 

Many is the poor husband who, while dutifully supporting his wife’s labor, commits the terrible mistake of taking a quick peek. Perhaps his delirious partner, in her extreme condition, demands to know how much of the baby is out. Perhaps the birth attendant, both used to and enthralled by the relentless exposure to the business end of life invites him to take a look he’ll never forget. Nowadays, the paternal responsibility of cutting the cord pressures the new father into witnessing the carnage of his beloved’s forest glade a few months before its seductive form has been regained. In any case, such scenes can elicit an impolite response: loss of consciousness, immediate regurgitation, an avowal to his god of lifelong celibacy, or the utterance of deeply regrettable profanity. Let’s face it: the sight of a mammal emerging from another mammal’s nether regions is not for the faint of heart. 

 

And it’s not just something one may stumble across in the odd intimacy of one’s birthing suite; footage of animals giving birth, both wild and domestic, is everywhere on the internet for all to see: one minute you’re scrolling past memes, and the next a sheep / goat / horse / cow / elephant / wildebeest  is being pushed wetly, hoof-first, from its mother shamelessly on camera for all the world to see. It’s not the facts of life; it’s a fact of life. Like the Scouts say, be prepared. 

 

And it’s not just an assault from the animal kingdom one has to be prepared to view: the vegetable world has joined the fray too. Witness here the trials of the lowly, yet noble onion, as she delivers a slick new version of herself onto the dinner table. Note the gentle, yet firm encouragement provided by the chef/doula’s gloved hands, while her sister onion patiently awaits her turn on the plate. 

 

Do not turn away from the miracle of life, dear reader: do not avert your gaze, for it is a tale as old as time. One onion begets another, and so it goes on, layer after glistening layer. 

 

Vegetables Roasted in Coals

The Betty Crocker Recipe Card Library 1971 

Pizza Potatoes — For When You Simply Don’t Give A F*ck

The Betty Crocker Recipe Card Library series from 1971 is a plastic time capsule of grotesque food photography.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Budget Casseroles Card #25 Pizza Potatoes, Betty Crocker Recipe Card Library, 1971

Making A Boob Of Yourself

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.

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.

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.

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.

The plastic surgeon was 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.

Salads For Every Occasion Card #5 Frozen Salads, Betty Crocker Recipe Card Library, 1971

See also: The Ides of Salad

Horrorscope

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.

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.

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.

            “Eric!” Doreen continued, “You enjoy sports! You’re going to play baseball and make it to the major leagues!”

            Eric approved of this future wholeheartedly.

            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.

            “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!”

            Peter looked dejected.

            “And you’re going to have a really nice car!” Doreen added. This softened the blow.

            “Me next, me next!” the boys shouted excitedly. Doreen moved again, closed her eyes, and opened them on Buddy.

            “Buddy!” she cried. Buddy hopped up and down on his behind awaiting his fate.

            “Buddy — I have bad news for you,” Doreen said. “You will be tempted by the dark side, and lead a life of crime.”

            “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.

            “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!”

            Alex deflated. “It’s OK, nudged Ian, sitting next to him, “it isn’t real.”

            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!”

            “Birth mother?” Boris said. The boys sat transfixed.

            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.

            “It’s the Age of Aquarius!” Frank shouted gleefully.

            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.

            “That’s better,” Doreen announced as the last of her clothes came off, as if completely oblivious to the mortified stillness around her.

            “Come on, everybody,” Frank urged, pulling his pants down.

The boys rushed for the door, getting jammed in their rush to escape.

            “Where’s Henry?” Eric cried in a panic.

            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.

            “What’s wrong with your Mom and Dad?” Buddy cried.

            “What did she mean, my ‘birth mother’?” Boris kept repeating.

But Henry just sat there looking at his cake.

            “I hate candy corn,” he said. “How come she knows about everyone else but me?”

           

Children’s Parties Card #5 Age of Aquarius, Betty Crocker Recipe Card Library, 1971

See Also: An International Incident, Raggedy Ann Revisited, A SNAFU In The Jungle

Raggedy Ann Revisited

“Do you remember Denise’s Mom?”

            “Who can forget?”

            “What about that time she invited us all over for a tea party and served us margaritas?”

            “How old were we — six?”

            “That lady was broken. I mean, she tried, but come on — you can’t give kids hard liquor!”

            “So check what I found the other day at a yard sale. A set of Betty Crocker recipe cards from 1971.”

            “My Mom used to have one of those too!”

            “So I’m going through the cards for fun, because these recipes are whack — and look what I found.”

            “Rag Doll Tea Party. Sweet Jesus — that’s what she served us!”

            “I know, right? Because what little kid expects to be served a salad instead of cookies and lemonade?”

            “Ooh — lettuce! Celery! Raisins!”

            “What’s the hair made out of?”

            “Cheese. Is that a boiled egg for the head?”

            “No — it’s a marshmallow. I remember it being egg, though. Oh my God.”

            “Wow.”

            “No — I mean Oh my God, I just figured it out.”

            “What?”

             “The margaritas. She read it wrong. They were supposed to be meringues. They’re called ‘Marguerites.’”

            “How can you get that wrong?”

            “Girlfriend, everything about this is wrong. You need a cocktail to get through it. She was doing us a favor.”

Children’s Parties Card #15 Rag Doll Tea Party, Betty Crocker Recipe Card Library, 1971

See Also: An International Incident, Horrorscope, A SNAFU In The Jungle

A SNAFU in the Jungle

Nac uoy ared shit? Fo erousc ton.

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.

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.

The actual details don’t matter, so long as there is cake.

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:

            involves spelling difficult words 3

            requires writing 3

            is timed 3

            is judged 3

            only exists to kill time 3

            provides ample opportunity for humiliation 3

And to put the icing on the cake, as it were, let’s look closely at what they consider a “jungle” animal:

lion, elephant, monkey, peacock, flamingo, rhinoceros, tiger, bear, hippopotamus, seal, llama, giraffe, kangaroo, penguin.

Penguin, FFS.

This situation is NOT normal — it is all f*cked up.

Children’s Parties Card #3 African Safari, Betty Crocker Recipe Card Library, 1971

See Also: Raggedy Ann Revisited, An International Incident, Horrorscope

Why We Can’t Cook

Cooking: what is it, and how can I get involved?

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.

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.”

What sorts of things do “cooks” make?

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.

But why would someone go to all this trouble?

No-one really knows. You can buy a pizza at any supermarket.

What does homemade pizza taste like?

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.

Cooking sounds like a religious cult. Is it dangerous?

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 before you become hooked.

*Not the cheese you may be used to: this cheese is made from milk and enzymes which are mixed together and left to “age.”

Fast Meals Cookbook, Rockville House Publishers, 1972

Also from this book: Revenge Salad