My mother-in-law stays sharp and active in retirement by scouring estate and yard sales, shining/fixing items up and selling them for a hefty mark-up at an antique consignment shop. Casino money!
She knows I find quirky old cookbooks amusing, especially the kind produced by amateurs for book clubs and such. So she brings oddball vintage cookbooks to me, even though our house is always on the verge of being overtaken by books.
I was reading one yesterday that was published by a women’s club in a small North Dakota town in the late 1970s. Y’all. Here’s a sample:

Holy shit, that’s repellent. All of it.
My mother loved tapioca pudding, and my grandmother loved eating at buffet restaurants. (She liked to see what she was getting.)
One time at a giant buffet with the family, Mom was overjoyed to find tapioca pudding, and she came back to the table with a big bowl of it. She took one bite and froze, spoon in mid-air. It was tartar sauce.
Anyhoo, on to dessert:

I just cannot.
It’s not snobbery that makes my gorge rise. I spent my early life in Florida trailer parks eating deviled ham on Wonder bread, Kraft singles with bologna and delicacies like canned Vienna (pronounced VYE-inna) sausages.
But good lord, Kool-Aid pie? Tapioca goulash? What was WRONG with those people?
Open thread!






