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Herbert Hoover’s Sour Cream Cookies

07.31.2017 by J. Doe // Leave a Comment

In the opening scene of the musical Oliver!, the orphan boys are served a meal of gruel, then watch hungrily as the well-fed gentlemen who administer the workhouse tuck into a luxurious repast of Food, Glorious Food. I love that movie, and all the songs in it, as much as I love a good meal – possibly more, given that good movies, unlike good meals, have no calories.

I haven’t watched Oliver! in years, but I thought of it recently, when I made Richard Nixon’s Chicken Casserole. Good food was not unknown in 1968, the year in which Nixon was elected, and though I can’t attest to this fact from personal knowledge – I was born in 1968, and not yet able to eat even my mother’s notoriously terrible food –  I submit the Food Glorious Food movie sequence as evidence. Good food existed, and was being paraded in front of movie orphans that year.

Why, then, was Nixon eating that casserole?

What is the point of being leader of the free world if you’re stuck eating bad food?

As leader of the free world, wouldn’t Nixon have had both knowledge of what might be considered good food, as well as the ability to arrange some for himself?

It occurred to me that perhaps there was some correlation between the quality of leadership, and the quality of the food they ate – you know, garbage in, garbage out. With this in mind, I sought out a recipe from another notoriously bad president, and U.S. history being what it is, had no difficulty finding one.

Herbert Hoover, to the best of my recollection, was the president who promised voters a chicken in every pot if elected, and delivered instead the Great Depression (oops). The Depression was hardly his fault – he was elected in 1928 and the stock market collapse occurred the following year – but it occurred on his watch, and to describe his handling of the crisis as poor is to be generous. He rejected the idea that government intervention could help, and some of the steps he did take, such as signing the Smoot-Hawley Act, only served to make matters worse.

I thought I knew it all about Hoover, but after a bit more research, I uncovered a far more complex picture. Hoover’s World War One record was probably the most interesting and unexpected reading:  As chairman of the Commission for Relief of Belgium, he obtained and distributed millions of tons of food, negotiating with the Germans to allow food shipments. When the United States entered the war, he became head of the U.S. Food Administration, securing the nation’s food supply, and when the war ended, the USFA became the American Relief Administration, which Hoover continued to head, and which provided food to millions in central and eastern Europe. He headed a similar program after the second World War, providing food to school children in post-war Germany.

It is no small irony that the man who is today remembered for failing to put a chicken in every pot was, in his day, widely known for securing a food supply for millions of people.

My book of historical and presidential recipes – Eating with Uncle Sam – contains a number of chicken recipes, but rather disappointingly, there isn’t a Herbert Hoover chicken recipe among them. Instead, the book contains a cookie recipe from the Herbert Hoover Presidential Library – for the rather unusual-sounding Sour Cream Cookies. So, I gave them a try.

The recipe is a bit oddly written, in that it doesn’t actually tell the cook when the key ingredient, sour cream, should be added. I resolved that by simply adding it in the order listed in the ingredients, which worked out fine. I expected a slight sourness to the cookies, but there was none at all. The cookies turned out soft and moist, almost like little cakes, with a delicate flavor of vanilla and brown sugar. They could be frosted, as the recipe suggests, with a bit of vanilla frosting, or anything, really – but they are lovely on their own, simple and the perfect complement to any beverage they are served with.

It’s a nice recipe, easy to make on a moment’s notice, requiring no unusual ingredients, no significant effort, and no pre-planning from the cook. In that sense, it’s similar to the Nixon recipe, which also relies on ingredients the average cook would have on hand. But the Hoover recipe stands apart, in using fresh ingredients – and the resulting cookie is one that I liked enough to make several times, for different occasions, and for just having around the house when someone wants a cookie.


Herbert Hoover's Sour Cream Cookies
 
Print
Author: From the Herbert Hoover Presidential Library and Museum
Ingredients
  • ½ lb unsalted butter
  • 1 cup sugar
  • 1 cup brown sugar
  • 3 eggs
  • 1 tsp salt
  • 1 tsp vanilla
  • 1 cup sour cream
  • 3 cups flour
  • 1 tsp baking soda
  • 1 tsp baking powder
Instructions
  1. Preheat over to 375° F.
  2. In the bowl of a stand mixer, cream together the butter and sugars until light, then add the eggs and beat another two minutes on medium speed. Add vanilla and sour cream, and mix until thoroughly incorporated.
  3. In a separate bowl, whisk together dry ingredients. Add to the other ingredients in the mixing bowl, beating another minute or two, until incorporated.
  4. Drop by rounded spoonfuls onto an ungreased cookie sheet. Bake 8-10 minutes, or until cookies are lightly golden on the top and spring back when touched.
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Categories // The Joy of Cooking Tags // cookies, presidential recipes, vintage recipes

Richard Nixon’s Chicken Casserole

02.07.2017 by J. Doe // 19 Comments

Perspective is a wonderful thing. It is not, however, something that teenagers have very much of.

I have only the vaguest recollection of the major news events of my early childhood. There were angry protests against Vietnam on college campuses, but I was barely out of diapers when most of them occurred, and only two years old when the National Guard fired on students at Kent State. Nixon resigned when I was five, but the things I remember seeing on TV that year have nothing to do with him: I watched Hee-Haw and Lawrence Welk with my grandfather, and the Wonderful World of Disney with the whole family – whoever happened to be around.

As I got older, more of the world seeped into my consciousness. I remember images of long lines waiting to fill their cars during the oil shock and boats overloaded with people fleeing someplace in Asia, and not understanding why either was happening or even important. Other things made far more of an impression on me: The filth and graffiti of New York City, full of garbage-strewn lots, smoke-scorched abandoned buildings, and a constant fear of random, violent crime.

Every year at school, I would make a new best friend to replace the one from the previous year, whose parents had fled the city for the safety of the suburbs. My mom taught me how to stay safe from muggers (be aware of your surroundings); at school, I learned history and math from worn-out textbooks, and how to stay safe during a Soviet nuclear attack from regular safety drills (duck and cover, kids!).

Sometimes suddenly, but mostly gradually, things changed. Glamour replaced hippies. The abandoned buildings gentrified in spite of slogans spray-painted on them (Die Yuppie Scum), and New York City stopped being unlivable and became, instead, unaffordable.

The Child did not live any of this, and does not understand that her life will follow the same arc. I remember the defining event of her early childhood, 9/11, but she was mercifully unaware of the horror of that day. She did not spend it making frantic phone calls and gasping for air. She watched Teletubbies and fell asleep as I cried about the world ending.

On Election Day, I asked her to sit with me, watching the returns, fully expecting to spend an evening sharing a historic moment: Mother and daughter, independent women, witnessing the election of our first female president.

I changed the channel repeatedly as a rather different story unfolded, then went to bed late and with a sense of unease.

Neither of us slept that night.

The Child went to school the next day, to a cocoon of sheltered, privileged children who suddenly experienced the shock of learning that the world that cannot always be predicted or controlled. The teachers, she told me, did not even bother trying to teach. Nobody cares about chemistry when the world is ending, and her history teacher couldn’t stop crying long enough to give her prepared lesson.

I would have thought a history teacher would have some perspective, but then, she is also young – too young to remember the Berlin Wall coming down, and thus, too young to remember the constant state of fear we lived in before that event. Too young to know that we roller-skated and played with Rubik’s cubes and marveled at a gadget called a Walkman in spite of it all.

The next night, I sat up with The Child until the small hours of morning, listening to her fears, offering her perspective, and knowing as I did that it is something that cannot be taught; it can only be learned through a lifetime of experiences.

The world did not end with Nixon, I explained, and by the time he died, he was sufficiently redeemed that I got a day off work.

This is different, she tells me, and I know that for her, it is.

I don’t often spend time thinking about Nixon, but he has been on my mind since that night in November. I watched All The President’s Men, a couple of times. And then, just before Inauguration Day, the LA Times ran an article about presidential recipes, including this one: Richard Nixon’s Chicken Casserole.

The recipe is variously credited to Nixon’s wife or one of his daughters, but the article’s author doesn’t quite know who or attempt to resolve the issue. I would hazard a guess that it’s a Nixon family recipe culled from the Nixon Presidential Library, but don’t quote me on that. I have a book of presidential recipes that includes other Nixon family recipes – Tricia’s wedding cake and Pat’s meat loaf, among others – but no casserole. That particular book also contains an entry from the Gerald Ford Presidential Library for a dish called Liver Deluxe, a recipe that probably explains why he was voted out after one term.

The Nixon casserole certainly is in the tradition of late-60s/early 70s food; with the exception of the onion and eggs, everything it contains has been processed and packaged. I’ll give credit where it is due, though – it is very easy to throw together on a weeknight, and doesn’t require any difficult to find ingredients, exotic cookware, or challenging techniques. If you can open a can, stir, and turn on an oven, you can cook a meal fit for a president.

If you’re looking askance at the ingredient list, well, you should be. The mayo plus cheese plus eggs make this possibly the fattiest thing I’ve ever eaten. One of the ways you will know it’s done is when an oil slick forms on a nicely browned surface. In spite of this, though, it is easy to make and – if your arteries are up to it – oddly delicious.

The Child enjoyed hers, though she picked out the broccoli – not because she dislikes broccoli, but because she dislikes overprocessed vegetables. When she returned her plate to the kitchen, she peeled herself a carrot, then sat on the couch, munching it and watching South Park.

I have never seen her do this, so I ask. A carrot?

I needed something to cancel out all that unhealthiness. How did you survive all that 1970s food?

I’m not really sure, I tell her. But just like the 1970s, somehow, we survived.

 

Richard Nixon's Chicken Casserole
 
Print
Author: Nixon Family Recipe, via the LA Times
Ingredients
  • 2 (10-ounce) packages frozen chopped broccoli
  • 1 (10.5 ounce) can condensed cream of mushroom soup
  • 2 eggs, beaten
  • 1 cup grated sharp Cheddar cheese
  • 2 tbsp chopped onion
  • 1 cup mayonnaise
  • 2 boneless chicken breasts (about ¾ pound), cooked and diced
Instructions
  1. Steam the broccoli until tender, about 10 minutes. Set aside.
  2. Heat the oven to 375 degrees.
  3. Combine the soup, eggs, cheese, onion, mayonnaise and chicken in a bowl.
  4. Place half of the broccoli in a 9-inch-square baking pan or casserole dish and pour half the soup mixture over the top. Layer the remaining broccoli over the top, then pour the rest of the soup mixture over it.
  5. Bake until golden brown, 35 to 40 minutes.
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Categories // The Joy of Cooking Tags // casserole, chicken, presidential recipes, vintage recipes

Cocomalt Brownies

01.01.2017 by J. Doe // 1 Comment

No one can hide from the truth forever, so here is my truth: I am a very poor excuse for a food blogger. Some of this may be due to the fact that I’m not really a food blogger, I’m just someone with a blog who happens to enjoy cooking.

Mostly, though, this is due to another truth: I gained a lot of weight during my unfortunate marriage, then gained even more after its abrupt end.

I tried lying at first, telling myself I hadn’t really gained that much. But my pants never lie, and they told a different story. Lose it, they said, and after a while, I listened.

Dieting is hard, and being a food blogger on a diet is harder still.

A better person than the one I am would probably write about healthy food and low-calorie eating, but not me: I am in deep denial that anyone could find kale edible under any circumstances, and furthermore, I don’t want to be anywhere near a kitchen when I am trying not to think about the kind of food I actually do want to eat.

When I’m not on a diet, the kitchen is place of memories, inspired by the comforting smell of roast chicken, or the astonishingly light weight of my grandmother’s beloved cast iron skillet. When I am on a diet, the kitchen is simply a room full of reminders of things I’d rather be eating: A hundred or so cookbooks, many of them devoted to cakes, pies, and cookies.

I like the idea of healthy eating. I own a juicer. It was a gift, and I’ve never actually plugged it in, but I dedicate valuable countertop space to it, and I feel like that must surely count for something.

My pants disagree.

I started my diet in the early fall. By the end of fall, I had lost some weight, by which I mean, more than twenty pounds. Three pants sizes.

I donate my disagreeable pants to charity, and take myself shopping for a happier pair.

The holidays roll around, and though I begin the season worried about the upcoming buffets and potlucks, it turns out it is not that hard to just eat a little bit of everything, when that has become the habit. I find I’m relaxed – enjoying myself, even. I look forward to baking the things I will contribute.  I look forward to writing about them on my blog.

The stars seem to align for the return of my blog, but my friends have other things in mind: They all have their favorites, and with each invitation comes a request for something I’ve made before. Tradition! I make Sugar Cream Pie for a potluck, and Eggnog Cookies re-appear with the return of my annual cookie exchange.

Thanksgiving finds me without much to do; months ago, I volunteered to work, since my office needed one person to be on call, just in case something needed attention. It was a convenient excuse to avoid cooking the same meal I had made so many times. The Child spends the day watching movies with the Red Dog, while I do things around the house and occasionally refresh my browser to see if there is anything to actually do at work, apart from logging in. We’re invited to a friend’s house in the evening, so on one of my breaks from not working, I make a quick batch of brownies for The Child to share with her friend, while I sip wine with her friend’s mother.

I make Cocomalt Brownies. If you don’t know what Cocomalt is, there’s a good reason for that: it hasn’t been manufactured for decades. I discovered the term over the summer, in a 1946 copy of The Household Searchlight Recipe Book that I picked up in an antique mall in Wisconsin. A little research leads me to the conclusion that it was something like Ovaltine – a chocolate malt powder that can be added to milk, hot or cold.

They still make Ovaltine, so I use it as a substitute when I attempt one of the recipes, for Cocomalt cookies. The Child pronounces them delicious, and before I have a chance to get a picture of the cookies, she offers them up to a group of her friends, and they disappear.

Then, she does it again.

I wanted to make the cookies a third time, but I don’t want to be away from my desk too long, so I do a little bit of hunting and discover booklets dedicated to Cocomalt recipes, one of which contains a recipe for brownies. I substitute Ovaltine again, and it works just fine, even using a slightly larger pan than originally called for.

The brownies mix up quickly and require no special technique – just mix everything up in order, and dump it in the pan. I lined the pan with parchment for ease in removal. The resulting brownies are light and slightly malty; The Child says they are like Cocopuffs, a fairly accurate description. They’re as easy as brownies from a mix, but a little bit special. They can’t foul up your diet, either, because like the Cocomalt cookies, they disappear very quickly when kids are around.

 

Cocomalt Brownies

Cocomalt Brownies
 
Print
Prep time
15 mins
Cook time
30 mins
Total time
45 mins
 
Author: My Favorite Cocomalt Recipes, R.B. Davis Co, 1929
Ingredients
  • 2 eggs
  • ½ cup melted butter
  • ¾ cup brown sugar
  • ½ tsp vanilla
  • ½ cup all-purpose flour
  • 1 tsp baking powder
  • 1 cup Ovaltine (chocolate malt powder)
  • ¼ tsp salt
  • ½ cup chopped walnuts or pecans, as you prefer
Instructions
  1. Preheat oven to 350° F.
  2. Mix ingredients in order given.
  3. Line a 9-inch square metal pan with parchment paper, letting paper hang over the edges to act as a sling. Use a spatula to spread the batter evenly into the pan.
  4. Bake for 30 minutes.
  5. Let cool ten minutes in pan, then use parchment to lift out of the pan. Finish cooling on a wire rack, and cut into squares of desired size.
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Categories // The Joy of Cooking Tags // baking, Cocomalt, vintage recipes

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