I promise that this entire blog will not be dedicated to me being a contrary bitch about 70s-era casseroles. As I've said, I will also share interesting twists and comforting oldies-but-goodies.
One of the members of the Casserole Pantheon is Tuna Noodle Casserole. Everyone knows about it, and it's either well-beloved (in an ironic and/or nostalgic sense) or reviled (in a "My mother couldn't cook and we were forced to choke this shit down" sense).
I'd never really thought about Tuna Noodle until Curtis and I got together. It started when he was making this thing called "tuna salad."
My mother made the most amazing tuna salad in the entire world. I will never be able to reproduce it for the following reason: my mother weighed 122 pounds the day before I was born. And that was the most she ever weighed. EVER. I cannot make the tuna salad she made. She preferred tuna packed in oil. Real mayo. She cut up super-sweet midget pickles (and complained in the latter days that "they're just not sweet enough") and then added sugar too.
And I would inhale that tuna salad. On shitty white bread. Because I can be a food snot, but I can also eat food that hard-core food snots turn down. Because they're stupid.
I've tried making my mother's tuna salad recipe, and I've gotten close, but never quite achieved it. Part of it was that she was just GOOD at it. Part of it was that I couldn't in good conscience make exactly what she made. I'd make it, then stare at it sadly, and think about how I didn't weigh 122 pounds the day before I gave birth. I've never given birth, and I don't weigh 122 pounds.
But I digress.
Curtis said to me one day that he had made "tuna salad."
I was wholly unprepared for Curtis' version of "tuna salad."
He boiled macaroni, then drained it (but didn't rinse it in cold water), added a can of peas, an unspecified quantity of mayo, an entire chopped onion, and a can of tuna.
I did not like Lukewarm Tuna Casserole, as I came to call it. It had to be either Tuna Noodle, or Tuna Salad. There was nothing in between.
So I set about making Tuna Noodle.
I went through about 4 incarnations before finally finding The Recipe for Tuna Noodle. And, actually, I didn't find it. I cobbled it together from a bunch of recipes.
Here it is.
A bag and a half of large egg noodles
1 can cream of mushroom soup (98% fat free)
1 can cream of celery soup (98% fat free)
3 5-oz cans tuna (drained)
2 cans of peas (drained)
2 cups of sharp cheddar
1 large onion, chopped (preferably with a Vidalia Chop Wizard, the best gift I ever received, other than a car)
Salt & pepper to taste
Preheat the oven to 350.
Boil the egg noodles per their boiling instructions. Drain.
Put the egg noodles back in the pot in which they were boiled. Add the (undiluted) soups, the tuna, the peas, the cheese, the onion, and as much salt and pepper as you'd like to the pot. Mix until combined. Dump into a casserole dish and spread around. Cook at 350 for about 20 - 25 minutes (depends on how you like your Tuna Noodle).
Eat it for 2 meals a day, every day, for the next week. Unless
A) You hate it
B) You have a large family or a lot of guests
C) You eat it all at one sitting (and in that case, JESUS CHRIST, throttle back a bit, eh?).
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Tuesday, July 5, 2011
The Casserolening
In 2006, my friends Shannon and David threw a party for the 4th of July. They were known for their parties, and we were quite excited to be a part of it.
Shannon worked with my best friend Jim, along with a few others. At work, they decided to have a Casserole-Off at the party. I was excited to be a part of this.
Jim made a casserole from a recipe book I'd purchased; it will be discussed on this blog. his casserole was a savory meat-based casserole, and was quite well-received. I'll post the recipe later.
I made a ziti, parmesan, thyme, and spinach casserole; our friend Kim is quite fond of this one. Also: recipe later.
There was another casserole, made by our friend Jen, and I was shocked at its severe deliciousness. It was an old-school Southern staple that I'd never heard of: pineapples, cheddar cheese, and crackers were the main players. Tasty.
And then, there was Jim's and my crowning achievement.
In my "good" casserole book, there was a recipe that sounded downright vile: Ham & Lima Bean. Hork. That sounded more like a punishment than dinner.
So we decided to make this casserole.
We didn't actually follow the recipe, though. We altered it.
We dumped chunks of ham and a can of lima beans into a pan, then covered this concoction with multicolored sprinkles.
We were dismayed when nobody ate it. Perhaps the Ham, Lima Bean & Sprinkle Casserole can find love somewhere, with a nice farm family.
Shannon worked with my best friend Jim, along with a few others. At work, they decided to have a Casserole-Off at the party. I was excited to be a part of this.
Jim made a casserole from a recipe book I'd purchased; it will be discussed on this blog. his casserole was a savory meat-based casserole, and was quite well-received. I'll post the recipe later.
I made a ziti, parmesan, thyme, and spinach casserole; our friend Kim is quite fond of this one. Also: recipe later.
There was another casserole, made by our friend Jen, and I was shocked at its severe deliciousness. It was an old-school Southern staple that I'd never heard of: pineapples, cheddar cheese, and crackers were the main players. Tasty.
And then, there was Jim's and my crowning achievement.
In my "good" casserole book, there was a recipe that sounded downright vile: Ham & Lima Bean. Hork. That sounded more like a punishment than dinner.
So we decided to make this casserole.
We didn't actually follow the recipe, though. We altered it.
We dumped chunks of ham and a can of lima beans into a pan, then covered this concoction with multicolored sprinkles.
We were dismayed when nobody ate it. Perhaps the Ham, Lima Bean & Sprinkle Casserole can find love somewhere, with a nice farm family.
Monday, July 4, 2011
"California" means different things to different people.
The first recipe in the book is California Casserole.
"California cuisine" has become ubiquitous, almost passe, but in the 1970s, it was a novel idea. By the 1980s, it had very nearly taken over. Seafood could be served in ways other than "breaded" or "fried." Avocado began to show up everywhere. Oranges made their way into green salads. "Fusion" became a household word.
Because The Casserole Cookbook was published in 1971, though, it came along a few years before "California cuisine" meant fresh fruits, lightly cooked vegetables, Latin and Southwestern influences.
The California Casserole was published well ahead of this trend.
This is the California Casserole:
2 lbs of round steak
1/3 cup of flour
1 tsp of paprika Why? Seriously, can someone tell me what ONE TEASPOON of paprika--plain paprika, mind you, not Hungarian or smoked--could POSSIBLY do for this recipe? Growing up, my mother put this on cottage cheese to give it "some color." I was never clear on why cottage cheese needed to be colored, but whatever. Anyway, I can't really understand what this paprika is going to do for ANYTHING in this recipe.
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/8 teaspoon pepper Yes, for God's sake, be careful, you don't want anyone to hurt themselves. Between this and the paprika, you could get yourself sued!
1 can cream of mushroom soup Here we see a major player in many casseroles. I'm not casting aspersions on this most noble of soups--it can really tie things together. But, yeah, it's a casserole staple.
1 3/4 cups of water
1 3/4 cups of cooked small onions How small is small? Are we talking pearl onions? Regular onions, but of the runty variety?
Cut the steak into 2-inch cubes. Mix the flour and paprika and dredge steak with flour mixture. Brown in small amount of hot fat.
Now, wait a second. Although I am happy to see the introduction of one of my favorite ingredients in this cookbook, I'm upset to see that you didn't say anything about fat in the ingredient list. And what kind of fat am I supposed to use here? As this is California Casserole, I am inclined to imagine bags of liposuctioned fat, just sitting in the creator's refrigerator, waiting to be poured into the pan, for the browning of the steak, made oh-so-flavorful by the powerful paprika.
But I digress.
Add the salt and pepper and place in a large casserole. Add the soup and water to drippings in skillet and bring to a boil, stirring constantly. Pour over steak and add the onions.
DUMP.
That is what I would say as I poured nearly two cups of runty onions onto my overly spicy, fat-browned, soup-slathered steak.
This is it? THIS is California Casserole?
But wait! There's more!
There are DUMPLINGS. So one gets to say DUMP again. And then, quietly, "ling."
Dumplings:
1 cup of milk
1/2 cup of salad oil
1 tsp celery seed
1 tsp poultry seasoning Why isn't there beef seasoning? I cry foul. Or FOWL. Ha ha ha, I'm so funny.
4 tsp baking powder
2 cups of flour
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp onion flakes
1/3 cup melted margarine
1 1/2 cups bread crumbs
Okay, now I get the California theme. I read this and instantly thought "Mojave," as it contains dry ingredients. Lots and lots of dry ingredients. In fact, by the time I got to the end of this list, my blood had turned to dust.
Mix the milk and oil. Place the celery seed, poultry seasoning, baking powder, flour, salt, and onion flakes in a large bowl and mix well. Add the milk mixture and stir until mixed. (The word "mix" has appeared four time at this point. That bothers me for reasons I can't quite explain. Thesaurus, anyone?) Drop by tablespoons into margarine to coat (because the oil wasn't enough), then roll in bread crumbs.
Wait, WHAT? you're making bread and then covering it in bread? Why didn't you roll the beef cubes in desiccated beef, or creamed chipped beef, before covering it in soup? You're really not thinking outside the redundancy box of redundancy, here.
Place on steak mixture. (Cover up those runty onions, lest your dinner guests tell everyone at The Club about you.) Bake at 425 for 20 to 25 minutes. 8 servings.
So, "California" apparently has to do with cooking your beef twice, first in "fat," then in the oven, after you have covered it up with dwarf onions, doused it in soup, and blanketed it in breaded bread.
WATCH OUT FOR THAT PAPRIKA, KIDS. IT'LL GET YOU.
"California cuisine" has become ubiquitous, almost passe, but in the 1970s, it was a novel idea. By the 1980s, it had very nearly taken over. Seafood could be served in ways other than "breaded" or "fried." Avocado began to show up everywhere. Oranges made their way into green salads. "Fusion" became a household word.
Because The Casserole Cookbook was published in 1971, though, it came along a few years before "California cuisine" meant fresh fruits, lightly cooked vegetables, Latin and Southwestern influences.
The California Casserole was published well ahead of this trend.
This is the California Casserole:
2 lbs of round steak
1/3 cup of flour
1 tsp of paprika Why? Seriously, can someone tell me what ONE TEASPOON of paprika--plain paprika, mind you, not Hungarian or smoked--could POSSIBLY do for this recipe? Growing up, my mother put this on cottage cheese to give it "some color." I was never clear on why cottage cheese needed to be colored, but whatever. Anyway, I can't really understand what this paprika is going to do for ANYTHING in this recipe.
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/8 teaspoon pepper Yes, for God's sake, be careful, you don't want anyone to hurt themselves. Between this and the paprika, you could get yourself sued!
1 can cream of mushroom soup Here we see a major player in many casseroles. I'm not casting aspersions on this most noble of soups--it can really tie things together. But, yeah, it's a casserole staple.
1 3/4 cups of water
1 3/4 cups of cooked small onions How small is small? Are we talking pearl onions? Regular onions, but of the runty variety?
Cut the steak into 2-inch cubes. Mix the flour and paprika and dredge steak with flour mixture. Brown in small amount of hot fat.
Now, wait a second. Although I am happy to see the introduction of one of my favorite ingredients in this cookbook, I'm upset to see that you didn't say anything about fat in the ingredient list. And what kind of fat am I supposed to use here? As this is California Casserole, I am inclined to imagine bags of liposuctioned fat, just sitting in the creator's refrigerator, waiting to be poured into the pan, for the browning of the steak, made oh-so-flavorful by the powerful paprika.
But I digress.
Add the salt and pepper and place in a large casserole. Add the soup and water to drippings in skillet and bring to a boil, stirring constantly. Pour over steak and add the onions.
DUMP.
That is what I would say as I poured nearly two cups of runty onions onto my overly spicy, fat-browned, soup-slathered steak.
This is it? THIS is California Casserole?
But wait! There's more!
There are DUMPLINGS. So one gets to say DUMP again. And then, quietly, "ling."
Dumplings:
1 cup of milk
1/2 cup of salad oil
1 tsp celery seed
1 tsp poultry seasoning Why isn't there beef seasoning? I cry foul. Or FOWL. Ha ha ha, I'm so funny.
4 tsp baking powder
2 cups of flour
1/2 tsp salt
1 tsp onion flakes
1/3 cup melted margarine
1 1/2 cups bread crumbs
Okay, now I get the California theme. I read this and instantly thought "Mojave," as it contains dry ingredients. Lots and lots of dry ingredients. In fact, by the time I got to the end of this list, my blood had turned to dust.
Mix the milk and oil. Place the celery seed, poultry seasoning, baking powder, flour, salt, and onion flakes in a large bowl and mix well. Add the milk mixture and stir until mixed. (The word "mix" has appeared four time at this point. That bothers me for reasons I can't quite explain. Thesaurus, anyone?) Drop by tablespoons into margarine to coat (because the oil wasn't enough), then roll in bread crumbs.
Wait, WHAT? you're making bread and then covering it in bread? Why didn't you roll the beef cubes in desiccated beef, or creamed chipped beef, before covering it in soup? You're really not thinking outside the redundancy box of redundancy, here.
Place on steak mixture. (Cover up those runty onions, lest your dinner guests tell everyone at The Club about you.) Bake at 425 for 20 to 25 minutes. 8 servings.
So, "California" apparently has to do with cooking your beef twice, first in "fat," then in the oven, after you have covered it up with dwarf onions, doused it in soup, and blanketed it in breaded bread.
WATCH OUT FOR THAT PAPRIKA, KIDS. IT'LL GET YOU.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
The creation story
This blog got started for many reasons.
First of all, I love casseroles.
And, not only do I love casseroles, I also love the work of James Lileks. If you have never looked at lileks.com, you should. And you should do it soon.
So part of my blog, in which I examine crappy old casserole recipes, is nothing new. lileks.com has been doing it, and doing it better than I ever will, for more than a decade. I'm not trying to rip him off, I'm just writing in homage to his genius.
It also got started because of a book, a very special and wonderful book, that my best friend Jim bought me in March.
We were in Beckley, WV, on a ski trip planned by our friend Carolyn. After a day of skiing, we had a day in which we went to see the New River Gorge Bridge, then some of us went hiking . . . and the rest of us went shopping.
Jim, Carolyn, Aaron, and I went shopping. We visited a store where Carolyn bought the glorious Bambo (a polyresin statue of a deer, holding and carrying various weapons), I spit Coke all over her, and Aaron bought The Cock.
Then we went to the world's tiniest and saddest pawn shop.
We went to the antique store next door, where I bought some antique pharmaceuticals (as I collect them).
Then we went to the Beckley Goodwill, where, Jim bought some sunglasses. He also bought me, for a whopping ten cents, The Southern Living Casseroles Cookbook.
And we spent a glorious evening reading this book, and talking about it. And laughing. A lot.
I was encouraged to start a blog about this cookbook, but I never quite got around to it.
So I am.
I'll start writing reviews of the recipes at the next post. Today: The Genesis.
First of all, I love casseroles.
And, not only do I love casseroles, I also love the work of James Lileks. If you have never looked at lileks.com, you should. And you should do it soon.
So part of my blog, in which I examine crappy old casserole recipes, is nothing new. lileks.com has been doing it, and doing it better than I ever will, for more than a decade. I'm not trying to rip him off, I'm just writing in homage to his genius.
It also got started because of a book, a very special and wonderful book, that my best friend Jim bought me in March.
We were in Beckley, WV, on a ski trip planned by our friend Carolyn. After a day of skiing, we had a day in which we went to see the New River Gorge Bridge, then some of us went hiking . . . and the rest of us went shopping.
Jim, Carolyn, Aaron, and I went shopping. We visited a store where Carolyn bought the glorious Bambo (a polyresin statue of a deer, holding and carrying various weapons), I spit Coke all over her, and Aaron bought The Cock.
Then we went to the world's tiniest and saddest pawn shop.
We went to the antique store next door, where I bought some antique pharmaceuticals (as I collect them).
Then we went to the Beckley Goodwill, where, Jim bought some sunglasses. He also bought me, for a whopping ten cents, The Southern Living Casseroles Cookbook.
And we spent a glorious evening reading this book, and talking about it. And laughing. A lot.
I was encouraged to start a blog about this cookbook, but I never quite got around to it.
So I am.
I'll start writing reviews of the recipes at the next post. Today: The Genesis.
They can be good . . . or evil.
I love casseroles. You can ask my best friend Jim. I love them. I love making them. I know they're retro, and they can hark back to a dark and medieval time in the gourmet world, when people liked the idea of Glop in a Pot (courtesy of James Lileks). People threw anything they found into a casserole dish, and that was dinner. Macaroni & cheese was considered gourmet Italian cooking, what with the word that ended in "i" in the title and whatnot.
Casseroles can suggest laziness. They can suggest a lack of ingenuity, a lack of creativity. They suggest a miserable lack of taste.
At the same time, they hark back to a time when women did, well, everything. Men went off and made money, and their wives stayed at home and had babies and cleaned everything and washed all the clothes and ironed all the shirts and cleaned the whole house and and and and and.
And in all of that, they made dinner.
So while we, in 2011, with our microwave ovens and our instameals and our Pac-Man and our Dan Fogelberg, denigrate the craptastic casseroles of yore, there's a certain beauty in them.
Because, sometimes, I'll bet that some of these women, who had gotten up before their husbands, and ironed their clothes, and made them breakfasts that would cripple a farmer, and gotten all the kids up, and made their breakfasts too, and dressed everybody, and gotten everyone out the door, and made sure the baby wasn't choking, and then cleaned the whole house . . . these women eventually said, "You know what? I'm going to drink a bottle of gin. And I'm going to throw a bunch of shit in a pan, and they're going to damn well eat it, because I'm tired."
I approach casseroles with both a healthy skepticism and a great love. There are some amazing ones out there . . . and there are some that are miserable failures.
So I'm going to celebrate all of them in this new blog:
The interesting new take . . .
The delicious comfort food . . .
The well-meaning, but bland . . .
And the Glop in a Pot, aka "Suburban Housewife's Subversive Statement." This one will get the hardest time, the most scorn, the least admiration . . . but it's with the understanding that, 3 gin martinis into the laundry, sometimes you have to say "Screw this noise" and dump a bunch of shit into a pan.
Casseroles can suggest laziness. They can suggest a lack of ingenuity, a lack of creativity. They suggest a miserable lack of taste.
At the same time, they hark back to a time when women did, well, everything. Men went off and made money, and their wives stayed at home and had babies and cleaned everything and washed all the clothes and ironed all the shirts and cleaned the whole house and and and and and.
And in all of that, they made dinner.
So while we, in 2011, with our microwave ovens and our instameals and our Pac-Man and our Dan Fogelberg, denigrate the craptastic casseroles of yore, there's a certain beauty in them.
Because, sometimes, I'll bet that some of these women, who had gotten up before their husbands, and ironed their clothes, and made them breakfasts that would cripple a farmer, and gotten all the kids up, and made their breakfasts too, and dressed everybody, and gotten everyone out the door, and made sure the baby wasn't choking, and then cleaned the whole house . . . these women eventually said, "You know what? I'm going to drink a bottle of gin. And I'm going to throw a bunch of shit in a pan, and they're going to damn well eat it, because I'm tired."
I approach casseroles with both a healthy skepticism and a great love. There are some amazing ones out there . . . and there are some that are miserable failures.
So I'm going to celebrate all of them in this new blog:
The interesting new take . . .
The delicious comfort food . . .
The well-meaning, but bland . . .
And the Glop in a Pot, aka "Suburban Housewife's Subversive Statement." This one will get the hardest time, the most scorn, the least admiration . . . but it's with the understanding that, 3 gin martinis into the laundry, sometimes you have to say "Screw this noise" and dump a bunch of shit into a pan.
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