A few days ago my husband bought me a new cookbook. He will live to regret this decision. It was published in 1974 and I adore everything about it. The photography is that particular, livid food photography of the decade and I don’t know if food has ever looked less edible. It was a well-loved book, there are neat little check marks next to some of the recipes, and I can only assume that means they were either favorites or at least attempted. While there are plenty of delightful comforting recipes, such as. . .
The deserts are too numerous for one blog post, but here’s my favorite.
But punctuating all these nostalgiac dishes, there are some true horrors.
The amount of processing is just astonishing. Compare this to any modern food blog, everything is so rustic and artfully done. Heirloom tomatoes arranged on a slate, salmon with wild rice. Basically, food that still looks like the thing that it was. . . I have yet to see a cylindrical chicken. But there is one recipe that has kept me up at night. Brace yourselves.
Ham. In. Peaches. Not even fresh peaches. Somehow, that’s the part that bothers me the most. I shrieked when I saw this one for the first time, and my husband was horrified. This brings us to the rather cryptic beginning of this post. My husband will regret buying this book for me because I must know what some of these dishes are like to make and eat. I will, in the future, make some of these recipes and surprise my husband with them, and make a note of his reaction and thoughts. Given how horrified he was just by looking at the pictured, this should be pretty entertaining.