This week I felt like going back to my oldest cookbooks to see what they could still teach me. My very oldest was my mother’s – America’s Cook Book, published in 1937. She received it as a wedding present in 1938 from my father’s grandparents. After about 50 years of hard use, it was in poor condition, so I had it rebound for her in plain buckram. The picture below is of the book’s flyleaf, with an inscription in verse in my great-grandfather’s hand.
Compiled by the Home Institute of the old New York Herald Tribune, the book is an encyclopedic cultural artifact. Its 1,000 pages cover every category of foodstuffs, plus sections on meal planning, cookery methods, kitchen equipment, menu making, table setting, herb gardens, buying foods, calorie and vitamin information, wine and spirits – even a glossary of foreign culinary terms (mostly French).
Paging through it this time, I was struck by a recipe for Pecan Orange Muffins. I make muffins fairly often, and I pretty much know how to do it. The usual procedure is to sift together the dry ingredients, combine the wet ones, dump the former into the latter, and mix quickly until the batter is not quite smooth. If you overmix, bad things happen to the texture of the baked muffins. But this recipe’s technique flew in the face of all that.
It had me creaming sugar and shortening, beating in egg yolks, adding the dry ingredients alternately with milk and orange juice, stirring in chopped nuts, and finally folding in stiffly beaten egg whites. That sounds more like making a cake, and indeed my muffins came out of the oven looking like cupcakes – risen well enough, but pretty flat on top. They were also quite 
small: Each one weighed less than two ounces, whereas the ones that stores sell nowadays are giants by comparison. But when I cut into one of mine, it had exactly the right muffiny texture and a lovely flavor.
However, I must say the preparation was highly labor-intensive. It took me three measuring cups, four small bowls, two large bowls, a hand mixmaster, an orange juicer, an orange-peel grater, and any number of stirring and measuring spoons. Filled half the dishwasher with it all, by the time I was through. I imagine that the 1937 lady of the house was supposed to have a kitchen slavey, who’d be out of bed by 5 a.m. in order to have fresh hot muffins on the breakfast table when the family came downstairs, and then would wash dishes while the family ate. So, good as these muffins are, I don’t think I’ll be adding the recipe to my repertoire.
Continuing my old-cookbooks resolve, I next pulled down Joy of Cooking – the oldest of my own cookbooks. I acquired my 1964 edition when I went off to graduate school. I used it nearly to death in the ensuing years and had to have it rebound too. The bookbinder saved a bit of the original cover for me, as the photo below shows.
I still use Joy for many things, considering Irma Rombauer a sort of kindly culinary godmother. This day I was thinking about jam. I wanted something interesting to put on toast in the morning (after the muffins were gone). We’d used up all the strawberry and pineapple jams I’d made last June. In my neighborhood, no stores carry pectin in the wintertime, so that limited the fruits I could work with. Aha: Apple Butter! Apples have plenty of their own pectin and are always available.
I’d never made this old-fashioned substance, but it turns out to be easy and quick. Cook cut-up apples (I chose Fujis) in water and vinegar until soft. Strain them and mix in sugar, cinnamon, cloves and allspice. Cook again, stirring, “until the mixture sheets from a spoon.” It does, too – very handily!
On first tasting my apple butter, I wondered if I’d used a bit too much clove, but I’ll wait and see if the flavor mellows over time. Oh, by the way, the best toast in the world can be made from Irma’s recipe for White Bread Plus, the nec plus ultra of sandwich breads.
Another Year in Recipes 
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