WHAT THE HECK IS THAT?

                                                  

I SAID - WHAT THE HECK IS THAT?? 

A Vintage Recipe Ridicule -

Where we take gross, vintage recipes and poke fun at them!

 

Welcome to: The newest section in Forks and Fiascos, written by Michele Furman, and her collaborator / friend - Coco Ashford. Every Sunday a new Recipe Ridicule will appear on this page with all the humor we can sprinkle in it. We will make you laugh! Or at least chuckle, perhaps giggle, or even snicker, but you are sure to at least tee-hee a little! 

Here we dive headfirst into absurd, questionable and downright unhinged vintage recipes that will probably make you ask: What the heck is that?

This blog segment might make you cringe and try to understand why people were so determined to cook ridiculous things or suspend things that just do not belong inside gelatin!

So, grab a snack (preferably one that doesn’t wiggle), settle in and read on...

Posted 4/12/26

Deviled Ham Vegetable Mold

(aka: The Pink Horror That Jiggles Back)

THE RECIPE / DIRECTIONS (as given in the ad)

Deviled Ham Vegetable Mold — Soften 1 envelope unflavored gelatin in ¼ c. cold water. Add ¾ c. boiling water, 3 tbsp. vinegar, ¼ tsp. salt. Stir until gelatin dissolves. Cool. Add ½ c. mayonnaise, 1½ c. sliced celery, 1 c. canned peas (drained), 2 tbsp. chopped pimiento. Chill until slightly thickened. Line a 4‑cup mold with two 3‑oz cans of Libby’s Deviled Ham. Pour gelatin mixture in. Chill until firm. Unmold and garnish.

MICHELE & COCO’S TRANSLATION:

• Begin by summoning gelatin God of the 1950’s/ A favorite way to trap unsuspecting ingredients.
• Add vinegar, because nothing says “refreshing appetizer” like a whiff of Easter‑egg dye.
• Cool it down, much like the guests will be, when they see this on the table.
• Stir in mayonnaise, because of course we’re adding mayo to hot gelatin. Why wouldn’t we.
• Fold in celery, peas, and pimiento, creating a confetti of regret.
• Chill until thickened, which is also what the ham lining is doing emotionally.
• Line a mold with Deviled Ham, sculpting a pink meaty wallpaper around the perimeter.
• Pour the mayo‑gelatin‑vegetable slurry inside, sealing your fate.
• Chill until firm, a phrase that has never been more threatening.
• Unmold, revealing a structure that looks like it should be studied by geologists, not served to humans.

WHAT THE HECK IS THAT?!

It’s a ham‑lined gelatin volcano stuffed with peas, celery, and mayonnaise — a dish that looks like it escaped from a Cold War bunker cookbook. The outside is a smooth, glossy pink ham casing, while the inside resembles a frozen cross‑section of a swamp. The garnish on top appears to be a tomato or pimiento flower, bravely trying to distract from the architectural crime beneath it.

This is the kind of dish that makes you question not only culinary history, but the emotional stability of whoever invented it.

RIDICULOUS RECIPE REALITIES:

Deviled ham as wallpaper — because nothing says “bon appétit” like spreading meat paste on the inside of a Bundt pan.

Gelatin + mayo — the unholy alliance that built half of 1950’s cuisine and destroyed half of 1950’s marriages.

RIDICULOUS KITCHEN RITUALS: THE THINGS THEY ACTUALLY DID

Women kept a “company-only” set of dishes, that no one was allowed to touch unless the pastor or the neighbors was coming over.

WHY THEY DID IT:

Because in the 1950’s, Women were told that a well‑run kitchen proved they were competent, respectable, and keeping up with the neighbors. Matching “good dishes” in great condition, meant good status.

Back then, gelatin was a lifestyle, mayonnaise was a food group, and canned ham was considered a miracle of modern science. Housewives thought that anything molded was “elegant,” and advertisers were determined to prove that meat, vegetables, and dairy could all coexist in one quivering tower of confusion.

COCO’S COMMENTARY:

This dish is the culinary equivalent of a nervous breakdown in molded form. It’s pink, it’s shiny, it’s trembling, and it contains more peas than any one structure should legally hold. The deviled ham exterior looks like fondant for carnivores, while the inside resembles a cream cheese salad that lost a bet.

Serve this at a party only if you want to test who truly loves you.

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Posted 4/6/26

Today’s What The Heck Is That?! Recipe Ridicule will be slightly different from our usual format. The reason for this is that it’s more of a presentation rather than an actual recipe, but it was so unhinged we overwhelmingly felt it was totally appropriate for this section of our blog website. Also, there are certain facts and/or aspects we could not find in our research — even AI could not find what we needed — thus our only conclusion is that someone created the idea, and it never caught on? We don’t know — you will need to draw your own conclusions. However, if anyone can present us with facts surrounding this, please do so in an email: forksandfiascos@gmail.com — and tell us the source of where your facts/info were found. Thank you in advance.

Veil by: ‘Until Death Do Us Part™

Gown by “Cold Cut Couture™

The Recipe: Bride Meat Doll

Any style deli meat

 A doll (size depends on how many guests you will be serving)

Directions: Visually self-explanatory.

Michele & Coco’s Translation: Will consist of a copy and paste of our conversation from the exact Moment I sent the image to Coco in a private message:

Coco: Michele, I am screaming. This is not a recipe. This is not a dish. This is not even a concept. This is a joke... A Bridal. Meat. Doll. It looks like someone said, “What if we combined a charcuterie board with a bachelorette party and also a fever dream?”

Michele: LMAO, I know, it's ridiculous and that's why I sent it over to you. is it possible to do our usual Recipe Ridicule with just this? Cause I am thinking no.

Coco: Wait- Let me just highlight the crimes on display here for this Bridal Meat Doll Autopsy: The meat ruffles are layered like a deli-gown no one asked for. The veil, because nothing says “’til death do us part” like sweating luncheon meat clinging to a doll. The bouquet, a tiny floral arrangement clutched by a doll who knows she’s trapped in a cold-cut nightmare. The platter, “wedding cake stand,” making this salmonella roulette. This is PERFECT for a Recipe Ridicule. This is exactly the kind of unhinged vintage nonsense our audience lives for. I’m already sharpening my comedic knives!

Michele: Wait — it gets better. Apparently, it’s not just bride dolls. Here’s the second image I found (prosciutto dress). We can call it “Party Meat Doll: The Expanded Edition” Look at this image ...

Gown by: Deli House of Style™

Coco: Michele… I thought the Bridal Meat Doll was the boss. But THIS? This is the Prosciutto Princess of Poor Decisions, the Charcuterie Siren Who Lures People to Their Doom. We are absolutely using both of these in our ridicule. They are a matched set of deli-themed nightmares.

Michele: The weird thing is though, I couldn’t find any history on these dolls - no origin, no trend, no creator, no era, no culinary lineage. The two images I chose do not seem to be AI-generated? At least it doesn’t look that way to me. What do you think?

Coco: No, they don’t appear to be to me either. In fact, the background in the prosciutto doll appears to be in a restaurant, blow up the image and you can see it better. Oh, and if you have the recipe or any captions that came with these images, send them over, the more absurdity we can mine, the better. The confidence this doll is serving up “I am the moment,” even though the moment is clearly food poisoning. This is going to be a legendary double-feature ridicule. I mean just look at it… Arms raised like she’s summoning the cold-cut spirits. Dress made of raw meat that looks like it’s about to slide off the plate and file a complaint. Restaurant background - meaning someone PAID MONEY to have this brought to their table! We can title it like this… Meat Doll 1: The Wedding Reception Nobody Survived and Meat Doll 2: The Prom Queen of Prosciutto.

Michele: LMFAO - I didn’t even notice it had a restaurant background. I was too busy staring unbelievably at that meat dress!

Coco: RIGHT?! Because the meat is so aggressively present that your brain doesn’t even register the environment. It’s like your eyes go: “Okay, that’s a doll wearing a prosciutto ball gown — we need all processing power on THIS and nothing else.” Only after a second look do you realize there are actual humans casually eating dinner around her. And the scary part is that someone either ordered this or brought it to their celebration at this restaurant. That means a server carried this to a table with a straight face (hopefully)!

Michele: There isn’t a recipe. I don’t really see a need for it — it’s pretty self-explanatory. It’s basically two ingredients: one Barbie and deli meat.

Coco: True — the ingredient list is basically 1 plastic doll of questionable sanitation and about 3 lbs. of deli meat in varying shades of regret!

Ridiculous Recipe Realities:

 The doll may not be food-safe, but neither is the cuisine on this page. The prosciutto veil is optional but emotionally impactful.

Michele: Once you picture that poor doll being tucked in for her long cold-cut nap, it’s over. You can’t unsee it. And the worst part is that she looks peaceful. Like she has accepted her fate as the Patron Saint of Questionable Meat Appetizers! The Bridal Meat Doll seems serene, elegant, and ready to walk down the aisle straight into refrigeration.The Party Meat Doll with arms up like she’s praising the charcuterie gods is hysterical, BUT- what happens after all the meat is gone?? I mean, does she have tiny coconut shells over her breasts and at least a pork loin cloth?

Coco: Michele… now I’m picturing the post-meat reveal, and it is sending me straight to the floor! I’m laughing so hard, I have tears! Once the guests have peeled off all the prosciutto ruffles or the ham flounces, what EXACTLY is underneath that gown? Should we ask, The Coconut Shell Question? Does she suddenly transform from Cold Cut Couture Bride into: A tropical showgirl, wearing two tiny coconut shells and a pork loin cloth like a warrior princess, ready to defend the buffet table? Or worse, just a naked Barbie who has been marinating under deli meat? Because imagine the moment: Guests would be like, “Oh wow, the meat doll was so creative!” Then someone lifts the last slice covering her front body and suddenly she’s standing there like: “Thanks! I’ve been sweating under all this ham since noon.” The real horror though? Once the meat is gone, she’s not a centerpiece anymore. And you KNOW the doll is stained with remnants. There is no universe where she comes out of that gown without a faint shade of a prosciutto tan line or a lingering scent of “charcuterie chic”

Michele: LOL, well, that certainly gives intimate body deodorant sprays a whole new meaning!

Coco: LMAO Michele, I am DONE! You just invented an entirely new product category for the woman who’s been wrapped in deli meats for hours and needs to be refreshed after being entombed in prosciutto, that doll would need an Anti-Meat Shield™, clinically proven to reduce ham sweat by 97%! I can see the Ad now...The Scent: Bridal Bologna Breeze™ Can you imagine the commercial? “Do you ever find yourself standing in a room-temperature meat gown, wondering if your undercarriage smells like a charcuterie board? Try NEW Anti-Meat Sheild™!” She’s standing there, arms up, like she’s letting the spray dry! I mean, Michele, the way this escalated from “Look at this weird bridal meat doll” to “What happens when the meat is gone?” to “Does she need intimate deodorant spray?” This is exactly how our Recipe Ridicule got started months ago — with one horrifying vintage image you sent me all those months ago, which led to my researching vintage recipes and my idea to do a ridicule, to why you and I should never be left unsupervised with vintage food content! LOL

Michele: I KNOW, RIGHT??! We are definitely two peas in a pod Coco and our readers deserve humor to lighten their day! Between my Funny True Stories and your idea to begin this What The heck is That?! Recipe Ridicule, we seriously built a great two-page, two-blog website in one! And look at how it’s grown! Do you remember in the beginning, I thought, “Oh, who’s going to want to keep reading this website?” And you, swooping in to save it with those famous words that you told to me: “Build it and they will come.” LOL All i could think about after hearing that, was the movie! And you were right! We did build it, and they did come and they are still coming. I mean, just look at all the fans emails we’ve received, and all the readers we keep seeing via the stats from our site. Then we got all those big Brand name affiliate advertisers that picked us up due to the website traffic! So yes, you were 100% right on “build it and they will come” I think this conversation should BE THE RIDICULE! I will copy and paste it- what do you think?

Coco: It's a great Idea! I mean it strays from our format- but in this case it's perfect! I agree and it is your site, so let's do it!

This concludes todays What the Heck is that?! Recipe Ridicule. Next Sunday we will go back to our regularly scheduled format. We hope you enjoyed this today- sorry for the day late post.

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Posted 3/29/26

THE SPAGHETTI‑O ASPIC RING 

Ingredients:

·         2 cans Spaghetti‑O’s

·         1 envelope unflavored gelatin

·         ½ cup cold water

·         ½ cup boiling water

·         1 tbsp white vinegar

·         ½ tsp salt

·         1 can Vienna sausages, hot dogs or cocktail franks

·         ½ cup green olives, because why not at this point.

Directions:

1.      In a bowl, sprinkle gelatin over cold water and let it bloom.

2.      Add boiling water and stir until dissolved. Add cold water.

3.      Add vinegar and salt because someone in 1965 thought this improved things. It did not!

4.      Stir in both cans of Spaghetti‑O’s and pretend this is good. Try not to make eye contact with the mixture.

5.      Pour into a ring mold. Chill until firm enough to question your life choices. If you think you hear voices whispering, that’s normal for mid‑century cuisine…it’s your brain trying to let you know this is unhinged.

6.      Unmold onto a platter. Fill the center with Vienna sausages (or other) and olives an pretend you just invented a Michelin star dish.

Michele & Coco’s Translation

Bloom the gelatin like you’re summoning a demon, by adding boiling water - so the demon knows you’re serious. Add vinegar because 1965 wanted everyone to suffer equally. Dump in Spaghetti‑O’s and watch them float like tiny life preservers in the sea of tomato-based despair. Pour into a mold and refrigerate until it jiggles with malice. Unmold and stand back to admire your creation, which now has the same energy as a PTA meeting gone wrong. Fill the center with hot dogs and olives because this dish wasn’t upsetting enough. Congratulations, you’ve made a dish that looks like it should come with a warning label.

What The Heck Is That?!

It’s a Spaghetti‑O Aspic Ring - a dish created when someone in 1965 said, “What if pasta… but cold… and wiggly… and also a centerpiece?” It’s the only dish that can legally be classified as both lunch and a threat

Ridiculous Recipe Realities:

·         They always referred to this as a salad and believed gelatin could fix anything, including bad ideas.

·         It was served at luncheons with pride and was considered the height of sophistication.

·         The olives were considered “continental flair.”

·         Hot dogs were the “protein component.”

·         The vinegar was to “brighten the flavor,” which is generous.

·         They transported it to potlucks like it was a newborn. This was meant to impress guests.

·         People ate this on purpose. They served it with iced tea because not even wine could help this. Personally I’d opt for the wine! 

Ridiculous Kitchen Rituals: Things They Actually Did

·         They unmolded this at the table like it was a magic trick.

·         They sliced it like a cake.

·         They often served it on lettuce leaves.

·         They sometimes paired it with cottage cheese.

·         They called it “economical entertaining.

Why They Did It:

 Because gelatin companies had marketing budgets the size of small nations. The early 1960’s believed anything could be a salad if it was cold and you added gelatin. Canned food was considered modern, and modern meant progress, even if progress jiggled. Also, nobody had therapy yet.

 Coco’s Commentary"

This dish is the culinary equivalent of a prank call. It’s chaos in ring form and a cry for help wrapped in tomato sauce! It's the moment pasta gave up, and home cooks thought they knew how to be great chefs. I have no other words ... Just looking at the image, I need two aspirin and a shot of tequila.

________________________________________________________________ 

Posted 3/22/26

The Recipe:

Tomato Soup Cake (1962)

· 1 can of Condensed tomato soup

· Baking soda

· Sugar

· Shortening

· Flour

· Ground Cinnamon

· Ground Cloves

· Ground Nutmeg

· Raisins

· Eggs

· Baking powder

They mixed it up the same way as any other cake instructions would have stated, but this one added a can of condensed tomato soup for the typical other liquid that would have normally been used, like milk or water.

It was a spice cake made with tomato soup!

SOUP! 

IN A CAKE!

What's next? Cream of mushroom in Tiramisu?

 Michele & Coco’s Translation:

Michele: This so called “cake” recipe is unhinged. Seriously – a can of condensed tomato soup taking place of the liquid- in a spice cake…. I would have loved to be a fly on the wall in the soups test kitchen!

 If it was such a delicious surprise, they would still be making this cake today. Who knows, maybe some people still do - All I have to say to that is “Please keep it. Don’t share it. I don’t even want to see it!”

Coco Ashford: Open a can of tomato soup and pretend it’s a normal baking ingredient.

Add baking soda and watch it foam like a science fair volcano.

Tell yourself it’s “just like making a spice cake” while ignoring the smell of a soup kitchen.

Dump in raisins because the 1960’s believed raisins could fix anything. Sort of like duct tape- but the culinary version!

Bake until your kitchen smells like cinnamon, nutmeg, and mild regret.

 Frost it like you’re hiding something — because you are!

Serve it 1960’s proud, and hope no one asks what the “mystery flavor” is.

What The Heck Is That?

This is what happens when someone tries to make dessert out of condensed pantry items during a snowstorm and refuses to admit they’re out of milk. It’s a cake that tastes like it’s been through an identity crisis — part spice cake, part bisque, part “I swear it’s good”. It’s the only dessert in history that pairs well with both coffee and garlic bread.

Ridiculous Recipe Realities: The Fun Facts

A 2 day diet prescribed in a famous book in 1962 that consisted of eating only one meal of steak, eggs, and drinking an entire bottle of wine daily. The Side Effects that the writer herself warned readers, the diet is best saved for weekends because it would leave the follower feeling "fuzzy" and likely "under the table wasted" by dinnertime!

Now that’s what I call a fun diet!

Ridiculous Kitchen Rituals: Things They Actually Did -

The "Mystery Bag" in the Freezer - Accumulating small, often forgotten, leftovers or food scraps in a freezer bag, frequently resulting in unidentifiable frozen items that would be potted all together to make soup or casseroles.

Why They Did It:

Postwar convenience, Lack of fresh produce during the cold months and they didn’t like to waste anything back then.

Coco’s Commentary:

This cake is the culinary equivalent of someone saying, “Don’t worry, it tastes better than it looks,” which is always a lie. The 1960’s were out there mixing soup into desserts like they were auditioning for a cooking show called “Chopped: The Postwar Edition”. If your cake requires a mystery to make it appealing, that’s not a flavor profile — that’s a red flag.

But honestly? I respect the confidence.

They didn’t hide the soup can in the ad.

They put it right next to the cake like, “Yeah, we did this. And we’d do it again.”

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Posted Sunday 3/15/26

Used during the 1940’s–1960’s

Used during the 1940’s–1960’s

The Recipe: Shrimp and hard‑boiled egg aspic ring

2 cups clear consommé or canned beef broth

1 envelope unflavored gelatin

1 tablespoon lemon juice

½ teaspoon salt

hard‑boiled eggs, sliced

cooked shrimp

½ cup canned peas

Arrange in mold, chill at least 4 hours and then unmold onto plate

 Michele’s and Coco’s Translation:

We don’t have an actual “Translation” this week, simply because the image speaks for itself! We really had no translation to offer. We did decide to leave the image larger than usual, because we felt you needed to see it better. However, we did need to give our readers something for this Translation spot … So, I suggested to include me and Coco’s conversation from when we were discussing it.

 Coco: “They even added peas to this dish!”

 Michele: “Wait! There are peas in that image?? I didn’t notice that!  Let me blow that up so i can see it better ... Oh wow- there really ARE peas in there! As if that makes it better?”

Coco: “Yes! This is Aspic Madness from the era when every hostess believed the height of sophistication was trapping innocent ingredients inside a transparent gelatin forcefield. Those tiny green peas you didn’t notice at first are like little hostages, inside the shrimp egg gelatin hell portal! LOL, your brain did what all sane brains do, when confronted with a gelatin crime - it went into survival mode and refused to process any additional horrors. That's why you didn't see them at first!”

Michele: LMAO – “I think there isn’t a translation we can input here- the image speaks for itself.”

Coco: “Then we let it stand as is!”

And that my dear readers, is exactly how our phone conversation went!

What the Heck is That?

This dish was meant to scream: “Look at my prosperity and domestic skill!”

But it really screams: “Why is the shrimp looking at me from inside the ring of doom?”

Ridiculous Recipe Realities: The Fun Facts

·         Gelatin molds were considered fancy

·         Shrimp was a status symbol

·         Hard boiled eggs were used as “decoration”

·         Creating intricate, colorful, and sometimes savory gelatin salads and dishes (using mayonnaise or veggies) was a sign of a skilled hostess.

·         No one ever questioned why dinner was… jiggling

 Ridiculous Kitchen Rituals: Things They Actually Did

 Waxing the kitchen floor - often on-the-knees! Linoleum floors were regularly hand-waxed, a time-intensive, weekly ritual.

 Why They Did It:

 Mainly for protection against wear and dirt, scuffs from shoes, friction and it prevented staining. Also, a spotless, shining kitchen floor was a primary indicator of a housewife's dedication to her home. Thus, cleaning and waxing was considered a "labor of love" to keep the home sanitary and welcoming.

Coco’s Commentary:

This dish is the culinary equivalent of a mid‑century trust fall, except no one caught anybody and everyone ended up inside a gelatin ring wondering what went wrong. The shrimp look like they’re trying to swim to safety, the eggs are staring blankly into the void, and the peas—oh, the peas—are scattered around like witnesses who have agreed not to talk to the authorities.

There is no universe where these ingredients should be suspended together like a diorama of poor decisions. And the worst part? Someone in 1954 unmolded this, stepped back proudly, and said, “Yes. This will impress the neighbors.”

Meanwhile the neighbors were probably standing there thinking, “If I don’t make eye contact with the shrimp, maybe it won’t follow me home.”

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Posted Sunday 3/8/26

Betty Crocker Magazine Ad

The Recipe: 

WHITE Mystery Fruitcake (Circa 1958)

 Makes a 6‑lb. fruitcake

Ingredients

1 Betty Crocker White Cake Mix

(baked according to package directions, cooled, and crumbled)

½ lb. candied cherries

½ lb. candied pineapple

½ lb. candied orange peel

¼ lb. chopped dates

¼ lb. pitted prunes

¼ lb. pecans

½ cup light raisins

1 Betty Crocker Fluffy White Frosting Mix (prepared as directed) 

Instructions:

Bake the white cake mix as directed. Cool completely.

Crumble the cooled cake into coarse pieces.

Add all fruits and nuts to the crumbled cake.

Mix the Fluffy White Frosting as directed.

Blend the frosting into the fruitcake mixture to act as “glue.”

Pack the mixture into a 9‑inch ring/bundt-type pan lined with wax paper.

Chill overnight.

Remove wax paper and frost with additional Fluffy White Frosting if desired.

Slice with a sharp knife.

Optional Variation

For a dark Mystery Fruitcake, use Devil’s Food Cake Mix and Chocolate Fudge Frosting Mix instead.

 

Michele & Coco’s Translation:

This one is a masterpiece of accidental horror. A six‑pound frosted geological event.

The name alone is a full‑body shiver. A 6 lb. cake… SIX POUNDS? Think about that!

The recipe is a structural engineering project disguised as dessert. The picture is unsettling enough, but the name? That name is where the real psychological damage happens.

White ‘MYSTERY” Fruitcake?

It sounds more like something the CDC would quarantine.

This cake whispers: “We combined things and we’re hoping you won’t ask questions.”

 “Mystery” — never a word you want near food. Ever.

“Fruitcake” — is already a punchline in the culinary world.

This thing is a Franken cake. A reanimated dessert corpse. This is not baking.

This is culinary taxidermy.

 

What The Heck is That? 

Historically, “mystery” foods were often code for “we’re stretching the budget and you don’t want to know how.

Ridiculous Recipe Realities: The Fun Facts

1950’s fruitcake recipes featured intense, month-long alcohol-soaking rituals, massive ingredient density, and status as a "must-have" holiday staple, before it became a joke. Fruitcakes literally had the density of Mahogany — According to Harper's Index, the average fruitcake has a 1:1 density ratio to mahogany wood!

Ridiculous kitchen rituals: things they actually did

The "Alcohol Bath": Home bakers would poke deep holes into the cake with the handle of a wooden spoon or skewers and "feed" it several tablespoons of brandy, rum, or bourbon every two weeks for up to three months. Three Months? I’m going to leave that right here.

Why they did it:

The ritual was essentially a form of preservation and flavor, designed to turn a dense loaf into a long-lasting luxury. (Personally I think the housewives added it so they could get a  dose of alcohol… ”one tablespoon for the cake, one for the cook” — but that’s just my opinion.

Fruitcakes were often quite dry and heavy after baking. Poking holes allowed the spirit to penetrate the core of the cake rather than just sitting on the surface, ensuring the crumb remained moist. The intense sweetness of the candied fruits and the bitterness of the spices needed time to meld. The alcohol acted as a solvent, breaking down the sugars and oils to create a complex, mellowed flavor profile that only develops with age. However, I still believe my theory is more accurate!

Coco’s Commentary:

Honestly, this isn’t a fruitcake — it’s a geological core sample frosted for modesty. The fact that the recipe begins with Bake a cake, then instructs you to immediately destroy it” tells you everything you need to know. This isn’t baking. This is evidence disposal.

We’ve got half‑pounds of candied everything, a quarter‑pound of prunes (because nothing says “holiday cheer” like digestive urgency), and then — the pièce de résistance — they glue the whole mess together with Fluffy White Frosting like they’re spackling a wall.

And the name… White Mystery Fruitcake. Ma’am, that’s not a dessert. That’s a police report.

The optional variation “For a dark Mystery Fruitcake…” reads like a threat. As if the white one wasn’t already raising enough questions for the FDA.

This thing weighs six pounds. SIX. That’s not a cake, that’s a weapon. If someone gifted you this in 1958, it wasn’t hospitality — it was dominance. A culinary power move. A warning.

Slice with a sharp knife? No. Slice with a chainsaw and a prayer!

Posted Sunday 3/1/26

 From the 1860 Vintage Edition

The Recipe:

Ox Tongue Potted

Everything below is exactly as the recipe was written!

Take a tongue from the pickle, and wash it clean; cut off a part of the rough pieces of the root, put a thick slice of bacon at the bottom of the pan, and over that a pound of lean beefsteak or veal, and then the tongue turned round to fit the pan ; have a cow-heel, parboiled and ready boned, place it on the tongue, and cover it with another slice of bacon, and a slice of beef or veal; season with two teaspoonfuls of pepper, a little powdered ginger and cloves, one bay -leaf, one carrot sliced, and two onions sliced ; add two wineglassfuls of brandy or sherry, four of old ale. and one quart of water; cover well over, and put in a slow oven for three hours, take off the cover, and put a piece of board with a weight on the top until cold, then the next day turn it out of the pan, which you can do by placing the pan in hot water. But should you wish to use the tongue hot for dinner, take it out, and when done with it, put the remains in and press, as before described. The vegetables may be also pressed in with the meat or served hot round the tongue.

FYI - “winegladdfuls” isn’t a typo- it’s exactly how the vintage recipe book had this!

The remains of pickled ox tongues are very nice, intermixed and placed in a pan, and pressed, when they turn out like collared head. A tongue boiled in plain water will take about two hours.

Michele & Coco’s Translation:

1)    "Take a tongue from the pickle…”

Oh good, we’re starting with a brined tongue. Nothing says dinner like a disembodied muscle pulled from a bucket of brine!

2)      “Cut off the rough pieces of the root…”

Root? Let’s face it- they are trimming the gristly fat, connective tissue, small bones, glands, and remnants of the windpipe at the back of the tongue - essentially, tongue stubble. Sounds more like a spa day for the tongue... an exfoliation, a deep muscle relief, and an herbal wrap- let's just try to pretend none of this ever happened.

3      "Lay bacon at the bottom, then beefsteak, then the tongue curled to fit the pan.”

This is less a recipe and more a meat nesting doll.

4)      “Add a cow‑heel, parboiled and boned.”

I’m sorry… a what? Why is there suddenly a cow foot in the middle of this tongue lasagna?

5)      “Cover with more bacon and more beef.”

It’s as if Victorian cooks said: If you can still identify the original animal, add another one!

6)      “Season with pepper, ginger, cloves, bay leaf, carrot, onions…”

This is the only normal part, but even here it’s like an orthopedic surgeon sprinkling ginger into the surgical site.”

7)      “Add brandy, sherry, old ale, and a quart of water.”

So we’re basically braising the tongue-foot-bacon stack like its a frat party punch bowl?

8)      “Cook three hours, then press under a board with a weight.”

Nothing is as appetizing as a meat that requires carpentry!

9) “Turn it out of the pan the next day.”

Because this dish needs to be set like concrete.

10 “If you want to serve it hot, remove the tongue and press the remains.”

The remains.

THE REMAINS?

This cookbook is one séance away from being a horror novel.

What the Heck Is That?

This is-

A pickled tongue surgery

A cow foot - enough said!

A bacon-beef sandwich fiasco

Enough alcohol to stun a horse

And a mandatory 24‑hour board pressing phase with rocks as weights

It’s stacked like paperwork on a secretarial desk! I think they accidentally invented a "Tongue Lasagna".

Ridiculous Recipe Realities - The Fun Facts:

Tongue and cow‑heel were prized because they were cheap, gelatin-rich, and preserved well. Pressed meat dishes were common because refrigeration didn’t exist — gelatin was their version of “food glue” that they obtained through animal parts such as hooves… It was the vintage Jell-o! Alcohol wasn’t for flavor; it was for sanitation. If the water or meat was questionable, the ale and brandy were the real safety measures.

“Collared head” was a real dish: basically, a rolled, pressed, jellied head. Victorians loved a good head roll. (We do not.)

Ridiculous Kitchen Rituals - Things They Actually Did in 1860:

Pressed meats were stored under literal wooden boards with rocks on top. 

No fridge? No problem. Just compress your dinner like a Victorian panini gelatin.

Cow‑heel jelly was used as a thickener in everything — soups, pies, marmalade, sauces, and apparently tongue towers. This must be where the term “Toe jam” originally came from!

If you served tongue at dinner, you were fancy. If you added cow‑heel? You were unstoppable, because this made you very fancy!

Why They Did It:

Pressing removed air pockets so it wouldn’t spoil as faster.

And honestly? They just didn’t waste anything. If it came off a cow, it went in a pot.

Coco’s Commentary:

This dish feels like the Victorian version of someone cleaning out their fridge before vacation:

Let’s see… tongue, foot, bacon, beef, onions, carrot, ginger, cloves, brandy, ale… sure, throw it all in. Press it. If it jiggles, it’s dinner! This recipe is giving medieval charcuterie, cow‑based Jenga, and meat terrarium all at once. And the fact that the recipe casually says “the remains may also be pressed” is sending me!

This is funeral, not a meal.

If you want, I can also mockup a perfect one‑liner teaser for Facebook to maximize engagement — something that screams “Victorian chaos incoming.”

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Today's Recipe Ridicule Posted: Sunday 2/22/26

The Recipes (Double the Recipe Torment):

Beef Headcheese — Split a beef head in two, take out the eyes, crack the side bones, and lay it in water for one night, to draw out the blood, then put it in a kettle with sufficient water to cover it, let it boil gently, skimming it often ; when the meat loosens from the bones, take it from the water with a skimmer into a bowl or tray; take out every particle of bone; season with a small teacupful of fine salt, and half as much pepper; chop it fin ; add a tablespoonful of powdered thyme or sage, tie it in a cloth, and press it by laying a gentle weight on it. When cold, it may be cut in slices for luncheon or supper.

Michele and Coco’s Translation: 

“Split a beef head in two, take out the eyes…”We’re not even past the first comma and we’re already in a horror movie.

“Crack the side bones - soak the head overnight” … Is this a recipe or a spa treatment?

“a small teacupful of fine salt, and half as much pepper”?? Wow. Just Wow. I have no words for the amount of salt and pepper. How big is this pot and this animals head?

The recipe is basically saying: Boil it until the face falls off!

Potted Head — Thoroughly clean an ox head, split it in two, take out the eyes and brains, then boil it gently, in sufficient water to cover it ; skim it clear, when the bones loosen it is done enough then take it up, take out every particle of bone strain the liquor in which it was boiled, add pepper and salt to taste, and put it with the meat in a stew-pan or dinner-pot over a gentle fire, and let it simmer until the water is nearly all done away, then put it in a stone pot, press it down and let it become cold. To be eaten sliced for luncheon or supper.

Michele and Coco’s 2^nd Recipe Translation: 

I’m sorry, WHY did this cookbook have multiple ways to cook a face? This is definitely the sequel nobody asked for…. It gets even worse-

Same plot, slightly different ending. It’s like the editor said, “You know what this book needs? Another head recipe. People love those.”

The recipe begins with: “Thoroughly clean an ox head, split it in two, take out the eyes and brains…”

Ma’am.

Mrs. Crowen.

Why are we removing the eyes and brains like we’re prepping a prop for a haunted house?

 Headcheese was the original “nothing goes to waste,” but also… maybe some things should go to waste??

What The Heck is That?

This is the moment when the cookbook stops pretending to be a cookbook and fully commits to being a Victorian forensic manual. We’re dealing with not one but two separate recipes that both begin with, “Remove the eyes,” like that’s a normal Sunday task. Headcheese and Potted Head aren’t dishes — they’re culinary jump scares. These recipes read like someone asked, “What if lunch… but also trauma?”

Ridiculous Recipe Realities (The Fun Facts):

It was forbidden to turn a loaf of bread upside down after it had been cut. Furthermore, it was considered bad luck not to tear bread by hand rather than cutting it with a knife. These were ingrained superstitions; flipping a loaf of bread was believed to bring the devil to dinner or more practically, was seen

Ridiculous Kitchen Rituals (things They Actually Did in 1847):

 Victorians used “spoon warmers” that were typically ceramic or silver vessels shaped usually like shells, frogs or urns to keep soup spoons warm, right before serving soup.

Why They Did It:

Due to the kitchens being far from the dining rooms back then, and houses being heated only via fireplaces, cutlery became freezing cold. If hot food, specifically hot soups were served with a cold spoon, it would cause the fat in soups or gravy to congeal on the utensil, which was considered poor service!

Coco’s Commentary:

Michele, I’m tapping out. I’m done. I have reached my personal limit for 1847 head‑based cuisine. Why are there MULTIPLE ways to prepare a face? Why is every step written like instructions for assembling a haunted doll? And why — WHY — does every recipe begin with “take out the eyes” like that’s just a casual warm‑up stretch?

Also, I need to talk to whoever decided, “You know what this book needs? A second head recipe.” No it didn’t. Nobody needed that. Nobody asked for that. Nobody in the history of lunch said, “I wish there were more options for cold sliced head.”

I’m going to go lie down. Preferably somewhere far away from ox skulls, beef skulls, or any skulls that require overnight soaking.

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Today's Recipe Ridicule Posted: Sunday 2/15/26

The Recipe: CALVES FOOT JELLY

 An Authentic 19th‑Century Recipe

 Written like an English teacher’s nightmare! (vintage cookery books have it as you see here).

Take four calf’s feet, well cleaned and split. Put them into a pot with three quarts of water and boil them gently until the liquor is reduced one half, and the feet fall to pieces. Strain the jelly through a flannel bag, and when cold remove all the fat. To clarify it, add the whites of three eggs, the juice of two lemons, a bit of cinnamon, and sugar to taste. Boil it again, stirring constantly, and pass it once more through the bag. Pour into moulds and set in a cool place to form.

Michele & Coco’s Translation

Step 1: They are taking calf’s feet, splitting  them, boiling them until the “feet fall to pieces”. It literally must have taken hours. It’s bad enough they are cooking hoofs to create a jellied dessert, but that’s not dessert, it’s like a medical specimen pretending to be dessert. I have no more words for this. I’ll let Coco have a crack at it … This isn’t cooking — this is what happens when a science experiment escapes the lab and decides it wants to be served in a fancy mold. Somewhere, a Victorian doctor is nodding proudly, thinking this belongs in a hospital ward, not on a dessert table.

Step 2: They are straining this through what their version of a cheese cloth today would be (basically, it’s a 19th century strainer) that was probably never washed good enough to recover from straining anything, especially calf feet. Therefore it was more like a piece of fabric begging for early retirement. Calf’s feet are packed with collagen, probably a lifetimes worth of cosmetic‑clinic loyalty points for someone with a Beverly Hills punch‑card! Honestly, that flannel bag saw more action than a modern Brita filter and smelled like it needed therapy. At this point, the bag isn’t filtering impurities — it’s absorbing trauma.

Step 3: Clarify it with egg whites and  lemon juice, then add cinnamon and sugar? I don’t think this recipe is worth clarifying and it’s highly unlikely that cinnamon and sugar would ever be able to help calf’s feet  - a meat flavor, taste good? Yet here we are! This is the culinary equivalent of putting perfume on a taxidermy project and hoping no one notices. This step feels like the Victorian version of putting glitter on a crime scene.

What the Heck is That? It’s another boiled meaty foot, turned into dessert with skin benefactors (collagen) and flavors I never want to put together in one meal. It’s giving ‘spa day meets autopsy’ — and absolutely no one asked for that crossover.

Ridiculous Recipe Realities: The Fun Facts

In the 1800’s, not only were they terrible spellers, but some of the language / words and definitions were very different from what we understand them to mean today. Victorian recipes read like they were written by someone who lost a bet with the English language.

 For example: 

• “Liquor” meant any type of cooking liquid, such as water, broth and stock. What we know as liquor today, was called “Spirits”, “Cordials” “Wineglassful” and “Restorative tonic”, back then. If someone in 1850 said they were “adding liquor,” they weren’t having fun — they were making soup.

• When a recipe said to strain something “through a flannel bag,” it meant: A homemade cloth filter, typically a cone shaped bag made of flannel, muslin, or tightly woven cotton. It usually hung from a hook, a broom handle, or a cabinet knob in a kitchen, and it worked by catching impurities, fat (and apparently, egg‑white clots)! It was much more rustic and much more likely to smell horrifying afterwards! Imagine a laundry hamper and an unwashed colander had a baby.

• I did some research: “Sweetmeats” meant candied fruit, not meat. “Salad” meant anything cold in a bowl. Whatever gelatinous nightmare you can coax out of livestock.

Ridiculous Kitchen Rituals: The Things They Actually Did

(The 19th‑Century Obsession with Clarifying Everything)

Back in the 1800’s, cooks had a ritual that feels less like cooking and more like a chemistry lab requirement: they clarified almost every broth, stock, or jelly with egg whites. Not added egg whites. Not mixed in egg whites.

No — they cracked raw egg whites into boiling liquid and let them coagulate into a floating protein raft.

Why they did it:

Victorian cooks wanted their broths and jellies to be crystal clear — the kind of clarity that said, “I spent six hours on this and I need you to notice.” Egg whites would grab onto impurities, fat, and anything cloudy, then rise to the top like a ghostly foam hat. Strain it off, and voilà: a clear, shimmering liquid. In theory? Smart. In reality? They were basically making egg‑white soup hats to clean their food. 

Coco’s Commentary: Honestly, the 19th century treated egg whites like the Mr. Clean Magic Eraser of the kitchen!

Got cloudy broth? Egg whites.

Murky jelly? Egg whites.

Suspicious liquid that looks like it came from a haunted cauldron? Egg whites.

 It’s like they believed egg whites had supernatural powers — part cleanser, part clarifier, part Victorian kitchen witchcraft.

And the best part? After all that effort, they still ended up with a dessert made from boiled hooves.

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Posted Sunday 2/8/26:

The Recipe: PEANUT BUTTER STUFFED ONIONS (1930’s, resurfaced in 1940’s

 Ingredients:

Onions, Peanut Butter, Breadcrumbs

 Method: 

Peel whole onions. Parboil the onions. Scoop a hollow through to the center of each onion. Stuff the cavity with peanut butter. Add breadcrumbs. Bake until heated through.

Michele and Coco’s Translation:

The recipe itself is a threat. If those ingredients could speak, together they would say:

“We are here to ruin your day.”

Hot soft onions, molten, oily peanut butter combined and steaming like a warning signal! The breadcrumbs are trying desperately to hold the relationship together like a marriage counselor saying, “I tried to fix it, but it was already too late.”

Michele's Statement: In speaking with Coco last night, we began to discuss an entire imaginary scene (as if it were a TV sitcom!) We were envisioning someone getting invited to a party and they are asked to bring a covered dish. This is how it ended up unfolding…

The guest arrives and is standing on the porch holding a warm covered dish that smells like confusion. The guest rings the doorbell. The hostess opens the door with a smile, takes the dish and politely asks: “Oh — What did you bring?”

The guest: “Stuffed onions.”

The Hostess: “Oooo, what are they stuffed with?”

The guest opens their mouth, committing the ultimate culinary offense and has the audacity to say:

“Peanut butter.”

 The hostess freezes. Her smile twitches. Her soul leaves her body. Somewhere in the distance, a wine glass shatters. 

In that moment, she’s quietly thinking:

“What the Heck is That?”

“Did I hear that right?”

“Is she okay??”

“Where can I put this dish, so no one sees it?”

 Meanwhile, behind the hostess is a room full of guests chatting and completely unaware that a culinary bomb has just entered the home!

 She lifts the lid a bit to peek inside the dish. The steam and odor rise. The smell hits her. She sees the onions — glistening, filled with melty peanut butter and topped with breadcrumbs! That’s the moment the hostess internally reconsiders every life choice that led her to this particular guest on her doorstep. Their friendship. Everything.  

The hostess’s internal monologue is now screaming:

“Dear God!” And then she says out loud (because she’s trying to be polite):

“Oh! How … interesting!” 

Which is hostess code for: “I’m never inviting you again.”

Ridiculous Recipe Realities: The fun Facts –

 During the Great Depression, peanut butter was considered a protein miracle — cheap, shelf‑stable, and endlessly abused in recipes that never should’ve existed.

Onions were one of the few vegetables people could grow, store, and/or afford year‑round.

Stuffing onions with anything was a common 1930’s trick to make a tiny amount of food look like a “proper meal.” Vintage cookbooks often didn’t provide temperatures or times, assuming every home cook had the same oven intuition, and psychic abilities.

Breadcrumbs were used in nearly everything because they stretched ingredients, absorbed grease, and made dishes appear more sophisticated an substantial than they actually were. Many 1930’s “innovations” came from home economists who were paid to convince Americans that bizarre combinations were “nutritious,” “economical,” and also “delightfully modern.”

Ridiculous Kitchen Rituals - Things they actually did:

One tea bag served the whole family, sometimes twice. Tea bags were invented in 1908 and were commercially available throughout the 1920’s and 1930’s. Loose tea was still extremely common though. Tea balls (ball strainers), and teapots were still the norm.

Why they did it: They reused tea bags to save money during the depression era.

 Coco’s Commentary has been temporarily removed (just for this recipe) because she pretty much wrote the entire party scene (with a little help from me)! Her commentary will resume in next Sunday’s Recipe ridicule on:” What the heck is that? 

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Posted Sunday 2/1/26:

The Recipe: JELLIED FISH (copied and pasted from the source, as it was written)

Dissolve 1 1/ 2 dessertspoons of powdered gelatine in y 2 cup of hot water, add 2 tablespoons lemon juice, 1 dessertspoon vinegar, a teaspoon of salt and then 1 breakfast cup of cold water. Pour a little of this liquid into a mould or basin, and stand in cold water to set quickly. When it is firm, arrange slices of hard boiled egg upon it, for a decoration. Then just cover with a little more of the liquid and let it set, or nearly so. Meanwhile mix together 2 cups of flaked, cooked fish, a dessertspoon of chopped pickles— (gherkins or cucumbers are the best for this)— and a few chopped capers. Now fill the mould with layers of flavoured fish and slices of hard boiled egg. About 2 eggs altogether should suffice. Pour over all the now- thickening gelatine liquid and leave the mould to set. Serve with lettuce and salad dressing. The cold liquor in which the fish was cooked may be used instead of the cold water.

Michele & Coco’s Translation:

Step 1: Make a gelatin base that smells like a fish funeral.

Step 2: Decorate it with egg slices like you’re crafting a Rembrandt.

Step 3: Add pickles and capers because the 1950’s had no brakes.

Step 4: Layer everything into a mold and pray.

Step 5: Chill until firm enough to bounce.

Step 6: Serve to someone you secretly resent.

What the Heck Is That?!

A  shameful 1953 tower of seafood regret, garnished with eggs and existential dread. We don’t know if this was their form of ipecac, or perhaps this is what the housewives made their husbands for dinner, when they were mad at them! Either way it’s a recipe for disaster.

 Ridiculous Recipe Realities: The Fun Facts

·         Gelatin was the “It girl” of mid‑century cuisine. If it didn’t jiggle, they didn’t trust it.

·         Fish aspics were considered “elegant,” which tells you everything about the trauma of post‑war cooking.

·         Hard‑boiled eggs were used as decoration because food photography didn’t exist yet and no one could stop them.

·         Pickles + capers + fish + gelatin = a flavor profile known as “No thank you.”

Ridiculous Kitchen Rituals: Things They Actually Did

In the 1950’s A lot of people washed raw chicken with soap!

Not water.

Soap. 

Why they did it

Because some people thought poultry needed “a good scrubbing.” While soap was not a universal way of cleaning poultry, the act of "washing" meat was considered necessary due to lower sanitation standards during food processing. The ritual was designed to remove "slime," odor, and debris. Naturally, this was before anyone understood cross‑contamination or that soap isn’t something you wash food with!

Coco’s Commentary:

Honestly… this is what happens when someone tries to make tuna salad but accidentally joins a cult. Nothing says “bon appétit” like a gelatin broth that smells like a seafood boil collided with a bottle of vinegar. Apparently their goal was to make it look like a crime scene at an aquarium. This recipe was already horrifying, and they thought adding pickles and capers would make it better?

Pickles + capers + fish + gelatin = a flavor profile known as “No thank you.”

Nowhere in this universe should anyone layer these ingredients together like a seafood lasagna and then suspend them in gelatin! This is not food. This is a shimmering tower of maritime regret.

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 Today's Recipe Ridicule Posted: Sunday 1/25/26

The Recipe: Lime Jell‑O Tuna Salad

An Authentic 1950’s Recipe (Apparently nothing was safe in that decade)

The Recipe:

1 package lime gelatin

1 cup boiling water

1 cup cold water

1 can tuna, flaked

½ cup diced celery

¼ cup chopped pimiento

2 tablespoons lemon juice

½ cup mayonnaise

Salt to taste

Directions: 

Dissolve gelatin in boiling water; add cold water and chill until slightly thickened. Fold in tuna, celery, pimiento, lemon juice, and mayonnaise. Season lightly. Pour into ring mold and chill until firm. Unmold onto crisp lettuce and garnish with additional mayonnaise if desired.

Michele & Coco’s Translation

Step 1: They start by making lime Jell‑O — which isn’t a bad flavor by itself — but then they chill it until it’s “slightly” thickened. They’re preparing the world’s least‑requested swimming pool for canned tuna. This is the moment the gelatin realizes it’s not becoming a dessert… it’s becoming a hostage situation.

Step 2: Now they fold in tuna, celery, pimiento, lemon juice, and mayonnaise. This is not folding — this is burying evidence. They’re mixing seafood, vegetables, citrus, and mayo into lime gelatin like they’re trying to cover up a crime while summoning a demon from a Church basement; and the pimiento is just there to murmur under its breath, “I didn’t ask to be part of this.”

Step 3: Pour it into a ring mold, chill until firm, and then unmold it onto lettuce like it’s a centerpiece instead of a cry for help. And if that wasn’t enough, they suggest garnishing it with more mayonnaise. Because nothing says “bon appétit” like a glossy tuna‑lime halo sweating melting gelatin on a bed of iceberg lettuce

What the Heck is That? It’s a gelatinous seafood wreath — a mid‑century masterpiece of confusion — where lime Jell‑O and tuna join forces to ruin both lunch and dessert in one efficient mold. In the 1950’s this is probably something they served when they wanted lingering guests to leave politely but immediately.

Ridiculous Recipe Realities: The Fun Facts

• The 1950’s were obsessed with gelatin. If it didn’t wiggle, they didn’t trust it. Jell‑O was basically the duct tape of the decade — they used it for everything except actual repairs.

• Canned tuna was considered fancy. This recipe was the height of sophistication — the kind of dish you’d bring to a bridge club meeting if you wanted to assert dominance.

• Pimientos were added to everything because they were colorful, cheap, and made any dish look like it was trying its best. They were the edible version of “I tried to dress up for this occasion.”

• Ring molds were the Instagram of the 1950’s. If it wasn’t shaped like a wreath, was it even food?

• And yes — they really did put mayonnaise on everything. The 1950’s believed mayo could fix anything except this recipe.

Ridiculous Kitchen Rituals: The Things They Actually Did

Brings you short, funny facts that highlight a bizarre kitchen habit from the era of the featured recipe.

Back in the 1950’s, home cooks had a very specific ritual: they rinsed canned vegetables like they were trying to baptize them. Yes — every can of peas, carrots, green beans, corn… straight under the faucet for a full cleansing. It wasn’t a quick swish, either. It was a moment. A ceremony. A vegetable purification ritual.

Why they did it:

Canned foods back then sometimes had a faint “tinny” taste from the metal cans. So the logic was to rinse away the metallic flavor and reveal the “freshness” beneath. In theory? Sensible. In practice? They were rinsing away the only flavor those soggy vegetables had left.

Coco’s Commentary: Honestly, 1950’s canned peas were already hanging on by a thread — rinsing them was like washing the personality off them. And the idea that a shower could turn a mushy, grayish pea into something “garden fresh” is peak mid‑century optimism. These people truly believed in miracles.

If rinsing canned vegetables actually restored flavor, the 1950’s would’ve been a culinary paradise instead of the decade that gave us tuna suspended in lime Jell‑O!

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Recipe Ridicule Posted 1/20/26 (A recipe duo)

The Recipe: OYSTER LOAVES

Take litle french Loaves cut off the tops and take out all the crumbs then take a pound & an half of Butter melt it in a frying pan till all the froth is gone then put in the Loaves and put of your melted butterr into them till they are crisp, then take them out & set them before the fire, then take 3 pints of oysters wash them in white wine - then stew them in their own liquor with some strong gravy and a little mace or nutmegg - and if you please a bit of lemon peel, when they are enough stewed put in a piece of butter and a little juice of lemon, then fill the loaves and put on the tops being fryd with the rest. when you cannot have oysters cockles will do.

Michele & Coco’s Translation:

Step 1: Destroy the Bread: Cut off the tops. Scoop out the insides. Turn them into hollow bread coffins.

 Step 2: Commit Butter Manslaughter: A pound and a half of butter. Let me repeat that - A POUND AND A HALF OF BUTTER! For little French loaves. They’re not brushing them. They’re not drizzling them. They are deep‑frying the bread loaves … in butter. This is not a recipe. This is a cry for help, or a suicide mission, not sure which- maybe both.

Step 3: The Oyster Situation: Wash oysters in white wine (because water is for peasants). Those lucky oysters get drunk before they kill them, then stew them in liquor with gravy, mace, nutmeg, lemon peel, and more BUTTER.

What the heck is that?

Butter‑fried bread bowls, filled with butter‑stewed oysters, topped with butter‑fried bread lids. This is basically a Victorian award winning artery hardener!  

The Bonus Banter:

This recipe reads like a 4-year-old wrote it. The spelling is an English teacher’s nightmare. This recipe does teach us something though - If you can’t get oysters, just shove some random sea creatures in there. No one will notice. Whoever created this, experimented on perfectly good French loaves like they were in science class dissecting frogs. Maybe if you can’t find oysters OR cockles, you can always turn to the amphibians!

2nd Recipe Ridicule (the duo): Apparently, there were a lot of boiled meats in the 19^th Century. I’m not talking about a simmer or a poach, I’m talking about long, full rolling boiled meats – for hours!  I’ve heard of overcooking, but this recipe sounds like someone sent it straight to the afterlife! Speaking of the afterlife, this recipe I’m about to drop makes me cringe. Before I post the recipe- you should know that a lot of recipes back then didn’t have measurements, just ingredients and brief instructions- I guess they thought whoever would be cooking were mind readers.

The Recipe:

NZ Boil-up (The sausage edition)

Ingredients: Water, Sausages, Onions, Potatoes, Salt

Instructions: Place sausages in a large pot. Cover with water. Bring to a boil and continue boiling until sausages are tender and light gray. Add potatoes, onions, and watercress. Boil until everything is light in color. Season with salt.

Michele & Coco’s Translation:

Step 1: Begin the Sausage Sacrifice: Place sausages in a pot. Just toss them in like you’re punishing them for past sins because this recipe is hopeless. Cover with water and boil them until they turn light gray, which is the universal color of food murder. If your sausage looks like it’s seen some things, you’re on the right track.

Step 2: Add the Vegetables to the Misery: Once the sausages have fully accepted their fate, throw in potatoes and onions. No seasoning yet. No finesse. Add watercress? Hey- that wasn’t even in the list of ingredients but at least it will add color to those gray sausages- those poor gray and lifeless sausages, that probably end up looking like a dead man’s ding-dong! Everything in this pot probably looked like it’s was filtered through a black‑and‑white movie.

Step 3: Season with salt: Only salt? After boiling the life out of everything, sprinkle in salt. As if that will fix it! No pepper. No herbs. No sauce. No joy either. Just salt — the culinary equivalent of a sigh.

What the heck is that?

This dish is a monochrome crime scene. The sausages are gray. The potatoes are probably grayish. The onions are opaque. Even the watercress — the one hopeful ingredient that could have brought some color to this dish has been boiled into a pale, soggy disappointment. This isn’t a meal. This is what food looks like when it has given up on its dreams.

Bonus Banter:

This recipe reads like someone said, “Dinner? Oh crap,” and then threw whatever they found into a pot and boiled it. It’s like the 19th century had a personal vendetta against flavor, texture, and color. The instructions basically say to boil everything (apparently until it loses all color). Serve immediately to someone you don’t like.