Every so often, I muse about the long-term future of certain items. Neckties, for example. Increasingly, the world seems to get along without them, myself included. I must have about one-hundred neckties and could probably make do with a dozen. A second example, cookbooks. We have an entire shelf full, almost three feet long, packed tightly. Thirty cookbooks, with maybe twenty recipes we turn to on a recurring basis.
The book that contains most of these favorite recipes is the Betty Crocker cookbook, a 1978 wedding gift, the spine reinforced by multiple straps of duct tape. Adjacent to it is an almost-new edition of “Big Red,” a reprinted version of the classic 1950s Betty Crocker cookbook Mom used to feed a family of eight. Admittedly, I’m sentimental.
I recall, as an adolescent, seeing a color photo in Mom’s cookbook, for an exotic looking (and sounding) dessert: baked alaska. Me, then suggesting maybe we should make it some time, yeah, I’ll help, thinking fun project, you know, an amusing afternoon activity.
Mom’s response was along the lines of, “Oh, that would be rather complicated. It’s kinda fussy. I think we should stick with something simpler, something more basic.” Her suggestion: “If you wish to be HELPFUL, you’re certainly welcome to bake a batch of cookies… or maybe a pan of bars.”
Parental practicality encounters a youthful desire for adventure. And wins. Maybe later, Mom.
Last year, Paula and I attempted to launch a new tradition, hosting neighborhood friends for a meal in celebration of International Women’s Day (IWD), March 8. The concept here is that most meal-related work be undertaken by men. Last year’s menu was built around paella. Tasty! But something only becomes a tradition through repetition. Accordingly, invitations are issued for the second annual gathering. And this year’s featured dish is to be… a dessert: baked alaska. (“Really, Mom, how tough can it be?!?”)
I pull our trusty, duct-taped “Crocker” off the shelf and look up Betty’s recipe, vintage 1970s. The book includes a photo; its version is a rather squat concoction, not the high-peaked, puffy dome I envision. I flip open the older Crocker edition, a familiar photo confirming a final product much more to my liking. I call Denis, one of our IWD guests, to ask if he’ll assist in this endeavor. He not only agrees, he’ll bring a blowtorch to add appropriate browning touches to the merengue.
Our plan emerges. This year’s IWD celebration is NOT on March 8, since we’ll be out of town, but a week earlier, March 1. Our main course is a pasta dish featuring mushrooms, leeks, and spinach. Paula makes a salad with romaine lettuce, cabbage, and homemade green goddess dressing, a not-so-subtle reminder of four dining companions who are indeed goddesses. While these dishes are notable, they’re NOT vying to be our evening’s centerpiece.
While guests are feasting on Paula’s delicious salmon spread, Denis and I are in the laundry room, door closed to muffle the sound of noisy electric beaters. I now know that inflating egg whites into a state of sufficient stiffness needed to insulate neapolitan ice cream at 500 degrees is a twenty-minute endeavor.
Our merengue is slathered over the entire cake and the ice cream dome (“slathered” being an apt term, encountered on a baked alaska blog), supplemented by ample flourishes – strokes, swirls, peaks – to ensure guests realize this dessert is well worth waiting for. Some bloggers suggest baked alaska needs an alcohol coating ignited tableside. Maybe another time. (Then again, perhaps less is more.)
Our version is a smashing success! Considering I delayed almost six decades before attempting this culinary triumph prompts a wave of introspection. What else might I undertake before concluding, as Paula and I admit occasionally, “That ship has sailed!”? Or, expressed another way by brother Lowell, speaking semi-metaphorically, “(Is) flambeed cherries jubilee in our future?”
Who knows? Regardless, rest assured I reveled three times in my long-awaited adventure: in the making, in the serving, and in the eating. Here’s wishing a great International Women’s Day to all who celebrate.
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I’m pleased to be part of the Iowa Writer’s Collaborative. These are my colleagues: