Our 1920s Health Brunch series continues with our final installment - And what good is a brunch without a few sweet treats? But healthy treats are hard to find, and they were in the 1920s, too. Sugar was still considered something of a health food back then, as refined white sugar was essentially pure carbohydrate, and food scientists and nutritionists of the time understood carbohydrates generally in terms of energy, rather than associating excess carbohydrates with fat storage, as many nutritionists do today. Nutrition science was still in its infancy (the calorie had only been applied to food energy in the 1890s, and the first vitamin wasn't isolated until 1912), and scientists were researching sugar and its effect on human health. The advent of the Temperance movement also encouraged the replacement of one vice (alcohol) with another (sugar). Some health reformers did advocate for low sugar diets, notably John Harvey Kellogg, who believed that sugar was hazardous to your health. He and his younger brother Will Kellogg parted ways over Will's marketing of corn flakes, which included sugar. Will later won the legal battle to use the Kellogg name commercially, and John Harvey never really recovered from that loss. 

Digestion was also a huge concern amongst health reformers and medical professionals alike in the early 20th century. The 19th century and American diets were marked by complaints of dyspepsia, constipation, and other digestive troubles. Until the early twentieth century, fruits and especially vegetables were seen largely as filler foods that provided only the roughage needed to avoid constipation. To nutrition scientists, they contained little nutrition, as they often had limited amounts of carbohydrates and little to no protein or fat - the three primary building blocks of nutrition as understood at the time. In comparison, milk was seen as the "perfect food," because it contained carbohydrates, protein, and fat all in one beverage. 

Solving digestive troubles before they started was top of mind for many home economists and medical professionals, and the easiest (and gentlest) way to improve digestion and avoid constipation was to consume whole grains and dried fruits. The advent of the First World War increased focus on whole grains as refined white wheat flour was reserved for the military and Americans were encouraged to go "wheatless." Cornmeal was the most abundant substitute, but rye, barley, and oats were all used. Although cold cereals like those produced by Will Kellogg and Kellogg rival C.W. Post were starting to gain ground, cooked cereals like oatmeal, malt-o-meal, Cream of Wheat, etc. were still popular. 

Dried fruits were another go-to solution to digestive trouble. The poor prune (a.k.a. dried plum) has retained that reputation to this day, and Prune Whip was one of the recipes I considered for this menu, but decided to forego since many historic recipes called for using uncooked egg whites. Dried apricots, figs, and raisins all were used in similar ways by early 20th century cookbook authors, home economists, and health reformers. To this day, an oatmeal raisin cookie is considered more healthful than a chocolate chip cookie, although their calories and composition might be markedly similar. Fig Newtons also have retained much of their association with healthy eating, despite being a type of cookie.

Prunes, raisins, apricots, figs, and dates were all developed as commercial crops in California in the 19th century. Many Mediterranean fruit trees were introduced to California by Catholic missions in the late 18th and early 19th centuries, including olives, citrus fruits, plums, grapes, apricots, figs, and dates. However, commercial production came much later. Commercial prune production did not begin until the 1850s in the Santa Clara Valley. Muscat grapes were introduced to California in the 1850s, but commercial raisin production did not begin until the 1870s in the San Joaquin Valley, notably with the development of the "Thompson Seedless" variety. Apricots were also introduced in the 1850s to the Santa Clara Valley, production did not peak until the 1920s. Mission figs had been known in California since the days of Catholic missions, but they were not considered as desirable as Turkish Smyrna figs, which were finally introduced in the late 19th century in the San Joaquin Valley. Dates were the last to be brought to California, introduced in the early 20th century to the Coachella Valley. 

In the 1900s and 1910s, many fruit growers around the country were consolidating into groups and cooperatives. In 1893, the Southern California Fruit Exchange was formed of orange growers. By 1905, it renamed itself the California Fruit Growers Exchange, and in 1907 launched the "Sunkist" brand for citrus fruits. In 1912, the California Associated Raisin Company was established, and in 1915 they debuted the Sun-Maid brand. In 1917, the California Prune and Apricot Growers Association was formed, later taking on the moniker "Sunsweet." With the rising interest in both health foods and California fresh produce in the 1920s, recipes like Chef Wyman's "Sunland Salad" became more commonplace. 

​Which brings us to our final two recipes: Fruit Puffs, from 1917, and Stewed Apricots. 

"Fruit Puffs" are something of a misnomer, as you'll see. I tracked down this recipe in The National Food and Health Book, a cookbook published in 1917 by Robert Addison Harrison in Lincoln, Nebraska. It was a cookbook designed to meet the needs of the First World War. The first half of the book is devoted to information about nutrition science (including some lifted from the Cornell University reading courses for the farm wife), meal planning, food conservation, advice for leftovers, and suggested menus. The second half of the book is devoted to "Economical Recipes," many of which are eggless or call for stretching meat rations. Although there are no recipes labeled "wheatless," there are a number of recipes including whole grains. I decided I wanted a recipe that I could use whole wheat flour with, and something with dates. Fruit puffs seemed to fit the bill.

All of the recipes in this cookbook are written in paragraph form, and I was reading it on my phone while I baked, which was not the best tactic, I will admit. So the puffs did not turn out as well as I'd hoped, in part because I fudged the recipe slightly. Here's the original, as written:

FRUIT PUFFS - Two cups flour, 4 teaspoonfuls baking powder, one-half teaspoonful salt, 4 tablespoonfuls butter or lard, two-thirds cup milk or water, four tablespoonfuls finely cut dates or figs, four tablespoonfuls chopped nuts, four tablespoonfuls sugar, one-half teaspoonful cinnamon, two tablespoonfuls butter.

Mix first five ingredients as for baking powder biscuit and pat out onto a sheet (one-half inch thick) on a board. Spread with butter (melted) and sprinkle with sugar, nuts, cinnamon and fruit. Roll as for cinnamon roll and cut into eight pieces. Flatten on greased tin and bake in a hot oven. (These puffs may be served as a pudding with a lemon sauce).

And here's my adaptation:

2 cups whole wheat flour
4 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
4 tablespoons butter
2/3 cups milk
1/4 cup finely chopped dates
1/4 cup chopped pecans
1/4 cup white sugar
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
2 tablespoons butter, melted

Whisk together flour, baking powder, and salt, then cut rub in butter until crumbly. Stir in milk and knead lightly until the dough comes together. If sticky, roll out on floured surface. If a little dry, roll out on parchment or waxed paper. Roll lightly into long rectangle. In a small bowl, mix cinnamon and sugar to blend. Spread dough with melted butter, sprinkle with cinnamon-sugar mixture, sprinkle with dates and nuts. Roll lengthwise as for cinnamon rolls and cut into 1-2 inch rounds. Bake on a greased baking sheet at 425 F for 10-12 minutes, or until lightly browned. 

​These did not turn out as well as I'd hoped. Admittedly, I forgot a whole tablespoon of butter, and did not follow my instincts and add more milk to soften the dough a little. I also forgot that whole wheat flour absorbs more moisture than white, and I should have increased the liquids to compensate anyway. So the puffs were pretty dry. In retrospect, I realize I also did not "flatten" the rounds as indicated in the original recipe, which would have made them even less puffy? I do not understand the naming convention here at all. But the end result was a perfectly nice, albeit dry, biscuit pinwheel. The whole wheat, cinnamon, dates, and pecans all went nicely together. Next time I think I would add more dates and pecans, and make a softer biscuit dough. I don't think I would flatten them, however! (Well, maybe just a few, for science.)

Stewed dried fruit is quite an old dish, but as I mentioned earlier, stewed dried fruits gained popularity in the late 19th and early 20th century as a digestive aid and an inexpensive way to access fruit year-round (being considerably less expensive than canned fruit). Serving fruit with cream as dessert was also quite common, and among home economists, at least, a popular alternative to the digestion-busting pie Americans loved (and still love) so much. 

The recipe for stewed apricots (or any kind of fruit) couldn't be easier. Simply take dried apricots, cover them with water, and simmer over low heat until they are plump and tender and the water has thickened into a sauce. You can soak them overnight for even more rehydration and faster cooking. Serve warm, room temperature, or cold with a few tablespoons of heavy cream. Some recipes add sugar, honey, and/or spices, but most call simply for fruit and water. 

The stewed apricots were a nice juicy contrast to the dry biscuit pinwheels, and a good flavor companion. Of course, hot chocolate made everything better. 

And that, dear reader, is that! Over all I think the Health Brunch was a success - I learned some new cooking tricks, had a lovely time with friends, and best of all - someone else did the dishes! Here's to a healthy and delicious 2025. 

​Until next time...

When looking for recipes for my 1920s Health Brunch, I stumbled across Chef Wyman's Daily Health Menus cookbook, published in 1927. Written by Arthur Leslie Wyman, I could find little about the author himself, although a very nice photograph of him is included in the cookbook. But I did find that a few years earlier, in 1923, he edited the Los Angeles Times Prize Cook Book, and another photo and short biography were included in the introduction. It reads:

"Chef A. L. Wyman, under whose direction the TIMES PRIZE COOK BOOK was assembled, acquired his mastery of cooking by an experience covering nearly all parts of the civilized world. As chef and master baker in famous cooking establishments of Europe, Egypt, India and the Orient, he has studied the cooking of all climates and races, acquiring first-hand knowledge of many exotic foods and seasonings which, when properly handled, add appetizing variety to the menu.

"He has devoted himself of late years chiefly to educational work and to the testing and writing of recipes for large food organizations, including most of California's great fruit associations. Many of the familiar recipes using peaches, figs, raisins, walnuts, oranges and other local products were originated by him in laboratory-kitchen at Glendale. 

"Chef Wyman is, and always has been, especially interested in cooking as it applies to families and home. His department of "Practical Recipes," which appears each Saturday in the LOS ANGELES TIMES, is one of the newspaper's most popular features, and helps to make THE TIMES' Saturday marketing and domestic science pages, the most widely-read department of its kind in the West."

Sadly, Wyman apparently died in 1927, though his column was taken over by his widow Mabelle, who herself tragically died of a heart attack just a few years later in 1931. As the foreword to the Los Angeles Times cookbook suggests, Wyman apparently cut his teeth in recipe testing for fruit growers in California, which accounts both for his interest in "Health Menus," and "Sunland" fruits. The Health Menus cookbook has no introduction or explanation, so I can only assume it was designed for California residents, who would have recognized his name and his column with the Los Angeles Times. At some point in the same year the Tennessee-based grocer Piggy Wiggly must have purchased the printing rights to the cookbook, as there are 1927 editions with blue cloth covers with gold lettering in two varieties. One has "Chef Wyman's Daily Health Menus" on the cover, the other, which I found, reads "Piggly Wiggly Daily Health Menus." The interiors appear to be identical. 

The cookbook is organized by month and day of the week, and includes menu suggestions for breakfast, lunch, and dinner for each day. Recipes are not provided for every suggestion, but most are present. Even today many of the recipes sound Californian, with lots of fresh fruit and vegetables, seafood, and French and Mexican flavors. Many of the recipes also call for ingredients that would be out of season anywhere else, like strawberries in January. Wyman's "Sunland Salad" recipe was one that caught my eye because of the use of citrus fruit (how brunch-y!) with the 1920s favorite pineapple and the unusual addition of raisins. It smacked of California and 1920s ideas about citrus for vitamins, raisins for fiber, and of course lettuce-salads for reducing and health. 

Chef Wyman's original recipe reads:

"Mix two cups of peeled and diced oranges with one cup of peeled and diced grape fruit, one cup of diced pineapple, and one cup of seedless raisins that have been soaked in orange juice for one hour. Mound on lettuce-covered plates and place a table-spoon of mayonnaise on each serving."

Lots going on here! "Sunland" is clearly a reference to California, and we have both oranges and grapefruit, along with raisins - all California crops, with the addition of pineapple, likely from Hawai'i. Although the original recipe says "peeled and diced," I decided to be fancy and supremed my citrus fruit. Supreming involves cutting the peel off of the fruit, removing all of the skin, and then using a very sharp knife to cut the separating membranes away, leaving only the interior arils in nice pieces. Although the recipe doesn't specify, I also decided to use canned pineapple, since that is what would have been available to most Americans at the time. Supreming the citrus fruit made a lot of juice, so I used that, topped off with pineapple juice, to soak the raisins. It also doesn't specify the lettuce, but I assumed leaf-lettuce. And because no one likes to have to use a knife to eat a salad, I used romaine for a little added crunch, and chiffonaded it. In the interest of modern sensibilities, I skipped the mayonnaise, an extremely popular fruit salad topping in the 1920s and '30s, but not so in vogue today.

Here's my version

3 smallish navel oranges
1 large ruby red grapefruit
1 cup canned pineapple tidbits
1 cup raisins
Romaine lettuce

Supreme the citrus fruits, catching the juice in a bowl and discarding any seeds and membranes. Drain pineapple, but save juice. Pour citrus and pineapple juices over raisins and set aside until ready to serve. Wash, dry, and thinly slice (chiffonade) lettuce, then chill. 

When ready to serve, make nests of the lettuce on salad plates, then combine the fruit and raisins and spoon on top of the lettuce, drizzling some of the juice over top as a dressing.

Although simple, this recipe was extremely refreshing. This recipe was very similar to the Grapefruit Salad I made for my White Christmas party, but sweeter. It made a delicious brunch salad, although Chef Wyman originally intended it to be served with dinner. The soaked raisins added an interesting depth and sweetness and the combination of oranges, grapefruit, and pineapple was delicious. Supreming the citrus fruit made it look very pretty, but if you'd prefer to just peel and chop as Chef Wyman suggested, feel free! You can also feel free to add a tablespoon of mayonnaise to each plate, if you prefer, but that's up to you. 

​Until next time...

Back when I was researching historic cookies for theKitchn.com's Cookie Time Machine, one of the options for the 1920s was snickerdoodles. My husband had requested them, and I'd found several recipes in my 1920s cookbooks. So I scanned a recipe and sent it to my editor, only to have her respond with, "Snickerdoodles are great, but why does this recipe call for raisins?" 

I was horrified. I hadn't even realized raisins were in the recipe. We ended up choosing Orange Drop Cookies, as they fit the trends of the decade better, but I got curious. I started looking up other Snickerdoodle recipes from the 1920s. And friends, they ALL had raisins in them. 

​What on earth was going on? 

I dug a little deeper, and the trend continued.

1903 - the October, 1903 issue of Home Science Magazine has Mary Johnson Bailey Lincoln's recipe for snickerdoodles with, you guessed it, raisins.

1908 - The L.W. Cook Book snickerdoodle recipe calls for just "a few raisins." 

1911 - the July, 1911 issue of Good Housekeeping​ magazine has a snickerdoodle recipe with raisins in it.

1911 - Cook Book of the Ladies Village Improvement Society of East Hampton, Long Island calls their snickerdoodle recipe a "Pennsylvania Dutch" dish, and calls for running the raisins through a meat grinder.

1914 - The "Home" Cook Book from the Children's Summer Home of Cinnaminson, NJ has recipes for snickerdoodles with and without raisins. 

1916 - The August 1, 1916 issue of The Gas Age magazine has a snickerdoodle recipe that calls for both dates and nuts. 

1917 - the Tried and True Cook Book by the Women's War League of Mexico City has a snickerdoodle recipe that calls for raisins, but suggests that "nuts or shredded cocoanut may be substituted for the raisins." 

1918 - Even the December, 1918 issue of Gleanings in Bee Culture, a magazine for beekeepers, has a snickerdoodle recipe that calls for honey and, you guessed it, raisins.

1920 - The Home-maker's Cook Book by Mabel Marie Horton snickerdoodle recipe calls for currants, instead of raisins.

1920 - the July, 1920 issue of Gas And Electric News has a snickerdoodle recipe that calls "dates or raisins" AND nuts "peanuts are good!"

1922 - the Delta Gamma Cook Book snickerdoodle recipe calls for currants, instead of raisins.

1922 - the Kato Cook Book snickerdoodle recipe also calls for currants.

Not everyone was on the raisin train. The A.A. Cook Book (1895), The Home-Maker (April, 1889), Good Living and How to Prepare It (1905), Recipes Collected by the Ladies of the Presbyterian Church of Kingston, Penn'a (1907), Tried and True: A Collection of Approved Recipes (1907), The Bon Ton Cook Book (1909), Two Hundred Recipes for Making Desserts (1912), The Skaneateles Cook Book (1915), and The Cooking Club Magazine (July, 1916) all have snickerdoodle recipes without raisins, currants, dates, or any other ingredients other than cinnamon and sugar (usually).

Snickerdoodles themselves don't seem to enter the lexicon under that name until 1895, which was the earliest recipe I could find under that name. I find it interesting that the two 19th century recipes I could find do not call for raisins or currants, but by the time we're in the 20th century, they do. This might have something to do with the proliferation of the seedless raisin industry in California at the end of the 19th century. Today, nearly all table grapes and raisins sold in the US are seedless, based in large part on the viticulture and research of William Thompson in the 19th century. It was he who developed seedless grapes and introduced them to California in the late 19th century. California's mild temperatures made it ideal for growing grapes, and its many days of sunshine made turning grapes into raisins simple and economical. 

Prior to Thompson's innovations, most raisins were sold with the seeds inside. They had to be laboriously "stoned," or cut open to remove the seeds. This was a time-consuming and labor-intensive task, usually reserved only for special occasions or the households of the wealthy. Thompson's seedless raisins removed all of that work, making it far easier to cook and bake with raisins. 

The introduction of this new type of raisin is probably why we see their proliferation as an ingredient in snickerdoodles, among other recipes. 

I decided to try a raisin-based snickerdoodle recipe myself. The F.W. McNess' Cook Book, published in the 1920s, is one from my personal library, and the first snickerdoodle recipe I initially found. McNess was a spice and flavoring company. So I decided to give it a go.

Here's the original recipe, as written:

1 cup Light Brown Sugar,
1 Egg,
1/2 cup Chopped Raisins,
2 cups Flour
2 tablespoons Butter,
1/2 cup Milk,
2 teaspoons McNess Baking Powder
Sugar and McNess Cinnamon

Drop by spoonfuls and sprinkle with sugar and cinnamon. Nuts or cocoanut may be substituted for raisins.

Not many directions in that one! But I know the general rule for cookies. I creamed the sugar and butter together, added the egg, then the flour and baking powder, then the milk, and lastly currants, because I didn't have any raisins and was too lazy to chop them anyway. I dropped them onto a greased cookie sheet, dredged a mix of granulated sugar and ground cinnamon over top, and popped them in a 350 F oven for 10-12 minutes, until they were golden brown around the edges. 

The end result? Not too shabby, but it definitely would have been better without the raisins/currants. They have more of a tea cake texture than a chewy sugar cookie. And sprinkling the cinnamon and sugar on top was not super effective. Perhaps bakers in the early 20th century were trying to be more old-fashioned? More in line with currant-based tea cakes or scones? Maybe they were just reveling in the opportunity to bake with raisins without having to spend an hour picking out all the seeds first? Who knows? 

At any rate, although I do enjoy raisins (and currants) quite a bit, I think it's safe to say that snickerdoodles are better off without them. What do you think? Would you eat snickerdoodles if they had raisins in them?

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​
Rømmegrøt is a Norwegian immigrant food that has been part of my life for a very long time. When I was just a baby, my mom told me, she took me to the big annual summer Scandinavian Festival in my hometown. My Grandma Ruby (mom's mom) was visiting and unbeknownst to mom, fed me some rømmegrøt. I was apparently hooked from the start.

Rømmegrøt has all the makings of a good baby food, and is often associated with births and holiday celebrations. Rømmegrøt is a type of flour and cream porridge. Very thick and smooth and rich, it's typically served at Christmastime here in the U.S., although historically it was also served at midsummer and other special occasions. Serious stick-to-your-ribs food, it joins a long line of other, grain-based pudding type dishes throughout Europe. 

In Norway, it is often left out on Christmas Eve as a treat for the nisse - the red-capped house elf who cares for animals and the home during the winter months. Artist Lennart Helje made some of the most famous tomte/nisse paintings around. Nisse are said to be friends with all animals, with special affinity for cats. But I love the Helje paintings featuring foxes the best.

Rømmegrøt in Norway was typically made with soured cream and was more often served with dried meats than cinnamon and sugar (a much later addition). In fact, if we break down the word we get "rømme" or sour cream and "grøt" or porridge. Modern Norwegian recipes usually call for dairy sour cream today. But they have a very different flavor from the kind I grew up with. 

As my mother pointed out, rømmegrøt is easy to make, calorie-rich, and tastes special without costing that much. Typically reserved for very special occasions like Christmas, midsummer, and births, rømmegrøt was also used as a food for new mothers to help build up their strength, which makes sense considering how rich-tasting it is.

In the United States, ready access in the late 19th and early 20th century to refined white flour and sugar made rømmegrøt easy and cheap to make if you kept dairy cows, like my great-grandparents on my mom's side of the family. It's not clear why Scandinavian Americans stopped using sour cream, but my guess is that because most American dairy farmers were sending their milk to cooperative dairies, instead of processing it at home, they had far more access to heavy cream than sour cream. In fact, both sets of my mom's grandparents were dairy farmers, and during the Great Depression, the "cream check" from the dairy was often the only thing keeping the family in store-bought goods. The cows, chickens, and huge kitchen gardens did the bulk of the heavy lifting in feeding families of 11 and 10 children, respectively. 

Although I have eaten rømmegrøt many a time at Scandinavian heritage festivals, those are few and far between out here in the Northeast. So I decided to try my hand at making rømmegrøt from scratch. I decided to use a recipe from the 90th Anniversary Elim Lutheran Church Cookbook, which was the church my grandfather (dad's dad) was pastor at for decades.

This recipe comes from Nellie Anderson and Erna Tronsgard - two ladies I never met, but likely my grandmother Eunice (who also contributed a recipe to this cookbook) knew well. Here's their original recipe:

1 pint heavy cream
1 cup boiling milk
1/2 cup flour

Bring the cream to a boil and boil for 10 min. Sift in flour, reduce heat and stir until thick. In a few minute the butter will separate - remove this and save. Add milk which has been brought to boiling, add a little at a time, stirring hard. This will get smooth. This will get smooth. Now add 1 tablespoon sugar and 1/4 teaspoon salt. Ladle in dishes, top with cinnamon, sugar, and the butter that was cooked out.

With only three cups of liquid I knew this recipe wouldn't make much, and I wanted to make a big batch, so I doubled the recipe:
1 quart heavy cream (4 cups)
2 cups boiling milk
1 cup flour

I found a few tiny issues with this recipe. The first one is that 1 cup flour seemed like too much, so feel free to make it a scant cup, or add more hot milk. The other is that as you are boiling the cream, you have to keep stirring or it will boil over!

Once you add the flour, you're essentially making a type of roux, which is why a sauce whisk comes in very handy for this type of thing. The key is to keep stirring ​as it keeps cooking and then all of a sudden the mixture will "break" and the butter will automatically cook out by itself! Let the butter keep cooking out and use a deep spoon or small ladle to remove as much as you can (reserve the melted butter for topping later). Then add the hot milk and beat vigorously until smooth - it will look like a very thick white sauce. Then add the salt and sugar which are listed in the instructions, but not the "top" of the recipe measurements. Because the recipe was written by home cooks, not polished, published professionals!

As you can see, mine turned out VERY thick, and it will only thicken more as it sits. I had JUST enough milk left (trying to eat down the fridge before going out of town for the holidays), but I would add more in the future. 

Serve it warm or hot with cinnamon and sugar (pre-mixed is best) and traditionally it's also served with some of the melted butter on top. I find that to be too rich, for me. I like a lot of cinnamon and sugar with mine, as this is not really sweetened at all. But it's nice for people to be able to add theirs to taste. 

No lie, I added more cinnamon and sugar to this bowl after tasting, because even though the recipe calls for a smidge of sugar, it's really not sweet at all. And this is about the serving size you want at it is extremely rich. But some folks like to add the butter back as a topping, and if you were living in dark, frigid, 18th century Norway, you'd probably want all the extra fat you could get in your diet. However, the butter is always too much for me. I've yet to find a decent use for the leftover semi-clarified butter, however. Maybe I just need to use it on bread! Or maybe lefse? But that's a Scandinavian treat tale for another day.

My mother-in-law, who had never had it before, said the flavor reminded her of rice pudding, which it does - creamy and thick and cinnamon-sugary. And rice pudding is super common in Norway and other Scandinavian countries at Christmastime. But rømmegrøt is much older, as rice was not imported to Scandinavia until the 18th century. 

To me, it tasted of nostalgia. Made me think of summer Scandinavian festivals, but still tasted like Christmas and the Midwest. With the advent of central heat, rømmegrøt is definitely not an everyday food, but it still connects us to the past in a way that reading about it never quite does. 

Have you ever had rømmegrøt? What Christmas food traditions in your family bring back fond memories or connect you to your heritage?

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It's Thanksgiving! So I thought I'd do another deep dive into a little cookbook I got years ago (here's the last one). This time I thought I'd tackle one of my favorite pies - pecan pie - by my favorite First Lady - Eleanor Roosevelt.

Pecan pie is a perennial Thanksgiving favorite, but it is actually a very recent addition, dating back only to the late 19th century at the earliest. But it was popularized in the early 20th century, thanks in part, perhaps, to Eleanor Roosevelt.

Eleanor Roosevelt was not famed for her cooking prowess, or her palate. About a decade ago I toured Val Kill Cottage in Hyde Park, NY - Eleanor Roosevelt's private refuge away from her mother-in-law. Unfortunately the tour guide I had was an older gentleman with a folksy air and a rather misogynistic take on Eleanor - he gleefully recounted her inability to cook anything other than scrambled eggs and toast, and her obsession with denying poor Franklin the foods he loved. 

Franklin and Eleanor's opposing ideas about food represented the two warring food trends of the 1930s - between epicures concerned about disappearing regional foodways, and home economists bent on providing nutritious and low-cost meals in the face of the Great Depression. Franklin was an epicure who wanted to eat well and expensively - filet mignon, salmon, caviar. After attending boarding school in London, Eleanor had worked in a settlement house in New York City - she had been educated as many wealthy young women at the time, but after much tragic loss in her childhood, she was determined to chart a different course than the brainless society debutant so familiar at the time. Although she taught dance and calisthenics at the settlement house - not nutrition - she likely absorbed some of the ideas about nutrition and home economics from that experience. 

The New Yorker did an excellent article several years ago on these competing trends of the 1930s. Unfortunately for Franklin's refined appetites, Eleanor and the home economists won. The USDA founded the Department of Home Economics in 1923 (likely inspired by the development of Home Bureaus to answer to Farm Bureaus in World War I). And when the Great Depression hit, Eleanor didn't want the White House to maintain a slate of menus more reflective of the Gilded Age opulence than the financial reality of most Americans. Her menus balanced nutrition and price - but flavor was low on the priority list. White House head cook Henrietta Nesbitt agreed, and made famously bad meals. The White House was no longer a place to enjoy good cooking at political banquets. Instead, it reflected the worst of home economists' opinions on food, taste, and morality. 

Eleanor's notorious lack of interest in food is why I was surprised to see this recipe in the above cookbook, Hollis Pantry Secrets, published in 1946 in Hollis, a community in Queens, NY. Of course, there were a number of famous people in the cookbook, including Elizabeth Trump. But Eleanor didn't have much of a connection to Queens. She grew up visiting her grandmother in Tivoli, NY (far north on the Hudson River), her uncle Theodore Roosevelt's home in Oyster Bay, NY (way out on Long Island), and then her husband's family home in Hyde Park, NY. Did she know someone who was organizing the cookbook? Or was her submission the same she sent to community cookbooks around the country? 

​Let's take a look at the recipe:

3 eggs.
1 cup brown sugar.
1 tbsp butter.
1 cup corn syrup.
1 cup pecans. 
1 tsp. vanilla.
a few grains of salt.

Cream butter and sugar and add syrup, well-beaten eggs, salt, and vanilla. When mixed add the finely chopped pecans and turn into a pie-plate lined with pastry. 

Bake in a modern oven until firm.

Walnuts may be substituted.

The recipe itself is simple and the prose spare and uncomplicated - reflective of Eleanor's personality and beliefs. 

It was not uncommon for first ladies of all levels, from Governor on up, to have a special recipe to share with constituents when asked. In fact, this cookbook also includes a recipe from Mrs. Thomas E. Dewey (wife of New York governor Thomas Dewey) for soybean cookies - far less palatable than pecan pie, that's for sure! It strikes me that this recipe was likely was the one Eleanor used at home. But why pecan pie? 

A friend of mine is a historian who specialized in Eleanor Roosevelt history when she worked for the National Park Service. Her theory is that all the time the Roosevelts spent in Warm Springs, Georgia may have influenced Eleanor's decision to use a pecan pie recipe rather than a more typically New York recipe that reflected her Dutch origins. 

The history of pecan pie is a bit murky. Some sources claim it dates back to the French colonial days of Louisiana. Pecans are native to the lower Mississippi River valley (including Louisiana), eastern Texas, and northern Mexico. But they did not come into commercial cultivation in the United States until the 1880s. Although pecans show up in cookbooks and magazines as part of the nut course for fancy dinners throughout the 19th century, they are used in very few published recipes prior to the 1890s. Pecan meal shows up in a pie crust recipe from the John Harvey & Ella Kellogg's Health Reformer magazine in 1894, but the Kelloggs routinely used nuts as meat and grain substitutes. While popular, their recipes weren't exactly standard household fare.

The earliest known recipe for "pecan pie" comes from Harper's Bazaar in 1886, which calls for the pecans to be cooked in milk and then added to a "rich custard" baked in a pie crust. Not quite the same as our modern incarnation. Sarah Tyson Rorer's column in the July, 1898 issue of The Ladies Home Journal includes a recipe for "Texas Pecan Pie" from Mrs. M. B. which sounds very familiar, except for the addition of an egg white meringue on top! The meringue persists on top of pecan pie; the 1901 Twentieth-Century Cook Book says to bake it in a "rich paste" (a.k.a. pie crust) like a custard. The October, 1910 issue of Good Housekeeping also calls for pecan pie with meringue. The San Francisco Bulletin's cookbook, published in 1917, also calls for meringue in a recipe submitted by Mrs. H. J. Warner. The June 3, 1915 issue of The Wisconsin Agriculturalist includes a recipe for a strange mashup between pecan pie and lemon meringue pie - calling for just a half a cup of pecan nutmeats and the juice of one lemon in addition to the egg white meringue. Notes on the Early History of the Pecan in America, published in 1919 by USDA scientist Rodney True, includes a whole section on pecan recipes furnished by the president of the Texas Pecan Growers' Association, including the now-familiar recipe with meringue, but also a molasses-based pecan pie recipe which seems much closer to the corn syrup modern version we're familiar with today. 

Pecan pie remained fairly rare, however, as in 1924 even the National Pecan Exchange News expressed disbelief. Their Domestic Science Department wrote:

"Who ever heard of making pie out of nuts?" This is what we said when we saw a recipe in the Country Gentleman a recipe contributed by Mrs. Bessie Underwood, Denton, Texas for pecan pie. The novelty of the thing appealed to our appetite; and, having resolved not to risk another recipe on our readers without having either Miss A. B. Degree's stamp of approval or having tried it ourselves, we left an order with our chef to have one done according to the recipe appended below. We have passed through all the stages of boyhood's favoritism for green apple pie, gooseberry pie, blueberry pie, mince pie, cherry pie, and had reached man's estate with a settled preference for lemon pie. We claim we know a good pie when we set our remaining teeth in one. The Pecan pie was the surprise of our life. Mother was a cook unexcelled, but, verily, mother never made anything like this. Try it. 

The recipe included calls for a scant 1/2 cup of pecans and meringue. 

The earliest recipes for pecan pie using corn syrup arrive in the 1920s. One comes from Marian Cole Fisher's Handbook of Cookery, published in 1927. Like its earlier molasses-based ancestors, this recipe does NOT call for meringue. Another earlier recipe, from 1925's 800 Proved Pecan Recipes, is titled "Molasses Pie," but then goes on to describe a pecan pie made with Karo (corn) syrup - nary a drop of molasses in sight. 

​Corn syrup production dates to the late 19th century, and in 1902 Karo syrup was introduced, in a variety of flavors. Created by the Corn Products Refining Company (along with Mazola corn oil and Argo corn starch), Karo became popular enough that the brand name came to mean "corn syrup" in many households. There were three types - blue label, which was dark and caramelly; green label, which was maple-flavored, and red label, which was light-colored and often flavored with vanilla. Eventually the green label was dropped and dark and light corn syrup began to be referred to without the label color, although Karo brand still uses those colors today.

Initially, Karo syrup was marketed primarily as a substitute for maple syrup, and advertisements usually showed it being used on pancakes and waffles. The primary recipe of the early 20th century that featured Karo syrup was divinity fudge. Company lore indicates that pecan pie made with Karo syrup was invented by a company executive's wife in 1931. But as we've seen, Karo syrup was used in pecan pie as early as 1925. And I found this 1928 newspaper article from Nowata Oklahoma, which has a recipe for "Karo Pecan Pie" shared by a cooking school instructor as a "variation on custard pie." In January, 1931, Mrs. A. U. Given got her "Karo Pecan Pie" recipe printed in the Elizabethton, Tennessee newspaper. In February & March, 1931, Mrs. Frank Herring's "Karo Pecan Pie" was shared as a "Favorite Recipe" in newspapers throughout Oklahoma and Mississippi. By 1931-32, there were "Karo Pecan Pie" categories in county fairs, in reports of committee meetings, and even on restaurant menus. A 1931 pie contest in Shawnee, Oklahoma contained a number of pecan pie entries (with recipes!), and multiple nut pie recipes, not all of which called for Karo syrup, although the second-place winner was a pecan pie that used karo syrup. It was clear, however, that "Karo pecan pie" was becoming increasingly popular, alongside un-branded pecan and other nut pies. ​

Franklin Delano Roosevelt was diagnosed with polio in 1921 (although modern medical experts now think it may have been Guillain-Barré syndrome). In 1924, he visited Warm Springs, Georgia, hoping that the natural springs there might help cure his paralysis. The waters offered no permanent cure, but the buoyancy allowed him to stand for the first time, and the warmth and a regimen of swimming soon increased his strength, especially in his legs. A nationally syndicated article featuring him and his health struggles soon brought polio patients from around the country to Warm Springs in hopes of a cure. Franklin returned every year from 1924 on (except for 1942, when he was dealing with WWII). In 1932, while still governor of New York, he and Eleanor built a cottage in Warm Springs, Georgia that later became known as "The Little White House." 

The interactions the Roosevelts had in Warm Springs, GA influenced their public lives and public policy. In 1936, FDR commissioned the Eleanor Roosevelt School in Warm Springs, with funding from the Rosenwald Fund, which built quality schools for African American children in the rural south. It was last Rosenwald school to be built.

Warm Springs was known for its hot springs more than anything else, but it was in the middle of pecan grove country, and is likely where the Roosevelts first encountered pecan pie, especially since they often celebrated Thanksgiving there.

On November 29, 1930, shortly after Thanksgiving, the residents of Warm Springs treated FDR to a possum hunt and dinner. The dinner included pecan pie, and both Franklin and Eleanor were present.

Eleanor spent less time in Warm Springs than Franklin, but she was there for Thanksgiving in 1938 and again in 1939, as she recounted in her nationally syndicated newspaper column, "My Day."

November 23, 1939 - WARM SPRINGS, Ga., Thursday—Here we are in Georgia celebrating Thanksgiving Day, but I do not know how many of my readers will be celebrating it on this same day! Just for my own satisfaction I am going to put down some of the things for which I am grateful, and for which I will willingly be thankful on both the 23rd and the 30th if necessary.

I am thankful that I live in a democracy and that it is in the United States of America. I am thankful we are not at war. I am thankful that more of our citizens are thinking about their government today and are realizing their obligations to that government.

I am thankful that I can think as I please, and write as I please and act as I please, within certain limits which guard these same liberties for other citizens. I am thankful that in this country, courage can still dominate fear. I am thankful for the answering smile of the passer-by, and the laughter of children in our streets.

Even here in Warm Springs, where many people are facing handicaps which must give them moments of stark terror when they are alone, they can still manage to meet the world with a smile and give one the feeling of a marching army with banners flying.

Do you remember my mentioning a manuscript written by a blind woman who learned to live alone? Now I have been asked to go to see her. The book had so much courage in it that even though I am half afraid of shattering an illusion, I think I will take a chance and go. We always picture to ourselves what kind of person it is who has written something we like, and are a little afraid we may not like the real person as well. Yet I may find a new friend, which is always a delightful experience.

It is a curious sensation to be putting on summer clothes again and adding a few days to a season you felt was over for another year. At this season down here there is always a tang and a sharpness in the air of the Georgia hills, in spite of soft breezes and warm sunshine, and walks in the woods are a never ending joy.

There are two swimming pools here, one in which the patients take their exercise, the other in which they play. If ever you feel creeping over you a sense of impatience with the work you have to do, which may be somewhat monotonous and slow in showing results, just come down here and stand around the exercise pool for a while, then go out to see a light-hearted game of ball after the work is over. Day in and day out for months, perhaps for years, this exercise work must go on. If watching this does nothing more for you, it will make you feel you should never be sorry for yourself.

Whichever day you celebrate Thanksgiving, my wish for you is that you may have something to be thankful for no matter how dark your clouds may be, and above all may hope and faith in the future always be with you.

E. R.

The following day, on November 24, 1939, Eleanor recounted actual Thanksgiving, but with no mention of her own Thanksgiving dinner, or whether or not they had pecan pie:

November 24, 1939 - Thanksgiving Day in WARM SPRINGS, Ga.—A blue sky overhead, a warm sun, and yet enough chill in the air to make a brisk walk pleasant. In the evening, a great log fire on the hearth gives added cheer. We are alone for lunch, but tonight we will eat our turkey with the patients and guests in Georgia Hall.

Many messages have come to us this day which warm the heart. I feel each day an increasing gratitude that I am a citizen of the United States at peace and free.

I have just received a little bulletin published by the Washington Electric Cooperative of East Montpelier, Vermont. The bulletin is only two months old, but I predict it will appeal to its circulation. There is a poem glorifying electric lights for rural areas and a practical New England item on a nearby page, which says: "Under the Rural Electrification Administration, lines are being built at a new cost of about $810.00 a mile. Before Rural Electrification Administration days, $1,500 was considered low."

The question and answer department in this little bulletin amused me, particularly the answer to the question: "If I should want to do something to my wire, is it all right if I put a ladder on the pole and turn off the transformer?" The answer ran: "It is a convenient way out. In order to save trouble for your family we suggest that you make the funeral arrangements first and leave a note for the police so that they will not think it was murder."

I think we all enjoy keeping in touch with the human side of the REA movement. Like all other things which the Department of Agriculture has a hand in these days, there is a conservation side to rural electrification which affects the lives of human beings. Men and women can get more joy and ease out of life when they have electricity to work for them on the farms.

One farm wife in Knox County, Ohio, tells the story of her new electric range and its uses in harvest time. She fed as many as twenty and thirty men at times and her meals were not light luncheons, for farm hands like real food. "Pies and fried chicken and baked beans," writes this farmer's wife, "were what I served." Yet her monthly bills with all this cooking never amounted to more than $6.57. Besides the range she had a radio, electric lights, a washing machine and an ironer and her farmer husband uses electricity on his corn shellers, emery wheel and cream separator. If this isn't a story of a better life on a farm, then I do not know what it is.

E.R.

Eleanor's mention of the Rural Electrification Act (REA) while in Warm Springs was likely not an accident. Some historians speculate that FDR's encounter with high electricity prices in Warm Springs was one of the inspirations for the Act, along with other New Deal policies.

Eleanor would not write her column from Warm Springs for another two decades. Devastatingly, she was not there on April 12, 1945, when he died of a massive stroke  in The Little White House in Warm Springs. Instead she briefed Vice President Harry Truman on her husband's death, and then flew south to make funeral arrangements.

Whether or not Eleanor was thinking of her husband's love of Warm Springs and Georgia when she submitted a pecan pie recipe to the "Hollis Pantry Secrets" cookbook in 1946 we may never know. But it wasn't the first time she had submitted a pecan pie recipe to a community cookbook. As early as 1934, she was sending pecan pie recipes out upon request, and referencing pecan pie as being served at the White House.

There was also a recipe circulating called "White House Pecan Pie" as early as 1938. Was this Eleanor's recipe? Well, maybe? But more likely it was named after White House Brand pecans, as the recipe is not an exact match for Eleanor's.

But if Eleanor was not much of a cook, who came up with the pecan pie recipe? Well, we may never know its true origin, but the recipe Eleanor submitted to newspapers and "Hollis Pantry Secrets" is almost verbatim the pecan pie recipe White House cook and housekeeper Henrietta Nesbitt published in her 1951 cookbook, The Presidential Cookbook: Feeding the Roosevelts and Their Guests. 

I find it ironic that the much-maligned housekeeper and wife who tried to keep Franklin in simple, low-calorie foods would propagate one of the richest pie recipes out there for the general public. Still, it's easy to see why pecan pie became such a national favorite in the early 20th century - it's one of my favorites, too! 

Of course, my encounters with pecan pie were largely by accident. My mom once told me that when she and my dad were first married, my dad's mother made pecan pie for Thanksgiving. Because my mom's family were living in Ohio, Grandma mistakenly thought they were from the South, and made pecan pie to make Mom feel more at home. Of course, Mom had only moved to Ohio her senior year in high school and was, in fact, born in the upper Midwest. Still, it was a sweet gesture, and one that I appreciated, as pecan pie became a regular Thanksgiving player, and by extension my favorite as a child.

What kind of pie is your favorite? What will you be having for Thanksgiving? 

​If you'd like to read more about Warm Springs, GA and its connection to the Roosevelts, check out the book Hi'ya, Neighbor by Ruth Stevens, published in 1947 and containing first-person accounts of Warm Springs during the Roosevelts' tenure. Happy reading!

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A few weeks ago I found myself in used bookstore heaven. Catnap Books in Schoharie, NY is a classically old-fashioned bookstore. Tucked away in the back by the office was heaven - four full shelves of cookbooks, the vast majority of them vintage ones. I easily spent $100 that day and could have spent more. One of the books I bought was Rain, Hail, and Baked Beans: A New England Seasonal Cook Book by Duncan MacDonald and Robb Sagendorph. Originally published in 1958, it's one of my favorite styles of cookbooks - a vintage, scratch cookbook that hearkens back to an earlier time. There are nine chapters for each of the NINE seasons of New England (not four, not six), which I loved. Much more sensible. And for those who are interested in the history of early 20th century inns and food tourism, there's an index of New England Inns and their recipes in the back, too. 

I've talked before about why Americans all over the country think of New England when they think of fall, but being in such close proximity to it (New York is ALMOST New England), I can appreciate the sentiments. When I opened the book for a read-through, I was pleasantly surprised to see that the first chapter was "Early Fall" - clearly the authors thought fall was the best time in New England back then, too. 

It's a quick and delightful read, although some of the recipes seem more 1950s-flavored than 18th or 19th century. I turned to it when I had a little dilemma I wanted to solve. I had leftover homemade applesauce I needed to use up before it started to ferment in the fridge, so I wanted a classic applesauce spice cake recipe. And since I love putting fruit in things, I wanted to add blackberries. Last year I made apple blackberry crumble, which was divine, but I felt like something different this time around. ​

This recipe was a fairly classic spice cake recipe, but I liked that the immediately previous recipe calls for cooking apples to make your own sauce, which I appreciated, having done the exact same thing not quite a week earlier. Here's the verbatim:

1 teaspoon baking soda
1 tablespoon warm water
1 cup applesauce, unsweetened
1/2 cup sugar
1/2 teaspoon cloves
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon nutmeg
1/2 cup butter
1 teaspoon vanilla
1/2 cup molasses
2 cups flour, sifted
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup seedless raisins, chopped
1/2 cup walnuts

Dissolve soda in water and stir into applesauce. Mix sugar and spices. Cream sugar mixture and butter. Stir in applesauce and vanilla. Add molasses, then stir in flour sifted with salt, raisins, and walnuts. Bake in a greased 9-inch tube pan in a moderate oven (350 F) for 40 minutes.

I made a few modifications for my recipe, the two largest being substituting blackberries for the raisins and walnuts, and not baking it in a tube pan, because all I had was a bundt pan, and that's not quite the same thing. 

I also realized halfway through that I didn't have enough molasses - only about a 1/4 cup. Unwilling to run to the store, I rinsed the bottle with a little hot water, and filled the rest with maple syrup. This made the batter rather runnier than it probably should have been, but the molasses also gave the cake an intense molasses flavor which drowned out the apples entirely. 

Because the cake was so moist and because I baked it in a 9" round pan, instead of a cake pan, I baked it for quite a bit longer than 40 minutes - it ended up being over 60 minutes until the cake sprang back properly when touched, and even then it was very soft in the center still. 

Despite being more molasses-y than I would have liked, and moister than it was probably supposed to be, it still turned out deliciously, and was a huge hit with my husband, for whom dry cake is anathema. It definitely had all the right flavors for fall and New England and as a bonus, it used up both the homemade applesauce in my fridge and a carton of blackberries languishing in there, too. And what better way to honor New England food traditions than to be frugal and not let autumn produce go to waste? 

What do you think - is this a cake you would like to try? Have you read Rain, Hail, and Baked Beans? If you haven't, luckily for you HathiTrust has digitized the whole thing. Happy reading!

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I call this old-fashioned baked applesauce custard because while it's not from a historic recipe, it does hearken back to several styles of historic recipes. Its antecedents are:

• baked apple custard - where whole or halved apples are baked with a custard poured around them
• Marlborough Pie - a wine and lemon-flavored applesauce pie with cream
• applesauce custard - essentially applesauce served with a pouring custard, with or without whipped egg white topping
• apple custard pie - applesauce and an egg custard baked in a pie crust
• apple snow - stewed apples pureed and mixed with beaten egg whites and sugar

Apples plus dairy seem to be a recurring theme, and while apple crisp with ice cream and apple pie with whipped cream are a delight, I wanted to try something a little different. Enter, baked apple custard.

As you may have noticed, I've been on an apple kick lately, and this custard just doesn't disappoint. I had most of a quart jar of homemade applesauce in my fridge that needed using up as I hadn't canned it, and it had been made over a week ago. If you leave applesauce in the fridge long enough, it will start to ferment! And I didn't want that work to go to waste. I also felt like cooking something a bit more dessert-y than just eating plain applesauce with a little maple syrup or cream. This recipe is a mash-up of two, mainly - an applesauce custard pie recipe, and crustless custards. It was an experiment that turned out eminently delightful.

This recipe starts with a very simple applesauce recipe, although you can use unsweetened store-bought applesauce if you prefer. But I liked the chunky kind, like my mom used to make. Start with apples you like. Most modern dessert apples will not need sweetening. Peel them, quarter, and cut out the cores (I use a sharp paring knife to make a V-shape around the seeds, like my mom used to do). Slice them lengthwise into a pot and cook over medium-low heat, uncovered, stirring occasionally. If the apples seem dry, add two tablespoons of water to get them started. The bottom ones will cook into mush, and the ones closer to the top will stay firmer. If you prefer, you can mix cooking apples like McIntosh with a crisper apple like Honeycrisp or Gala to get the same result. I used a mixture of Gingergolds, Golden Supremes, and Winesaps - some of my favorite locally available apples. Once all the apples are fork-tender or sauce, et your applesauce cool fully, and you're ready to start the recipe.

2 eggs
1/3 cup sugar or maple syrup
1 tsp. cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 tbsp. flour
1 cup milk
1 1/2 cups homemade, unsweetened applesauce

Preheat the oven to 350 F. Grease a glass pie plate generously with butter, and flour it (sprinkle with flour and tap and rotate the pie plate to coat it with a thin layer of flour - discard any extra, or use it in the recipe). In a large bowl with a pouring spout, whisk the eggs, sugar, cinnamon, and salt together until well-combined. Add the flour and whisk well to prevent lumps. Then stir in milk and applesauce. Pour into the buttered and floured pie plate, and carefully place in the oven. Cook 30-40 minutes or until the center is set. The top will be sticky. Let it cool slightly and serve warm, or chill and serve cold. 

This recipe is easy to double, like I did, but the high applesauce ratio means it's very soft and delicious, but it won't cut up into a nice, neat pie slices (as you'll see below). Better to make it in a pretty oval baking dish and serve with a large spoon instead of in slices. It doesn't need it, but add some whipped cream if you're so inclined.​

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​Welcome to The Food Historian's 31 Days of Halloween extravaganza. Between social media (Facebook, Instagram, Twitter) and this blog, I'll be sharing vintage Halloween content nearly every day this month!

If you're a fan of Halloween and all things vintage, you've probably heard of Dennison's Bogie Books. Launched in 1909 by the Dennison paper products company, which specialized in crepe paper, the Bogie Books became hugely popular for their ideas for parties, costumes, and yes, menus. 

The idea of direct-to-consumer advertising was starting to take off in the 1900s, and certainly food companies were capitalizing on corporate cookbooklets at this time. But Dennison's was one of the first companies to issue what they called "instruction books," but which were more like idea books. Chock full of ideas for table crafts, games, costumes, decorating, party organizing, and menus, they were a one-stop shop for all things Halloween. Nearly all the ideas incorporated Dennison's products, which branched out from just black and orange crepe paper to more elaborate decorations, like printed paper tablecloths and napkins, paper plates, printed crepe paper "borders," die cut figures, and more. 

The popularity of Halloween parties exploded in the 1920s. Long popular among young adults looking for romance, postwar they shifted to include children and adults, too. 

Dennison's had been printing Art and Decoration in Crepe and Tissue Paper since 1894 (here's the 1917 edition, complete with colorful samples of crepe and tissue paper). But the 1909 Bogie Book was one of its first forays into a single holiday booklet, although others for Christmas, galas, and other holidays would follow in the 1920s. The Bogie Book, however, was the only one to be printed annually, and illustrates just how popular Halloween had become in the United States. 

Dennison's bread and butter was paper decorations and colored crepe paper. More than any other holiday except perhaps Christmas, decorations were an integral part of Halloween celebrations. Popularized in the late Victorian era, home Halloween parties were increasingly common in the 1910s and 1920s. Dressing up your living room (like below) and other more mundane parts of the house was crucial, and Dennison's promised loads of ideas for themes and instructions for making your own decorations, in addition to purchasing their ready-made stock. 

In addition to parties at home, increasingly people were throwing more public parties. Halloween was traditionally a time for young love, and it was the perfect opportunity to get young people together. Public parties could be held in church basements, public halls, fraternal organizations, and schools. Bogie Books included hints not only in decorating these larger spaces, but also advice for spooky entrances, harmless tricks, and group games. 

Of course, what was a party without a costume? But Halloween costumes in the 1910s and 1920s were not much like today's. Although classic Halloween archetypes like witches, bats, pirates, pierrot and harlequin figures, and fortune tellers were popular for more obvious costumes, simply dressing in black and orange with spooky figures or motifs was enough for most people. The silhouettes of the day were largely maintained. Sometimes more abstract themes, like "Night" or "The Moon" or "A Star" might allow the fashionable young lady to put in a little more effort while still feeling pretty.

​In the above image, three young women feature variations on the same 1920s party dress silhouette - one is festooned with orange stripes and ribbons of crepe paper hang from her waist and festoon a hat, with jack-o'-lantern images bobbing at the ends of the streamers. Another is dressed as "The Moon" - with a large silver crescent moon on her head and a black dress and gray cape spangled with more crescent moons and stars - orange streamers hang from her waist. Another goes with a pumpkin theme - wearing an orange bodice with a dagged peplum, a black dress featuring orange jack-o'-lanterns, and long black sleeves with dagged cuffs and black ribbed cape with capelet and a huge stiff collar. Her ensemble is topped with a black cap featuring a festoon of orange leaves. A little girl is also pictured, wearing a black and orange dress featuring a black cat's face on the bodice and a black and orange cap with long ears or leaves protruding from the top. Alas, the men's costumes are less flattering - large, formless tunics and hats worn over their regular button-up shirts and ties. One is dressed as the moon - with the tunic featuring an enigmatic-looking full man-in-the-moon and a tall cone of a cap with another moon and stars. The other is dressed in a black-trimmed orange tunic featuring a large fringed black-and-orange collar and a smiling jack-o'-lantern as a pocket. He wears a witch's hat covered in small jack-'o-lanterns. 

Each Dennison's Bogie Book included instructions for making each of the pictured costumes from Dennison's crepe paper, printed paper figures, and more. 

Of course, The Food Historian is going to be interested in the menus! Along with all their other suggestions, some issues of Dennison's included sample menus. Although not every Bogie Book contains menus, many do reference food and refreshments. Generally, the suggestions are simple and standard party fare - sandwiches, potato chips, potato salad, simple cakes, donuts, fruit, olives, cheese, nuts, etc. - and rarely are recipes included. The emphasis of the books is on decorating the food, tableware, and tables than the food itself. 

It took a while for the books to gain traction, and the 1909 one didn't get a sequel until 1912. But by then home parties for Halloween were becoming increasingly popular. And Dennison published Bogie Books annually from 1912-1935. Only war (1918) and the Great Depression (1932) stopped their publication. ​

The Dennison Manufacturing Company has a long and interesting history, as it was largely controlled by one family for nearly 100 years. The Dennison company is still around today as Avery-Dennison.

From the Hollis Archives, Harvard University, which holds the Dennison corporate collection:

"The Dennison Manufacturing Company was a manufacturer of consumer paper products such as tags, labels, wrapping paper, crepe paper and greeting cards. The company was founded by Aaron L. Dennison and his father Andrew Dennison in Brunswick, Maine in 1844. Aaron Dennison, who was working in the Boston in the jewelry business, believed he could produce a better paper box than the imported boxes then on the market. The Dennison's first produced boxes made to house jewelry and watches. Aaron Dennison sold the boxes at his store in Boston, beginning in 1850 and in New York starting in 1854. After early business success, Aaron Dennison retired and yielded control of the company to his brother E.W. Dennison.

"The mid to late 19th century saw numerous products introduced by E. W. Dennison, who improved the product so that it became the best and most sought after on the market and under the Dennison name. In order to grow the business, Dennison needed to mechanize the box making process. Dennison introduced the box machine to meet the growing demand of jewelers and watch makers, who began ordering large numbers of boxes. Until the introduction of the box machine, the boxes were still being made one at a time, by hand. The machine mechanized and sped up the box-making process. The company continued to expand, and a larger, centrally located factory was needed. Dennison chose Boston, Mass., as the site of the new factory in order to be close to the city's retail store.

"In 1854, Dennison introduced card stock to hold jewelry and jewelry tags. Dennison's tags became wildly popular and the business began to expand rapidly, from the jewelry industry to textile manufacturers and retail merchants. E.W. Dennison noticed a deficiency in the quality of shipping tags and patented a paper washer that reinforced the hole in the tag. Sales of tags hit ten million in the first year. Stationery gummed labels were introduced just after the end of the Civil War. These labels had an adhesive on the back side and were manufactured to stick on boxes, crates or bags. The tag business alone required E.W. Dennison to move his factory in order to fulfill demand. The boxes, shipping tags, merchandise tags, labels and jeweler's cards were moved to the new factory in Roxbury in 1878. That same year the company was officially incorporated as the Dennison Manufacturing Company.

"In just over thirty years, the company grew from a small jewelry box maker to a large manufacturer of paper products under the direction of E.W. Dennison and his partner and treasurer Albert Metcalf. Dennison died in 1886 and his son, Henry B. Dennison succeeded him as president of the company. Henry B. Dennison had worked for the company for many years, having opened the Chicago store in 1868 and served as superintendent of the factories since 1869. Henry B. Dennison served as president of the company for only six years and resigned due to poor health in 1892. Henry K. Dyer was then elected president, and under his direction the company consolidated its many factories and operations. In 1897, the Dennison Manufacturing Company purchased the Para Rubber Company plant located on the railroad line in Framingham, Mass. The box division was transferred from Brunswick, Maine; the wax and crepe paper operations from the Brooklyn, NY factory; and the labels and tags from the Roxbury plant. The move was complete in 1898 and the factory was up and running. The factory was divided into five manufacturing divisions: first, the jewelry line, which included boxes, cases, display trays; second, the consumers' line of shipping tags, gummed labels, baggage check and specialty paper items; third, the dealers' line which included all stock products sold to dealers and some consumers; fourth, the crepe paper line; and fifth, the holiday line. Also located at the Framingham plant were financial offices, advertising and marketing departments, sales division and director's offices. Although the company was divided into divisions, all aspects of the company worked together in unison to plan and execute the production, marketing, and sale of a product. The Dennison Mfg. Co. planned well in advance of any sale by conducting market research, reviewing past statistics and gauging future interest in products.

"Henry Sturgis Dennison, grandson of the founder, began working for the family business after graduating from Harvard in 1899. He held various jobs at the company including foreman of the wax department and in the factory office. He was promoted to works-manager in 1906, director in 1909 and treasurer in 1912. In 1917, H.S. Dennison was elected president of the company. While serving as president of the company, H.S. Dennison oversaw the international expansion of the firm, consolidation and streamlining of certain processes and procedures, reduction in working hours, implementation of employee profit sharing plans, an unemployment fund and the creation of company wellness facilities. H.S. Dennison was heavily focused on getting the highest quality work out of each of his employees and eagerly sought their advice and suggestions for improving working conditions and manufacturing processes. He employed market analysis and research when venturing into a new sales territory or rolling out a new product. His focus on industrial management led him to be a prolific writer, speaker, and expert advisor on the topic. Outside of his management of the company, he served as an advisor to the administrations of Woodrow Wilson and Franklin Roosevelt and lectured at Harvard Business School. Henry Sturgis Dennison served as president of the Dennison Manufacturing Company until his death in 1952.

"Dennison's long time director of research and vice president, John S. Keir, was elected to succeed him in 1952. Keir only served for a short time, and continued running the company the way Dennison would have. After World War II, an emphasis was placed on manufacturing products that appealed to women, especially housewives. New products included photo corners, picture hangers, stationery, scotch tape, diaper liners and school supply materials for children. During the 1960s and 1970s, the Dennison Manufacturing Company began actively researching new products and proposed acquiring small, competing office product companies with new technologies. This effort was undertaken by president Nelson S. Gifford in order to diversify Dennison's product line, maximize profits for shareholders, and keep the company fresh. In 1975, Dennison acquired the Carter's Ink Company, a Boston, Mass. based manufacturer of ink and writing utensils. This acquisition and others broadened Dennison's product line as the company moved away from paper manufacture to a manufacturer of all office products.

"Dennison Manufacturing Company merged with Avery Products in 1990 to become, Avery-Dennison, a global manufacturer of pressure sensitive adhesive labels and packaging materials solutions."

If you'd like to learn more about Dennison, check out the Harvard collection. 

For more about the history of the family and its products, check out this historical overview from the Framingham, Massachusetts History Center, which holds the Dennison family papers and other collections related to the company. 

The Bogie Books can be hard to find these days. They are collector's items and sadly often disappear from library and archival collections. However, several issues from the 1920s have been digitized and are available for free on disparate locations around the internet. I've collected them here for your viewing and reading pleasure. If you'd like to see the covers for 1912-1925, check out the list at Vintage Halloween Collector. 

Dennison's Bogie Book - 1919 edition

Dennison's Bogie Book - 1920 edition

​Dennison's Bogie Book - 1922 edition

Dennison's Bogie Book - 1923 edition

​Dennison's Bogie Book - 1924 edition

Dennison's Bogie Book - 1925 edition

Dennison's Bogie Book - 1926 edition

Dennison's has also reproduced many of its historic Bogie Books and they are available for sale as print copies. You can find them on Amazon by clicking the links below. If you purchase anything from the links, you'll help support The Food Historian! 

What do you think? Are you inspired to try some vintage decorations for your Halloween party this year? In 2019 I threw my own version of A Very Vintage Halloween party - check it out!

​​The Food Historian blog is supported by patrons on Patreon! Patrons help keep blog posts like this one free and available to the public. Join us for awesome members-only content like free digitized cookbooks from my personal collection, e-newsletter, and even snail mail from time to time! Don't like Patreon? Leave a tip!

For a lot of Norwegian-Americans, sandbakkels (the plural in Norwegian is actually sandbakkelse, but we can Americanize) remind them of Christmas. The crisp, buttery cookies are essentially dense tart shells, similar to shortbread, but more crumbly. Meaning "sand pastry," sandbakkels are baked in special fluted tins and contain either ground almonds or more commonly in the U.S., almond extract. 

Despite the fact that they are usually served plain here in the states, those little tart shells just begged to be filled. So when I was planning my Scandinavian Midsummer Porch Party, I thought they would make the perfect little dessert. The problem was, what recipe to use? 

One of my best-loved talks is on the history of Christmas cookies, and I've got a whole section on Scandinavian ones. So I turned to my former research and remembered the PAGES of sandbakkel recipes from Recipes from Many Lands, a little cookbook of recipes submitted by North Dakota housewives and home economists around the state and published in July, 1927 as Circular 77 of the Agricultural Extension Division of North Dakota State University.

I've clipped all the Sandbakkelse recipes (also Americanized to "Sand Tarts") and posted them below.

The vast majority of these recipes are very similar - almost all call for a mixture of butter and lard, sugar, an egg or two, almond extract, and flour. The instructions are usually quite vague. Some don't even include amounts of flour. Some just say to press into tins and bake. So I decided to take the best advice from all the recipes and the Swedish Sandbakkelse recipe (which actually had measurements for everything) and go from there. 

But first, I had to find my sandbakkel tins! At some point I either stole them from my mother (she always had too many and never used them), but I had a little original box of vintage sandbakkel tins in mint condition hiding in the bottom of a kitchen drawer. Alas, I only had a dozen of them, so I had to make due with the recipe in other ways, which you'll see below. But how cute is this box? With the original hardware store price tag!

The recipe is pretty straightforward, and if you don't have sandbakkel tins, never fear! There's a hack suggested in the historic recipes that I'll outline below.

1 cup softened butter (2 sticks)
1 cup granulated sugar
1 egg
1 teaspoon almond extract
2 cups flour (plus more to knead)

Preheat the oven to 350 F. In a large bowl, cream the butter and the sugar together, then add the egg and extract and mix until smooth. Add the flour, a little at a time, until the dough starts to come together, then knead with the hands until smooth. Take half dollar sized pieces of dough and press into the tart tin, pressing the dough all the way out to the edge of the tin, but not over the edges. Make sure to press well to ensure good fluting. The dough is buttery enough that you won't need to grease the tins.

Place tins on a sheet pan and bake 12-15 minutes or until golden brown. Let cool in the tins. 

Uhoh - you've still got a ton of dough left, and your sandbakkel tin set only came with 12 tins! What do you do? Well dear reader, you follow the advice of those sage 1920s North Dakota farm wives, who maybe didn't have sandbakkel tins either, and you press the dough into a pie plate, and bake it that way. And instead of filling the adorable individual tarts with jam and whipped cream, you fill a whole pie worth and cut it into slices to serve. Easy peasy! You could probably also use muffin tins, in a pinch. But the fluting is the pretty part, so if you can find sandbakkel tins, use them!

I actually took a fair number of photos this time, so enjoy the process via the power of film:

In all, the sandbakkelse were among the easiest of the Scandinavian cookies to make. Which is probably why in Norway they are traditionally the first Christmas cookie that kids help make. But they're not just for Christmas! They were delightful as a summer treat. You could also fill them with pastry cream, fresh fruit, chocolate, or whatever you like! But berry jam and whipped cream felt the most appropriate for Midsummer.

If you'd like to buy your own sandbakkelse tins, Bethany Housewares makes the round kind, and you can get the fancy shapes from Norpro. And if you are a whipped cream fiend like my husband (and to a lesser extent me), and you admired the pretty piping, I can't recommend enough getting a professional, reusable whipped cream dispenser. We love this one. When you factor in buying the heavy cream and the nitrous oxide cartridges, they're not much cheaper than buying the disposable cans, but the whipped cream is some of the best you'll ever taste and you waste a lot less packaging. Plus the cream, once charged, keeps in the fridge for as long as the heavy cream was good. A little shake and it restores to fluffy deliciousness. Happy baking, happy eating!

If you purchase anything from the links, The Food Historian gets a small commission!

​The Food Historian blog is supported by patrons on Patreon! Patrons help keep blog posts like this one free and available to the public. Join us for awesome members-only content like free digitized cookbooks from my personal collection, e-newsletter, and even snail mail from time to time! Don't like Patreon? Leave a tip!

Last year I wrote about North Dakota Caramel Rolls, which have dominated the state in recent years. But funnily enough, although they are less popular now, orange rolls were equally if not more popular when I was growing up. And I found many more references to them in my historic cookbooks. 

Orange rolls in the upper Midwest (mainly Eastern North Dakota, where I grew up, and Minnesota) were popular Sunday brunch staples, although they competed about even with caramel rolls in my neck of the woods. Of course, the kind I grew up with were not made from scratch, but rather the frozen kind made by the Rhodes frozen bread company. They came with a delightful orange cream cheese frosting. But despite being a brunch staple of my Midwestern childhood, I didn't know much about these, and I wanted to try a historic recipe for a brunch of my own. 

The origins of orange rolls and their popularity in the Midwest is, like many things, a bit cloudy. If you search for "history orange rolls" today, you'll likely get a LOT of hits about ALABAMA orange rolls (scroll to the bottom for the links), but nary a one about the Midwestern kind.

Truth be told they don't look like they differ much. A sweet roll dough with orange zest and sugar rolled up like a cinnamon roll and topped with an orange glaze. So why did both Alabama and the Upper Midwest develop a love of orange rolls? Oranges aren't grown in either region. Enter the 1910s and '20s orange craze.

In the 1870s California orange agriculture exploded, and oranges - once an imported wintertime treat - became increasingly available year-round. "Orange fever" struck Florida around the same time, until a big freeze in 1894 and again in 1895 set the industry back on its heels. In the 1920s the industry got a boost from the Florida real estate boom. Cooperatives like the California Orange Growers Exchange began to market nationally using clever advertising techniques. "Sunkist" - a playful spelling of "sun-kissed" - became synonymous with the California Orange Growers co-op, and later became their official name. 

The earliest recipe for what resembled orange rolls comes from Sunkist Recipes, Oranges - Lemons, published by the California Citrus Growers Exchange in 1916. 

"Orange Pinwheels" are essentially baking powder biscuits, rolled thin, spread with butter and sugar mixed with orange juice and zest, then rolled up and sliced, with more sugar sprinkled on top. The Sunkist biscuit-style recipe survives, with or without attribution, in other cookbooks throughout the 1920s and '30s. Often, the biscuit "rolls" are called "orange rolls," not "pinwheels," which makes the research a bit confusing!

The earliest recipe I could find for yeasted orange rolls comes from Mrs. Allen's Cook Book by one of my favorite cookbook authors, Ida Bailey Allen, published in 1917. But even these aren't quite the same as what I was looking for.

Mrs. Allen's "Orange Rolls (5 Hours)" are not actually rolled up rolls - they're more like buns flavored with orange juice and candied orange peel, and then glazed with more orange peel. 

Thankfully, Frances Lowe Smith has our back with her More Recipes for Fifty, published in 1918 and containing several wartime-friendly recipes, including this one for "Orange Rolls," which are to be prepared using a yeasted dough and spread with butter and sugar mixed with orange juice and grated rind and then "rolled like cinnamon rolls." 

The first North Dakota reference I could find is for the biscuit-y kind of orange rolls, in a 1930s North Dakota Agricultural Extension circular. But looking through my cookbook library for vintage midwestern cookbooks, I also found tons of references to orange rolls! Largely from the 1930s and '40s (which is when most of my North Dakota and Minnesota cookbooks date to). I decided to go with this recipe, because it looked fairly easy and definitely quick. No getting up five hours before brunch for these beauties (sorry, Mrs. Allen). Taken from Receiptfully Yours, a community cookbook published by the Ladies' Guild of the Zion Lutheran Church of Duluth, MN, the recipe turned out very nicely!

Although Receiptfully Yours, is undated, I'm guessing it dates from the 1940s, judging by the type and the style of binding. Both the Cinnamon Roll recipe and Orange Roll variation were submitted by Ethel Mathison. I love that they used full names, instead of "Mrs. Husband's Name!" 

Like many orange rolls recipes, this one starts as a recipe for cinnamon rolls, with orange rolls listed as a variation. Interestingly, instead of having an orange glaze or cream cheese frosting, this recipe is listed much like caramel rolls! With a butter-sugar-orange-juice mixture cooked in the bottom of the pan. Here is my slight modernization of the recipe:

- - For the dough - - 
1/2 cup scalded milk
3 tablespoons butter
3 tablespoons sugar
1 1/2 teaspoons salt
1/2 cup cold water
1 envelope quick-rising yeast
1 egg
3 1/4 cups flour

 - - For the filling and glaze - -
3/4 cup sugar
2 tablespoons grated orange zest
2 tablespoons melted butter
3 tablespoons orange juice

Preheat the oven to 375 F. Mix milk, butter, sugar, and salt in a saucepan and heat over medium heat until the butter is just melted. Cool by adding cold water, then add the yeast and egg and beat well. Then add flour and mix until smooth, kneading several times. The dough will be soft. Let the dough rest 15 minutes. Roll the dough out on a floured board (or clean countertop) into a 12" by 18" rectangle. Mix 1/4 cup sugar and 1 tablespoon zest and spread on the dough, then roll as for cinnamon rolls and cut crosswise into 1 inch slices. In a 9"x13" pan, mix 1/2 cup sugar, 2 tablespoons melted butter, 1 tablespoon orange rind, and 3 tablespoons orange juice, then top with the cut dough pieces. Let rise until doubled, then bake for 20 minutes or until golden brown. Flip to serve.

These turned out beautifully, although very sweet! I used some very sweet heirloom navel oranges in the recipe, and something with a little more acidity might have been better. When I make them again, I might take a page from some of the other recipes and moisten the sugar for rolling with a little orange juice, and pick some more sour oranges. I may also bake them a smidge longer. 

Of course, I may also decide to try my hand at some of the other recipes, too!

These rolls are perfect for a weekend brunch, bridal or baby shower, or afternoon treat. Have you ever had orange rolls? How do you take yours? 

And now, as promised, a taste of the rabbit hole I went down in researching this post. The Alabama orange rolls may be more internet famous than the Midwestern ones, but it looks like they laid their claim to fame a bit later - in the 1960s and '70s, to be precise. Read on for more of the back story.

The delectable history behind Birmingham’s famous Orange Rolls

Why the Alabama Orange Roll is a Southern Classic - Southern Living

The sweet story of Millie Ray and her famous orange rolls

​The Food Historian blog is supported by patrons on Patreon! Patrons help keep blog posts like this one free and available to the public. Join us for awesome members-only content like free digitized cookbooks from my personal collection, e-newsletter, and even snail mail from time to time! Don't like Patreon? Leave a tip!