My pet theory about '50s recipes is that they were thought up by subjugated housewives who had few outlets for expressing their bitter feelings toward their situations. Think about it -
Women in the United States in 1950s couldn’t have their own bank accounts, beating your wife was considered normal, and no-fault divorce didn’t exist in the country yet. Women were cloistered at home, made in charge of domestic work and child-rearing, which heavily limited their freedom.
So imagine it: you’re made to spend almost all of your time inside your house, taking care of several kids (because baby boom), and you’re solely in charge of ALL the cleaning and cooking. Your social interaction is largely limited to tupperware parties and events that involve your kids. You have zero time for hobbies. Even if you did, your ability to pursue one would be entirely contingent on whether or not your husband approves - because most hobbies cost money, and your husband has control over that.
Now you’re spending yet another afternoon scrubbing the pitstains out of your husband’s laundry, which smelled oddly like perfume. Moments ago, he phoned you to say that he’s “staying late” again today. Two of your kids decide to start a screeching contest, which scares the baby and now she’s crying. At least your twins are playing outside, not that you have any clue where they are exactly, but you are almost certain that they’ll be home by supper. You’re also almost certain that they’ll come home with salmonella.
“Knock it off!” you yell to the kids, as you pick up the crying baby and pat her on the back. The house returns to peace as her cries become soft mews. You attempt to regain your previous train of thought.
Supper, you think, I’ve still got to plan supper.
You swaddle the baby up in your arms as you walk to the pantry. After having to ration food just a few years ago, the sight of your kitchen’s diversity brings you a bit of pride. You grew up having to make do with what you had, but modern supermarkets give you an opportunity to explore whole new ingredients. Some people go for recipe books, but you? You find you’re always personalizing recipes anyway. And just like that, without even trying, cooking the family meals has become the sole outlet for your creativity.
As you go through the shelf trying to think of what can go with what else, a sudden crash! erupts from the living room. The kids broke a lamp. The baby begins to cry again.
The older kids are sent to their room and the baby is rocked to sleep, before being placed into her bassinet with the tender, gentle care one would have when setting down a glass of nitroglycerin. You return to the kitchen, your blood pressure higher, unable to recall what ideas you had thought just moments before. Wait you think, as you notice how much mayonnaise you have. Waaaaait… You glance at the boxes of gelatin. What if… Nah, that’d probably be awful.
The door slams. The baby starts up. The twins run into the kitchen, covered in mud. One opens his hands while the other proudly announces, “Mommy, look! We found a frog!”
Seconds later, a terrified amphibian leaps behind the fridge.
You close your eyes, rub your temples, take a deep breath, then look back at the shelves.
You know what? Screw it. I’m gonna cook whatever I want. If they want something else, they can pick up an apron and cook it themselves.
And that, my friends, is how I imagine horrible 1950s recipes began.
My pet theory about '50s recipes is that they were thought up by subjugated housewives who had few outlets for expressing their bitter feelings toward their situations. Think about it -
Women in the United States in 1950s couldn’t have their own bank accounts, beating your wife was considered normal, and no-fault divorce didn’t exist in the country yet. Women were cloistered at home, made in charge of domestic work and child-rearing, which heavily limited their freedom.
So imagine it: you’re made to spend almost all of your time inside your house, taking care of several kids (because baby boom), and you’re solely in charge of ALL the cleaning and cooking. Your social interaction is largely limited to tupperware parties and events that involve your kids. You have zero time for hobbies. Even if you did, your ability to pursue one would be entirely contingent on whether or not your husband approves - because most hobbies cost money, and your husband has control over that.
Now you’re spending yet another afternoon scrubbing the pitstains out of your husband’s laundry, which smelled oddly like perfume. Moments ago, he phoned you to say that he’s “staying late” again today. Two of your kids decide to start a screeching contest, which scares the baby and now she’s crying. At least your twins are playing outside, not that you have any clue where they are exactly, but you are almost certain that they’ll be home by supper. You’re also almost certain that they’ll come home with salmonella.
“Knock it off!” you yell to the kids, as you pick up the crying baby and pat her on the back. The house returns to peace as her cries become soft mews. You attempt to regain your previous train of thought.
Supper, you think, I’ve still got to plan supper.
You swaddle the baby up in your arms as you walk to the pantry. After having to ration food just a few years ago, the sight of your kitchen’s diversity brings you a bit of pride. You grew up having to make do with what you had, but modern supermarkets give you an opportunity to explore whole new ingredients. Some people go for recipe books, but you? You find you’re always personalizing recipes anyway. And just like that, without even trying, cooking the family meals has become the sole outlet for your creativity.
As you go through the shelf trying to think of what can go with what else, a sudden crash! erupts from the living room. The kids broke a lamp. The baby begins to cry again.
The older kids are sent to their room and the baby is rocked to sleep, before being placed into her bassinet with the tender, gentle care one would have when setting down a glass of nitroglycerin. You return to the kitchen, your blood pressure higher, unable to recall what ideas you had thought just moments before. Wait you think, as you notice how much mayonnaise you have. Waaaaait… You glance at the boxes of gelatin. What if… Nah, that’d probably be awful.
The door slams. The baby starts up. The twins run into the kitchen, covered in mud. One opens his hands while the other proudly announces, “Mommy, look! We found a frog!”
Seconds later, a terrified amphibian leaps behind the fridge.
You close your eyes, rub your temples, take a deep breath, then look back at the shelves.
You know what? Screw it. I’m gonna cook whatever I want. If they want something else, they can pick up an apron and cook it themselves.
And that, my friends, is how I imagine horrible 1950s recipes began.