The ladies of the High Point Junior League were no slouches when it came to entertaining. Their 1974 spiral-bound cookbook Furniture City Feasts, which sold tens of thousands of copies and has been reprinted four times, featured not just recipes, but entire meal plans. Hosting a bridge luncheon? Punch and a three-course meal. A cocktail party? Cheese straws.
As a college freshman, Asheville graphic designer and food stylist Chris Bryant (a native of Charlotte) received Furniture City Feasts as a birthday present from family friends, and cooked the themed meals at parties, served up with a healthy dose of irony. But that Bible of gracious entertaining sparked a passion for food and a collection of cookbooks, centered on those created by women’s and community groups in the mid 20th century.
“My interest is from a culinary anthropology point of view, following trends and the history of food,” says Bryant. And the volumes of cookbooks, starting with those published by settlement houses in the 1920s all the way up through the golden age of garden club and church-congregation cookbooks in the ’70s, provide just that: a fascinating view into what we ate when, along with unexpected cultural insights.
In the ’50s, says Bryant “hot dogs were king.” Every cookbook is full of them, from “fancy franks” to hot dog and mac-and-cheese combos and the iconic recipe Bryant one day intends to make: a crown roast made entirely of hot dogs (complete with the little paper caps) and stuffed with potato salad. There was a wave of tiki-inspired dishes such as Polynesian kebabs (pineapple and hot dogs) and a post-Korean War uptick in the number of “Korean salads” and “Korean pickles,” likely brought stateside by war brides. Baked Alaska and Cherries Jubilee were a given.
By the late ’60s and early ’70s, Bryant says, companies had come out with templates that allowed congregations and garden clubs to publish affordably: a perfect club fundraiser. Cookbooks became major projects, with the attendant political structure: certain people with a lot of clout contributed a lot of recipes. And Bryant says you could tell contributors were trying to outdo one another with gourmet offerings. “The recipes were aspirational,” he says. “People have never eaten that much crab, but there are always crab recipes. And punch.” Hints about the groups’ values are embedded in the books. Alcohol in the recipe? If so, you could tell the congregation was progressive. “Brandied fruit was racy,” says Bryant.
Avid travelers, Bryant and his partner Skip Wade, a photo stylist, make a point of scouting out second-hand cookbooks wherever they go. Variations across regions emerge. In Florida, recipes include mangoes and pineapple; in the Midwest, there’s sauerkraut. In San Francisco, the cookbook of a Japanese Methodist congregation includes grilled eel along with canned mushroom soup.
But as much as recipes change by locality, certain dishes know no boundaries. “Chicken Divan is ubiquitous,” says Bryant. So are stroganoffs — including, naturally, Frankfurter Stroganoff. Shortening and canned soup and milk were staple ingredients. Green-bean casserole topped with Durkee’s onion rings or canned, dry chow mien noodles was a mainstay.
It’s worth noting, says Bryant, that culinary trends have come full circle. The early settlement-house cookbooks stressed “food as medicine” with sections on “cooking for invalids.” There was an emphasis on local, seasonal food, and canning. “If a cookbook didn’t including canning,” says Bryant, “it wasn’t serious: it was just fluff.”
Cookbooks also served as records of family life. Recipes written in now-fading ink on index cards slip from pages, as do newspaper recipe clippings. There are stains on the covers and the pages from recipes in action: these books have been well used and well loved. Recipes are often named after children or cherished relatives: Billy’s Favorite Brownies or Aunt Norma’s Pecan Pie. Bryant’s own Aunt Dot had a recipe for “24-Hour Salad,” which she refused to share with anyone. Finally, it came out in Mama Bond’s Favorite Recipes, and “all secrets,” says Bryant, “were revealed.” Flat Rock society matron Inez Lowndes Breazeale self-published the spiral-bound Grandma’s Cookbook, dedicated to her grandsons. “Follow every recipe to the letter,” the introduction advises, “and you cannot fail.” Many of the books
include advice and how-to lists that have nothing to do with cooking and entertaining, such as a collection of Bible verses to turn to in times of need.
The cookbooks tapered off in the ’80s and finally all but disappeared in the 90s. “The Internet killed them,” say Bryant.
He admits that some of the recipes were “bizarre and appalling.” But it’s a mistake to write off recipes that may, on the face of it, seem outdated. His own Pineapple Casserole recipe with Ritz crackers, butter, cheddar cheese and canned pineapple has certainly “raised eyebrows,” he says. “I have to talk it up.” But it’s a conversation starter. And while canned pineapple may not sound as poetic as Proust’s “madeleine moment,” the food of any era brings back powerful memories. It’s about time spent with family and friends, some no longer with us, but always called to mind by the certain taste of a dish prepared with love — and ambition.