Out of the Frying Pan And Into the Antipodes--
The Loves, The Lovers and Some of the Recipes
(Some names & places have been changed to protect the guilty)

Thursday, 26 April 2018

Unobtainable Delights: Salsify



Unobtainable Delights:
Salsify


Coming across a funny little piece of vegetarian kitsch from 1911 when I was looking for something else entirely on the Internet, I was jolted by a memory of something I hadn’t thought about for years.

Vegetarian Kitsch?
You don’t believe there can be such a thing as vegetarian kitsch? Me neither, up till now. Vegetarians in my experience tend to take themselves and their vegetables ultra-seriously. But there it was, in all in all its ’orrid glory, thanks to the indefatigable labours of those thrice-blessed people who work for the Library of Congress:

Margaret G. Hays (1874-1925) and Grace G. (Grace Gebbie) Drayton.
Vegetable Verselets for Humorous Vegetarians, by Margaret G. Hays; with illustrations by Grace G. Wiederseim. Philadelphia and London, J.B. Lippincott Company, 1911.

    Margaret Gebbie Hays and Grace Gebbie Drayton (formerly Wiederseim) were sisters who wrote and illustrated both together and separately in the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Grace G. Drayton produced the originals of the famous “Campbell’s Soup kids”, who appeared regularly in the ads from the early 1900s throughout the 20th century, revived at various times but always recognisable for their round, chubby cheeks. They sparked a whole industry of toys and memorabilia.


    Above is the earliest example of the kids in a Campbell’s Soup ad that I’ve found. It’s from The Boston Cooking School Magazine of Culinary Science and Domestic Economics, 1905. Below are the kids in their later, more familiar metamorphosis, in a full-colour ad from 1935:

From Attic Paper: “Original vintage magazine ad for Campbell's Soup with a particularly adorable illustration of three Campbell's Kids.
A nice vintage piece! Publication Year: 1935”

The Vegetable Oyster
Here’s the kitschy “verselet” by Margaret Gebbie Hays and the accompanying picture by Grace Gebbie Drayton that suddenly sparked my memories of Paris in the 1970s:


    No, it doesn’t mean “gay” in the modern sense! This is 1911, remember? Ned is a merry and bright chap, a bit of a man-about-town. And here he is, with his plump dad:


    Okay, the whole book’s impossibly kitschy and the “verselets” rarely have anything to do with the qualities of the vegetables as such, and you loathe it! I adore it: it’s so naïve that it’s gorgeous, and I’d like to think that way on the other side of the world in the bowels of the gigantic Library of Congress, someone else adored it, too.
    I don’t think I’d have remembered what sort of vegetable an “oyster plant” was if you’d asked me out of the blue, but the poem and the picture together suddenly did it, and nearly twenty years since I’d stopped hoping to find it for sale Downunder—and forty years since I’d eaten it in France—I gasped: “Salsify!”

Vegetable Ambrosia, 1973
It’s a frosty winter night in Paris. By now I’m used to the way Gégé cooks the delicious French tinned petits pois to eat with his sautéed calf’s liver (see “Offal? Awful: Lily-Livered”, http://katywiddopsblog.blogspot.com.au/2016/02/offal-awful-lily-livered.html) but this is something quite new. A big tin, picture of pale yellow somethings on the label. He opens it, drains them and tips them into the pan that he’s just fried the foie de veau in.
    “Connais pas? Des salsifis.”
    I’m none the wiser, but okay, that’s their name. They look like long, very thin parsnips. That creamy colour, shading into pale yellow. We certainly never had them back home in EnZed. He sprinkles a bit more thyme onto them and stirs them very gently, letting them heat through.
    Then we get to eat them with the veal liver.
    Oh, my God! Ambrosia in the form of a vegetable! A faint taste of aniseed, but very, very mild, and a soft texture but not mushy.
    Boy, that doesn’t cut it, does it? Well, you can’t really describe a taste, and even Jane Grigson, who’s come up with some pretty spot-on descriptions, won’t manage to describe the supreme delicacy of salsify, as I subsequently discover:

“Salsify came into this country [England] about 1700, … probably via France, though it was originally developed in Italy … Often it was called vegetable oyster, a name which one still finds in seedsmen’s catalogues, or oyster plant. One authority says that this must have been because it had a slightly oysterish flavour, and could be used in meat pies instead of oysters which were often added for piquancy in the days when they were cheap… If the flavour was once there, modern varieties have it no longer. … Other people have compared it to the parsnip, but this won’t do either. Parsnip has a softer texture than the clean waxy bite of salsify, and is much sweeter.
    “…[It] has never really caught on, at least with the general public. Intelligent gardeners, from John Evelyn onwards, have always grown either salsify or scorzonera [its cousin, black-skinned]. People who write books on gardening have been pushing them from the 17th to the 20th century, but … one can rarely buy them.”
(Jane Grigson. Jane Grigson’s Vegetable Book. Harmondsworth, England, Penguin, 1980, p. [443]) (First published: London : Michael Joseph, 1978.)

    That taste of Paradise in a tin was in 1973. Back in the Antipodes I searched unavailingly for any form of salsify, fresh or tinned, for the next twenty years…
    Nope. Nada. Nodda sausage. Even DJ’s “Food Hall”, which used to be quite up-market when I was first in Adelaide, didn’t stock it. Then they abolished the old David Jones department store and put up a shiny new one with a much, much worse food section, where the sneering assistants blatantly walk off and desert you in order to chat with their mates, leaving you wondering if you’re ever gonna get that piece of cheese at all. So I’ve stopped going there.
    And I’ve given up looking for salsify. It can remain a lovely memory.

This classic French recipe (here, from Jane Grigson) is the derivation of Gégé’s simplified method for tinned salsify:

Salsify With Fines Herbes
If the salsify is to go with grilled and fried meat, chops, escallops and so on, this is the way to finish it.
    Fry the blanched and cut up salsify in butter until golden-brown, scattering over it at the start the leaves of a good sprig of thyme, or a small branch of rosemary. When it is ready, put it into a hot dish and scatter generously with chopped parsley, tarragon and chives.
(Jane Grigson. Jane Grigson’s Vegetable Book. Harmondsworth, England, Penguin, 1980.)

    This simple recipe is much the best way to eat this delicate vegetable. Although Jane Grigson does provide quite a few other recipes none of them strike me as worth trying.

    I did find an entry for salsify in a New Zealand book for the cook-gardener published in 1980 but although it tells you how to grow it, it admits: “Few varieties are available.” Its recipe suggestions aren’t much different from Jane Grigson’s fuller versions, including the big mistake, big—huge—of suggesting a cheese sauce with it. Did the writers even try it? If you’ve got a palate, cheese with anything aniseed-flavoured is totally revolting! Their “Salsify Pie” is even more so, incorporating both cheese and “anchovy or seafood sauce to taste”. I can’t even read it without feeling nauseated. (Mary Browne, Helen Leach & Nancy Tichborne. The Cook’s Garden: For Cooks Who Garden and Gardeners Who Cook. Wellington, [N.Z.], A.H. & A.W. Reed, 1980)

Back to Ned Oyster Plant’s Time
Salsify or “oyster plant” must have been grown by English speakers on both sides of the Atlantic at the turn of the 19th century, because not only does it appear in the American Vegetable Verselets of 1911, along with such everyday veg as potatoes, peas and onions, it turns up in the English Cassell's Vegetarian Cookery in 1891. I’m giving you the recipe because it strikes me as delightful. Take the lemon option, not the vinegar:

Salsify Salad.
Boiled salsify makes a very delicious salad.
Take some white salsify, scrape it, and instantly throw it into vinegar and water, by which means you will keep it a pure white.
Then, when you have all ready, throw it into boiling water, slightly salted, boil it till it is tender, throw it into cold water, and when cold take it out, drain it and dry it, cut it up into small half-inch pieces (or put it in whole, in sticks, into a salad-bowl), sprinkle a little chopped blanched parsley over the top, dress in the ordinary way with oil and white French vinegar, and be sure to use white pepper, not black; if white wine vinegar is objected to, the juice of a hard fresh lemon is equally good, if not better.
(A.G. (Arthur Gay) Payne (1840-1894). Cassell’s Vegetarian Cookery: A Manual of Cheap and Wholesome Diet. London, Cassell, 1891)

A Little Botany
True salsify, with a pale-skinned root that’s very much the same colour as parsnip skin, is Tragopogon porrifolius. But the French Wikipédia tells us that this is rarely cultivated nowadays and that the salsifis sold these days is almost always “la scorsonère (Scorzonera hispanica)”, called scorzonera or black salsify in English, which has a dark-skinned root.


And In Conclusion…
Salsify doesn’t look anything like its raw state when it’s properly peeled (you need to spend time scraping it) and nicely cooked. This is the best picture I could find. It's from http://paleofood.com/recipes/veggies-ovenroastedsalsify.htm I’m no advocate of silly “paleo” diets, or of roasting delicate vegetables, but the recipe given, “Oven Roasted Salsify”, is at least simple.


    Actually there are many other recipes for salsify—certainly In France, where most of Jane Grigson’s originate. But if you are lucky enough to obtain some or grow it, don’t bother looking for them. Most combos will drown its distinctive subtle taste. The recipes on the Net from today’s British cooking gurus, who use the dark-rooted variety, are largely foul. Just keep it simple. I know we’re in the 21st century now, but that doesn't mean that mucked-about-for-hours, combined with everything up-market you can think of, and horribly handled, is best. KISS.


    Et merci mille fois, Gérard.

Thursday, 21 December 2017

A Christmas Pudding From Katherine




A Christmas Pudding From Katherine
Or, Through the Looking-Glass

No, it’s not a person, and not a spelling of my name. Katherine is a town in the Northern Territory of Australia. The Christmas of the pudding from Katherine was almost an out-of-body experience.

    It happened the second year I was in South Australia, 1989, and as it’s fast receding into the past I think it’ll qualify for “What We Ate”. I was lucky enough to have landed a year’s lecturing at an Adelaide tertiary institution, and a very kind, earnest lady on the staff invited me warmly to Christmas dinner with her family. To be honest I didn’t much want to go: I barely knew her, I had nothing in common with her, and I was very sure that as usual with such typical social get-togethers, I’d only be a fish out of water—but then, her feelings would be hurt if I turned her down: the more so as she’d winkled it out of me that I didn’t know anybody in Adelaide and would be alone for Christmas.
    Some people do like being on their own, not all of humanity is cut from the same cloth, but…  I gave in, and accepted with what I hope looked like true gratitude. On one level I was grateful: it was very, very kind of her.
    As promised, it was just a family affair: my colleague and her husband, their two kids, who’d have been in their early teens, and a youngish couple who were in-laws (at this distance in time I’m not sure, but I think her brother and his wife), who’d driven down from Katherine.
    We ate around 2.30 of a steaming Adelaide summer’s day: it was overcast, very humid for South Australia, and hitting 36 degrees Celsius. Not over-hot for Adelaide: it can hit 43. We were in the sitting-room, the only room with “reverse cycle” air conditioning. It wasn’t a large room: the house was in an older, more traditional style, not one of the modem monstrosities with giant open-plan living-dining-kitchen areas. (The whole complex history of their aircon, the disaster when the kids got pneumonia from sleeping in front of the moveable water-cooled apparatus all night, and etcetera was explained to me in great detail. Not all of it made sense to a New Zealander, but they didn’t notice.) With seven large bodies in the room, and the oven on in the adjoining kitchen, the air conditioner wasn’t quite cutting it: it was just slightly too muggy to be comfortable.
    Well, what would you have served under such circs? I’d have given it away and done at the most cold chicken, a couple of salads, and ice cream.
    Nope: nothing like it. It was, I was subsequently to discover, a completely typical Australian Christmas dinner. The main course was the full, no-holds-barred, roast turkey with roast potatoes and gravy and etceteras. And yes, it is still traditional in the Australia of the 21st century, the TV foodie gurus have assured me of that.

Stunned by a Prawn
By the time we reached that course, however, I was already stunned, so much so that I just felt dazed for the rest of the afternoon. The first course, no kidding, was avocados with seafood, the latter a mixture of prawns and chunks of crayfish. In midsummer? Oh, yeah. Christmas is the huge, I mean HUGE, season for prawns and crayfish, down here through the looking-glass. Already in November the media, both national and local, will have started reporting anxiously on the probable prices per kilo of these delicacies, and the probable size of the catch… Yep.

Oh, to be in Paris, now that December’s here…
I kept thinking—dazedly, yes—of what my friends in Paris would have said about seafood in any summer, let alone a swingeingly humid 35-plus day like that. Ten fits? At least. The lovely fish shop directly over the road from my scungy one-room “studio” apartment in the dix-neuvième closed down entirely for the summer months. With the autumn it opened again, still smelling of nothing but the sea, and as the leaves fell, it began selling shellfish again. I tried moules the way Gégé had once shown me, raw, with nothing but a squeeze of lemon juice, like oysters.* They have to flinch when the lemon juice hits them: it shows they’re alive. Delicious!

Back to the Pudding from Katherine
The shocks weren’t over after we’d got through the first two courses, by no means. Those rellies from Katherine had brought the pudding all the way down to Adelaide with them. Not a short drive, no. The driving distance is 2,714 kilometres.
    Yes, it was a traditional English “plum pudding.” Large, full of dried fruit, steamed, soaked in brandy and/or whisky, you goddit. Served hot, of course.
    Mad? Now hear this. The woman had made it weeks earlier and, so as it would mature properly and not go off, hung it up in the sitting-room with the air conditioning on. To counteract the Northern Territory climate, which, surprisingly enough, bears no resemblance whatsoever to that of England as autumn declines into winter.
    Mad? That’s mad.

No, I haven’t lost it, I’m not recommending you make a great steamy HOT Christmas pudding in the middle of an Antipodean summer, or even heat one up to serve steaming hot. If you live Downunder, why not be sensible, wait till winter, and have what my American friend Susan S. used to call “Christmas In July”?
    I won’t suggest a favourite recipe, I’ve never made a Christmas pudding yet and don’t intend to start now. Besides, those who make ’em doubtless have their own recipe, much the best. But just for interest’s sake, here is THE classic Christmas pud from Isabella Beeton. It is pretty much what we had that steamy hot Christmas, nigh on 30 years back. Not only that, it’s also very like the classic Christmas pudding my old school friend Susan C. and I had, when we spent a real winter Christmas with her aunties and grandma in Dallas, way back in 1966/67. You don’t think Christmas in Texas can be cold? Wrong. It was freezing weather and we actually had a few flakes of snow. It was a wonderful pudding, and the hard sauce one of the aunties made to go with it was miraculous. So full of brandy that it near to knocked you out! If the Adelaide Christmas was the most incongruous, not to say surreal, the Dallas one was certainly the most enjoyable of my life.


CHRISTMAS PLUM-PUDDING
(Very Good.)
1328. INGREDIENTS.—1-1/2 lb. of raisins, 1/2 lb. of currants, 1/2 lb. of mixed peel, 3/4 lb. of bread crumbs, 3/4 lb. of suet, 8 eggs, 1 wineglassful of brandy.
Mode.—Stone and cut the raisins in halves, but do not chop them; wash, pick, and dry the currants, and mince the suet finely; cut the candied peel into thin slices, and grate down the bread into fine crumbs. When all these dry ingredients are prepared, mix them well together; then moisten the mixture with the eggs, which should be well beaten, and the brandy; stir well, that everything may be very thoroughly blended, and "press" the pudding into a buttered mould; tie it down tightly with a floured cloth, and boil for 5 or 6 hours. It may be boiled in a cloth without a mould, and will require the same time allowed for cooking. As Christmas puddings are usually made a few days before they are required for table, when the pudding is taken out of the pot, hang it up immediately, and put a plate or saucer underneath to catch the water that may drain from it. The day it is to be eaten, plunge it into boiling water, and keep it boiling for at least 2 hours; then turn it out of the mould, and serve with brandy-sauce. On Christmas-day a sprig of holly is usually placed in the middle of the pudding, and about a wineglassful of brandy poured round it, which, at the moment of serving, is lighted, and the pudding thus brought to table encircled in flame.
    Time.—5 or 6 hours the first time of boiling; 2 hours the day it is to be served.   Average cost, 4s.  Sufficient for a quart mould for 7 or 8 persons.   Seasonable on the 25th of December, and on various festive occasions till March.
    Note.—Five or six of these puddings should be made at one time, as they will keep good for many weeks, and in cases where unexpected guests arrive, will be found an acceptable, and, as it only requires warming through, a quickly-prepared dish. Moulds of every shape and size are manufactured for these puddings, and may be purchased of Messrs. R. & J. Slack, 336, Strand.
(Isabella Beeton. The Book of Household Management. [London], S.O. Beeton, 1861.)

An Alternative from the Fridge
As an alternative to knocking yourself out with exhaustion and heatstroke on Christmas Day, why not choose a cold pudding? By the pudding course most people only have room for something light, anyway. When we were kids in New Zealand in the 1950s and early 1960s it was always homemade ice cream, usually with a packet jelly, often Mum’s special “fluffy jelly”. Christmastime in Auckland is nothing like as hot as in Adelaide, but it is usually very warm, and humid with it. We got our very first fridge when I was about six, when we moved to our first permanent Auckland house. (I think in early 1951; Dad and Uncle Ray had to build it first, in between dropping heavy lumps of wood on my little brother’s foot, so it probably took about a year.) So Mum was able to make ice cream quite often. I don’t think it had much in it besides whole milk and sugar; it was more like a milk sorbet, it was so light. No cream: cream was sinful and expensive. The fridge was bench height and its freezing compartment was very small; its one metal tray, used for ice blocks as well as ice cream, was about 10 cm wide by 25 long, and only about 4 cm deep.

Cold and Jellied
Before domestic refrigerators came into general use, cold puddings had to be left in a cool place to set. Jellies were always somewhat precarious in the very hot weather. Cold puddings were often variations on the blancmange, made with cornflour; it’s hard to make a cornflour mixture that doesn’t set when cold.
    Not all Antipodean housewives were brainwashed into conforming slavishly to the norms of the colonising power from the other side of the world, even back in the 1950s. You do find some mid-20th-century recipes for cold Christmas desserts, though they’re certainly in the minority. I wouldn’t say they’re all palatable, but they deserve an A for effort! Not to say, for just plain common sense.
    This example is a chocolate-flavoured milk jelly, with dried fruit added to make it Christmassy. The writer doesn’t say it should go in the fridge, so it probably dates back to an earlier edition of the recipe book, which was a perennial favourite in Australia for decades.

A Cold Christmas Pudding
Three dessertspoonful Davis Gelatine, 1 1/2 squares of chocolate or three tablespoonsful cocoa, 1 1/2 pints milk, one cupful raisins, one cupful sugar, one-half cupful chopped lemon peel and nuts, one half cupful currants, one-half cupful dates or figs, one-half teaspoonful vanilla, pinch salt.
Place milk, chocolate or cocoa, and gelatine in saucepan over the fire and stir until dissolved, but do not boil. Now add sugar and salt and after further stirring remove to a cool place. When the mixture begins to thicken add essence, fruit and nuts. Turn into a mould which has been rinsed in cold water and place aside to set. When required decorate with holly and serve with whipped cream or custard. Be sure and wash the dried fruit thoroughly and allow to soak a while before mixing. This is an ideal pudding for ocasions [sic] quite apart from Christmas.
(Green and Gold Cookery Book: Containing Many Good and Proved Recipes. 15th ed. (rev.), Adelaide, R.M. Osborne, [1949?])

    The idea must have appealed to the sweating housewives of South Australia. The selected pudding for December 25 in the South Australian Country Women’s Association’s Calendar of Puddings, 5th ed., circa 1952, is “Jellied Plum Pudding”, virtually identical. Thirteen contributors sent in this same recipe!

Not Only Cold, But Beaten
Channel-hopping the other day I caught five minutes of an Aussie cookery programme in which the two insane gurus, one female, one male, it ain’t sex-linked these days, solemnly whipped (started whipping) some separated eggs with hand-held wire whisks. The sort of whisk that Alexis Soyer, Escoffier et al. would have recognised, yep. We weren’t privileged to see the entire whipping process, and no wonder. It takes ages, and requires wrists of steel, arm muscles like a Schwarzenegger, and hips that don’t mind standing on a hard kitchen floor forever. Back around 1950 when the rotary eggbeater really took off Downunder, home cooks must have thought, with sighs of relief, that they could throw away that stupid old whisk forever. This tremendous innovation well-nigh revolutionised the family pudding, certainly in Australasia; and in combination with the refrigerator, cold whipped puddings came into their own.

The Proof of the Pudding…
Examples abound in the cookbooks of the Fifties. They have all sorts of names, but they can all be classed as variations on the mousse. Lightness is most often achieved with beaten whites of egg. And you use your miraculous rotary beater to beat the air into your pudding:

Marshmallow Dessert
For MARCH 20
3/4 cup sugar, 1/2 pint water, pinch salt, 1 dessertspoon gelatine, flavouring. Heat all together, but do not boil. When sugar and gelatine dissolve, allow to cool. Whip whites of 2 or 3 eggs very stiffly and add to cool mixture. Beat all together with rotary beater till light and frothy.
Set in cold place. Before serving, cover top with a fruit salad mixture or any fruit in season. Decorate with whipped cream.
–MRS. B. K. JENKINS (Snowtown).
(Calendar of Puddings: A Pudding a Day for the Whole Year. [5th ed.], [Adelaide, S. Aust.], South Australian Country Women's Association, [1952?])

Such puddings were popular on both sides of the Tasman. The following New Zealand recipe is the closest I’ve found to Mum’s “fluffy jelly”, which made its appearance on our tea table for many years. As you can see, the concept resembles a “Spanish cream.” However, the miraculous aspect of Mum’s fluffy jelly was that the layers always separated themselves out. I thought it had something to do with the temperature of the base mixture, but in “Oban Summer Pudding” (Calendar of Puddings, for Feb. 2nd), Mrs. W. Wien-Smith and Mrs. G.H.A. Mahood advise: “Whisk the whites of eggs stiffly, and then beat all ingredients together thoroughly, otherwise the gelatine will sink to the bottom.”

Special Jelly [aka “Fluffy Jelly”]
1 packet Edmonds Jelly Crystals;  3/4 breakfastcup Milk
1/2 breakfastcup Hot Water;  Whites of 2 Eggs
1/2 breakfastcup Cold Water
Dissolve jelly crystals in hot water; add cold water then milk. Fold in the stiffly-beaten egg whites. Set in a wet mould.
(Edmonds Cookery Book. De luxe ed., [Christchurch, N.Z.], T.J. Edmonds Ltd., 1955 (1968 printing) (First published as The Sure to Rise Cookery Book, 1908))

    Easy-peasy! You can ignore the further instructions in the book about serving with a custard made from the yolks: this custom dates back to an earlier era (as does the book) and in fact was just about dead by the mid-Fifties. I think Mum usually used the yolks up in the pudding, beating them with the milk.

To Rotary or Not?
Although rotary eggbeaters (aka egg beaters) were invented way back in the 19th century and the domestic models took off really early in the United States, they don’t seem to have become popular in Britain:

There’s less evidence of rotary beaters getting a firm grip in Victorian Britain, although some people certainly used them. With no well-known brand like Dover [as in the U.S.], they were advertised as “one-minute” or “ten-second” beaters, or with fanciful names like Biatrope or Archimedian. Advice on cooking and equipping kitchens mostly assumed an ordinary wire whisk would be just fine.
(Early Rotary Egg Beaters, Home Things Past)

    I think Australia and New Zealand must have followed, as with most things culinary, in the footsteps of the “mother country” (a phrase still current when I was a kid in the 1950s). References to the rotary eggbeater in Australia date the tool from around the 1930s. This was when Propert Productions started selling its “Swift Whip”. There are still examples around today, and it has become a collectable.


    In the 1950s Propert’s rotary eggbeaters really took off in Australasia, becoming fantastically popular:

“Propert became a household name when it started making all manner of kitchen implements … By far the most successful product was a ball-driven egg beater, trademarked as the Ezy Whisk.
    “In the days before electric beaters, the Ezy Whisk was the market-leader and exported world-wide. Adverts in the 1950s boasted they’d even been endorsed by royalty. Apparently Queen Mary was most impressed when she was shown an Ezy Whisk while visiting London Expo one year. … For ordinary Australians without electric appliances or domestic help, the Ezy Whisk was an indispensable kitchen aid. Charles Propert and his son Bertram manufactured more than a quarter of a million egg beaters a year in the early 1950s, reason why so many are still around and used even today.”
Rod Bruem. “The Amazing Propert Family – Caravan Inventors”, Time To Roam, May 6, 2017) https://www.timetoroam.com.au/the-amazing-properts/

    This article indicates that the new model was the “Ezy Whisk” but I haven’t been able to find any other references to that name. The “Swift Whip” was still being advertised in the Australian Women’s Weekly in 1959:


    Cookery snobbery remained rampant, of course, and it was only real people—the sort who used the Green and Gold Cookery Book and The Golden Wattle Cookery Book in Australia and the Edmonds Cookery Book in New Zealand for generations—who happily discarded the chef’s wire whisk in favour of the truly efficient rotary eggbeater (and later of course, used the electric beater, blender and food processor). Don’t take my word for its being more efficient: it’s been tested. No, it wasn’t in a “test kitchen,” aka sterile laboratory, but it was a real person doing the test. She writes:

“The set included four different styles of wire whisks and rotary egg beaters, dated from about 1870 to 1940. In this group of kitchen tools, I could see the progression of time: how science and mechanics sought to make a laborious task simple and succinct.” They ranged from an early whisk through to a rotary eggbeater.


    She tested the set: “I separated an egg and let the white warm to room temperature in a deep mixing bowl. I grabbed my wire whisk [top] and whipped for what felt like an eternity—but, in fact, it was only 6 minutes and 48 seconds (though my arm wanted to fall off and die after about 30 seconds). As I whisked and whisked, I thought of countless great-great-great grandmas with bad-ass arms after hours of whisking. … The shiny, patented, 1936 Super Center Drive Beater [the rotary beater, bottom] was a different story: the super smooth rotation gave me a creamy meringue in the least amount of time: 1 minute, 17 seconds. My last step was to compare these whisks to my modern, electrified, upright mixer: it took over two minutes to beat an egg into a meringue, and left some unbeaten white clinging to the bottom of the bowl—which means that a beater patented over 70 years ago was more efficient than my modern mixer, both in terms of how quickly it made meringue, and quality of the final product. What does that mean? Should the rotary whisk be reinstated into our kitchen armory as a means of producing a faster, finer meringue?”
(Sarah Lohman. “The Magic Whisk”, Sep 11, 2012,

    I’d vote for that, Sarah!
    Interestingly, the second implement from the top in her picture, which she explains was identified by an expert as a “sauce whisk”, dated 1920 or later, is a dead ringer for the egg whisk that Mum used In New Zealand in the 1950s before she had a rotary beater! I’d forgotten all about it until I saw the picture. So double thanks, Sarah.
    The pictures I found, including the Australian “Swift Whip” examples, were similar to Mum’s New Zealand rotary beater, but not quite the same. I began to think I'd imagined hers, when I couldn’t find a picture to match it, but my brother remembers it, too. He writes that it had: “two intermeshing wire beaters and a big wheel with a hand crank off to the side. The wheel had about 4mm bumps on as gear teeth which meshed with small cogs on the beaters, thus turning them fast in opposite directions.”
    I had to think about this techo description, but I finally got it (looking hard at the pics in close-up). That was it, yes!

Yep, you can become completely bonkers with over-use of the rotary eggbeater, devising more and more novel notions for the dessert course. This incredible effort is so deliriously dotty that I have to pass it on. I’ll give you a hint; it has no watermelon in it:

Water Melon Delight
For FEB. 22
Make 1 pint of red jelly, and when half set fold in 2 stiffly beaten egg whites and the pulp of 3 passion fruit. Whisk together. Pour into large bowl and allow to set. Make 1 pint of thick custard (with custard powder), and when cold spread over red jelly. Make 1 pint of green jelly. When nearly set, pour over custard. Chill and cut into wedge-shaped pieces. Serve with cream or ice cream.
--MRS. C. P. STEER (Clarendon).
(Calendar of Puddings: A Pudding a Day for the Whole Year. [5th ed.], [Adelaide, S. Aust.], South Australian Country Women's Association, [1952?])

    Get it? The green jelly’s the watermelon skin, the passionfruit make the seeds and the custard makes the rind!
    Too much use of thy rotary eggbeater hath made thee mad, Mrs Steer.

The Apotheosis
Of course the apotheosis of the rotary period in Australasia was the “pavlova”.


    Horrible controversy over who named it first, the New Zealanders or the Australians, supposedly during, or perhaps just after, a tour of New Zealand and Australia by the ballerina Anna Pavlova in the 1920s—but who cares? It’s still terrifically popular today; possibly even more so, as using an electric beater to make the meringue base requires no effort at all.
    Here’s how they made it in the 1950s with their rotary beaters, though I’m not claiming this is the best recipe. Merely a fairly early Australian one, using the name by which we still know the dessert today:

Pavlova Dessert
For JAN 1
4 egg whites, 8 ozs. castor sugar, 2 teaspoons vinegar or lemon juice, 1 dessertspoon cornflour.
Beat egg whites until very stiff and frothy, add sugar gradually, and whisk again till stiff. Fold in sifted cornflour. Add vinegar and stir lightly. Grease and dredge with cornflour (lightly) an 8-in. sandwich tin. (Alternatively, line with wet paper.) Fill with the mixture, arranging it with a slight hollow to take the filling when cooked. Bake in a very slow oven (250 deg.) until cooked through, but not coloured - 1 1/4 to 2 hours. When cold, spread with a fruit salad mixture, including pineapple. Decorate with whipped cream or ice cream.
—MRS. W. H. POSSINGHAM (Naracoorte), MRS. R. L. HALL (Iron Knob), and MRS. E. S. JOHNSON (Murray Bridge).
(Calendar of Puddings: A Pudding a Day for the Whole Year. [5th ed.], [Adelaide, S. Aust.], South Australian Country Women's Association, [1952?])

    If you insist on martyring yourself by turning the oven on at Christmas, go ahead and make one. Good luck with the two hours. Or, as we’re in the 21st century, you could just buy the base, ready-made, and liberate yourself from the Australasian martyred mum syndrome.
    Whichever, I’m sure it won’t be as good as the ones our Aunty Molly used to make for tea on Christmas Day, back in the Fifties and Sixties. The base nigh on four inches tall, crisp on the outside, pure white fluff on the inside, sweet but not too sweet, with real unadulterated EnZed whipped cream on top of it… A dream of a pudding!