Pineapple Icebox Cake

Old black & white photographs of the ports of Baltimore bring to mind a gritty and sooty place; smog and ship steam and oyster shells. It is harder to imagine the loads of colorful & sometimes fragrant cargo coming into the port: tomatoes, bananas, coffee, citrus fruits. Much of it was headed to the city’s many canneries.

From April through July in the 1800s, the ports could expect thousands and thousands of pineapples shipped from the Bahamas. If the pineapples arrived ripened, they were shipped off to one of the dozens of packing houses. If they had gone bad, they were unceremoniously dumped into the harbor.

Baltimore saw lots of trade and plenty of fruit importation, but the pineapple fleet was greeted with “color and ceremony,” according to a 1940 Baltimore Sun reminiscence by Dean Wanamaker. “After a winter on the Chesapeake Bay, captains cleaned, painted and generally refurbished their ships… They tried to outdo one another. Coming into the harbor, they would fly all the flags and buntings they could get aloft.”

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1842 Advertisement, Baltimore Sun

The schooners docked along Pratt Street and the packing houses would sound whistles to their workers to retrieve the cargo.

Baltimore was the primary touchdown point for pineapples from the Bahamas, the industry peaking around 1900, with millions of pineapples processed and millions of dollars made (adjusted for inflation).

These Bahamian pineapples were not the first pineapples that Baltimore had ever seen. Before the American Revolution, Charles Carroll the Barrister had an indentured convict gardener named John Adam Smith to oversee his Pinery. A visitor from Jamestown in 1770 wrote that Carroll’s pinery was expecting a yield of 100 “Pine Apples” the next summer. Attempts to grow the popular status symbol fruit were not uncommon at the time. Typically, manure would be piled around the rows of pineapples to emit heat during the colder months.

Carroll’s gardener absconded, as evidenced by a 1773 advertisement in the Maryland Gazette: “TEN POUNDS REWARD…Ran away…a convict servant man, named John Adam Smith…by trade a Gardener, has with him…a treatise on raising the pine-apple, which he pretends is of his own writing, talks much of his trade and loves liquor.” Perhaps this was the end of pineapple farming in Baltimore.

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Mr Loudon’s Improved Pinery, 1811

This recipe comes from “Wine and Dine with The Lake Roland Garden Club,” a 1935 book full of cocktails, canapés, and wine advice, plus the usual assortment of community cookbook recipes for cakes and weeknight dinners (or, as they called it in the Roland Park Garden Club, dinner “for the maid’s night off.”)

The recipe for Pineapple Ice Box Cake doesn’t have a contributor name, but I traced it to a 1933 Knox Gelatine recipe book. The Lake Roland Garden Club cookbook committee tastefully removed the brand name from the ingredients list, but other than that the wording is identical.

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Knox Gelatine cookbook, 1933, archive.org

Icebox cakes developed in the early 1900s along with the increased popularity of… you guessed it, iceboxes. Originally they were made with a cooked custard containing eggs, but gelatin manufacturers were happy to step in and simplify the process. The Pineapple Icebox Cake is a match made in branding heaven: by this time, pineapple branding was in full force, but consumers were not reaching for canned pineapple from Baltimore.

Hawaii was taken as a U.S. Territory in 1898, and in 1900, Sanford Dole, who had been serving as “President,” became the territorial governor. Sanford’s cousin Edmund Pearson Dole came to Hawaii and parlayed his connections there to eventually build a canning empire. With the canneries close to the pineapple fields, and a low-paid immigrant workforce, canned pineapple became more cheap than ever. Dole’s branding of Hawaiian pineapples made them into an American staple.

Baltimore could not compete. One by one the Baltimore pineapple canneries closed. Wannamaker wrote that by 1940 “only a handful of shippers and packers remember[ed] that Baltimore was once the greatest pineapple center in the world.”

Recipe:

  • 1 envelope gelatin
  • .25 Cup sugar
  • 1 Tablespoon lemon juice
  • .25 Teaspoons salt
  • .25 Cup cold water
  • 1 Cup canned crushed pineapple
  • lady fingers or stale sponge cake
  • .75 Cup whipped cream or evaporated milk

Pour cold water in bowl and sprinkle gelatine on top of water. Place bowl over hot water and stir until dissolved. Add pineapple, sugar, salt, and lemon juice. Cool, and when it begins to thicken, beat, and fold in whipped cream or whipped evaporated milk. Line sides and bottom of square or round mold with lady fingers (any stale cake may be used). Cover with pineapple cream mixture, then alternate cakes and cream until mold is filled. Place in refrigerator for three or four hours. To serve, unmould on cake place and garnish with whipped cream and strawberries in season. Fresh or canned strawberries, raspberries or peaches, or any preffered fruit may be used instead of the pineapple. Mosre sugar will be needed for fresh fruit.

Recipe from “Wine and Dine with the Lake Roland Garden Club,” 1935

Peanut-Pickle Sandwich Filling

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“A picnic lunch without sandwiches — whoever heard of one? You need heaps and heaps of sandwiches in enticing variety.” – Gleanings in Bee Culture, Volume 55, 1927

Although spring has been off to an erratic start this year, Marylanders do know one thing for certain: we’d better enjoy those nice days while we can. Even as the ground is thawing, it’s only a matter of time before its unpleasantly hot, humid, and/or mosquito-plagued.

With this in mind, I recently walked up to Cylburn Arboretum to marvel at their thousands of daffodils & eat some sandwiches among the greenery.

It goes without saying that humans have been eating outside for ages, but the concerted effort of outdoor dining for pleasure developed hand-in-hand with sport hunting. Nobility and upper classes have been hunting for fun and eating food outdoors for centuries, even as agricultural and poor workers did those same things out of necessity.

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Daffodils at Cylburn Arboretum

As society became more urban and industrial, picnicking became popular for just about everyone. The Victorians, naturally, turned this into an elaborate affair with full out-door table settings, but things got more casual as automobiles provided a way for a family to have a day-trip in the suburbs.

Magazines and newspapers offered plenty of guidance in how to picnic properly. In the women’s magazine the Delineator in 1922, Alice Blinn wrote that a “walking picnic” or mountain climb necessitated that each hiker carry:

  • four full-size sandwiches – one “succulent”, one of meat, a “meat substitute” and one sweet
  • a cookie or two
  • candy or sweet chocolate
  • fruit
  • a teacup
  • a tea bag
  • sugar for tea

One individual could be tasked with carrying “one or two cans condensed or evaporated milk, small pails for carrying water and boiling it, and matches.” Picnic sandwiches, wrote Blinn, “must be juicy and succulent without being soggy… A supply should always be in the refrigerator ready for the call ‘let’s go picnicking!’”

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Sarah Tyson Rorer sandwich recipe, 1912

A sweet sandwich would be something like cream cheese and jelly, while the succulent sandwich could contain “thin slices of Bermuda onion,” cucumbers, cress, beets, cheese, and “always a salad dressing.” Meat is self-explanatory, I suppose. Meat substitute could refer to nuts or “cold baked bean pulp.” “A slice of onion in the peanut butter sandwich adds zest,” Blinn advised.

Last but not least, candy was a requirement because “open air and exercise bring on a craving for the unadulterated sweet.”

The consumer age was well underway at this point. In 1915 the Courier-Journal in Kentucky reported that an array of exciting products was available to “sophisticated picnickers, the people who do everything in the most accomplished way.” These sophisticates could buy special folding stools, cooking kettles, first aid kits, picnic blankets, and even Maypoles in order to have a most accomplished picnic.

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1935, Baltimore Sun

Olivia Conkling of Baltimore may have been one such sophisticated picnicker. I’ve written before about her collection at the Maryland Historical Society, which includes brochures for a waffle iron and a chafing dish, and countless clippings from women’s magazines, collected over the early decades of the 1900s.

Conkling seemed to have had a special affinity for sandwiches. In addition to clipping over a dozen different sandwich recipes – e.g. “World’s Fair Sandwich,” “Cream Cheese And Almond Sandwich,” “Hot Liver Sandwich Gives Satisfaction,” – she had an adorable little printed envelope full of sandwich recipes. The envelope was manufactured by Rust Craft, a maker of Valentines and other paper ephemera. It included recipes like “Ripe Olive Sandwich,” “Marshmallow Sandwiches,” and “Cream of Chicken Sandwiches.” Pretty much everything you would need for that walking picnic.

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Rust Craft box of sandwich recipes for sale by tinprincess on Etsy

One news clipping, probably from around 1934, stuck out at me more than others: “Peanut-Pickle Sandwich Filling.” I don’t know what it is about pickles, but recipes containing a pickled thing seem to generate the most controversy. I figured I had nothing to lose.  I’ve enjoyed questionable variations on peanut butter sandwiches ever since a childhood dare revealed that “peanut butter and Old Bay… is actually pretty good?!?!” I didn’t feel up to making my own peanut butter so I got a “natural” version – which is still probably a thousand times more sweetened than anything Conkling would get her hands on. Nonetheless, the sandwich was enjoyed by all, along with the spring scenery.

It seems like our modern sandwich definition has become so narrow compared with the infinite sandwich possibilities of the early 20th century. As I go picnicking about the city this summer, I think I will keep my mind open.

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Recipe:

  • 2 tablespoons Best Foods or Hellmann’s Mayonnaise
  • ½ cup spiced pickle, finely chopped
  • ½ cup peanut butter

“To mayonnaise add pickle and peanut butter and blend thoroughly. Makes 1 cup filling.“

From a clipping in Conkling, Olivia, Cookbook, n.d., MS 2790, Maryland Historical Society. Traced to regional newspapers in 1933/1934

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Ice Cream, Mrs. Boddy’s / Eloise Hampton Wilson

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In 2018 I’m hoping to branch out to some of the interesting archives and historical collections in other parts of the state outside of Baltimore.

The Historical Society of Harford County has Saturday hours once a month so I nervously planned a visit. As a “not a real scholar” I often feel out of place in historical societies – like some kind of intruder – but my experience at HCHS was overwhelmingly positive. The place was bustling with potential volunteers visiting the Open House, plus researchers pulling items for genealogy & school projects. Welcoming staff informed me about their collection of community cookbooks, and one volunteer brought out an over-200-year-old British cookbook to show me. Perhaps the book traveled from England to Harford County with a colonist.

The oldest local historical society in the state, Historical Society of Harford County is in the process of organizing and cataloging their collection of documents, relics, and textiles.

During my time there I got to examine two different books – one commercial cookbook from North Avenue Market (more on that at a later date), and an item from the Eloise H. Wilson collection.

The book is dated to 1810 – probably due to a note written beneath a recipe for Apple Pudding: “Bridgetown March 7th 1810 for Mrs. Fanny Giles.”

Its impossible to truly know the year such a cookbook was started, but it certainly is older than the manuscripts I typically handle. 19 of the books 152 recipes are for puddings – a percentage that would go down over time in American cookbooks as technology and tastes changed. A recipe for a suet pudding known as “The Duke Of Buckingham Pudding” contains rosewater as a flavoring and is boiled in a cloth. Similar recipes appear in cookbooks dating to the 1700s.

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Eloise Hampton Wilson Etching, Setting Tomatoes, sturgisantiques.com

The Eloise H. Wilson collection contains everything from 1770s ledgers to Christmas Cards engraved by Wilson. Born in 1906, Eloise Hampton Wilson created engravings primarily depicting workers, many of which were used in magazines such as the New Yorker in the 1930s. She later served on the board of trustees for the  Baltimore Museum of Art.

After doing some research, I believe that the recipe book may have belonged to Wilson’s great-grandmother Ruth Jeffers (maiden name Westcott). Jeffers lived from 1797-1866 in New Jersey. Frances “Fanny” Giles, the daughter of Revolutionary War general James Giles, would have been Ruth Westcott’s sister-in-law, having married Westcott’s half-brother in 1810. Perhaps the Apple Pudding was served at a wedding shower type gathering.

I didn’t make the Apple Pudding, however. I made this lemon-flavored ice cream which is attributed to a “Mrs. Boddy.” Sadly I couldn’t deduce who this person was – possibly a neighbor. It’s kind of a needle in a haystack. 

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Daguerreotype courtesy of Stephen Haynes of Minneapolis, Mercy (Harris) (Hampton) Westcott’s 3rd great-grandson

Another possible author candidate for the recipe book is Westcott’s mother Mercy Harris Westcott (1755-1837), whose life spanned opposite ends of New Jersey – born in Bound Brook, she died in Bridgeton.

It was Eloise H. Wilson’s parents, Fanny Hampton Kennard and Robert L Wilson who moved the family to Maryland in the 1930s. Other than that, the family tree has the most roots around the Pittsburgh, PA, and Cumberland County New Jersey areas.

That means that this ice cream never was a Maryland recipe. Well, it is now.

My day at the Historical Society of Harford County was a reminder that fascinating recipe manuscripts and cookbooks may be scattered throughout all corners of the state. There could be one in a library near you… or perhaps in your own home. (If it’s the latter… invite me over!)

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Recipe:

“Take 3 qts of new milk, boil it, have ready ten eggs, 2 lbs of white sugar, 4 tablespoonfuls of flour, beat them altogether with grated rind of three lemons, when the milk boils pour it on the ingredients, stir it up, put it on the fire, let it just come to a simmer, set it away to cool, when cold add the juice of the lemons, 1 qt of rich cream, strain through a sieve, then freeze.”

Recipe from “Cookbook 1810,” Eloise H. Wilson Collection, Historical Society of Harford County 

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Stuffed Ham, Revisited

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A lot has changed since the New York Times ran an article on Southern Maryland Stuffed Ham in 1982. That article described stuffed ham as a curious, acquired taste. “Occasionally one hears of a newcomer – a visitor, even – whose sensitive palate quivers with delight at the first piquant bite,” wrote the article’s author, Mary Z. Gray. “For those who can take it, the dish is especially savored because it is available only in southern Maryland.”

Nowadays, we live in an age of commodification and a collectors’ mentality about foods to try. The nebulous concept of ‘authenticity’ offers an alluring selling point to many diners. The comments on the Times’ March 2018 article about stuffed ham generally fall into two categories: fond reminisces or “I gotta try this!”

I haven’t had stuffed ham since I finished the final frozen remains of last year’s attempt. I’m pretty sure I swore off the process of ever making stuffed ham again, but that damned Times article just made the temptation too much to bear.

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Originally, I had intended to work on a variation of former City Paper food writer Henry Hong’s “Fake Ass Stuffed Ham.” Hong is one of the few brave souls who have attempted to adapt the process to something a little more practical. Hong’s recipe called for a Boston Butt which is brined overnight before being rolled up with the requisite stuffings.

With a week until Easter, I decided I’d brine the ham with pink curing salt for a week for a flavor more similar to the Manger Packing Corporation’s hams (which contain nitrite).

This necessitated that I buy the meat that very day. I ended up leaving several grocery stores and a butcher shop empty-handed before finally catching a ride to Giant. Giant happened to have fresh hams so I ended up dropping the whole Boston Butt thing and going with a ham. From there I abandoned any attempt to make this easy.

Kind of makes this entire post pointless, doesn’t it?

Some key differences from last time:

  • I cut off all that tough skin from the ham. None of my recipes specify to do that for some reason (perhaps it should be obvious?) but some of the recipes online do, and it was an improvement. I may throw the cut-away parts in some scrapple or something.
  • This ham brined for a week in my fridge. I’d like to try it again and give it a full month.
  • I blanched the greens and chopped them in a food processor instead of hand-chopping. Definitely the way to go! I also used the mini-chopper to process a lot of black and red pepper.
  • Last but not least…. I de-boned the ham. After watching some youtube videos I took a deep breath and gave it a try. Not the most elegant operation, but I was able to use much more stuffing.

I cut some slits outward from the “bone hole,” and then I cut some additional outer slits in the spaces between them. The whole time, I recalled this quote from Rob Kasper’s article on Stuffed Ham in the Baltimore Sun in 1988:

Ham Bone advocates cook the ham with the bone still in it. They argue that the bone gives flavor and posture to a stuffed ham. Anti-bone forces contend that with the bone removed, the ham is easier to slice and  ‘you can fill up the bone-hole with more stuffing.’”

Almost lyrical.

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Stuffed Ham Recipes, Southern Heritage Cookbook Library

As I  labored away at the incisions, I thought of the point of the blog itself… oftentimes I simply want to taste food that I wouldn’t otherwise. Hearth cooks like Michael Twitty perform their cooking processes as a way of channeling lost voices of the past. Is it possible to channel the living?

I do know that every time I make the ham I think of kindly Bertha Hunt and her connection with her mother… the rightful pride imbued in this labor-intensive tradition. My own mother taught me the basics of carpentry, and even as I acquire new skills I am building on what I learned from her.

While engaged in the act of cooking other peoples’ recipes, I often imagine the ways in which a more experienced person would handle the process. Perhaps  a stuffed ham pro would maneuver the ham expertly, making swift cuts in all the right places. I think about this as I wrangle and struggle with this ridiculous big piece of meat.

Is stuffed ham in any danger of extinction? Perhaps not. But it could be in danger of homogenization, as the home-ham-makers wane, and customers seek out the most “authentic” of hams. In a fascinating article in the Guardian about the British obsession with sandwiches, author Sam Knight interviewed an employee of a large sandwich producer:

“Twenty thousand people a day used to make a ham and cheese sandwich,” said Patrick Crease, a product development manager. “Now this is their ham and cheese sandwich.” I don’t know whether he meant to, but he made this sound somehow profound and irreversible. “There are 20,000 variants that don’t exist anymore.”

I ended this year’s ham-making not by swearing it off but by swearing to make it again, with my excessive red pepper, whatever greens the farmer’s market has to offer, and unskilled hands. Next year I plan to drag some family in on the act.

It may not be authentic, but it is mine.

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Recipe:

  • 1 fresh ham 7-10 lbs
  • curing salt I used Prague Powder #1
  • brown sugar or molasses + white sugar
  • regular salt
  • 3 lbs assorted greens: cabbage, mustard, turnip, chard, kale, cress, spinach
  • several stalks celery, chopped
  • 2 bunches green onions, chopped
  • black pepper to taste
  • 1 teaspoon celery seed or to taste
  • dried red pepper to taste

Take enough water to cover your ham in its vessel and heat the water with a ton of salt & curing salt, plus maybe ½ cup of brown sugar, or white sugar + a little molasses, peppercorns if you want. Basically just search the internet and figure out how much salt you need to keep the ham safe. Maybe ask a butcher or something.
Also ask them if you should remove the tough skin before or after brining. When they tell you, email me please.
If you manage to brine the ham for a month then you should probably soak it in some fresh water  before using… old recipes do this a lot. Since mine went for a week and then I cut off the outside I didn’t bother.
Clean up all your greens and roughly chop, then blanch them in salted water in batches, drying VERY well. Process the greens and celery in food processor until chopped.
Grind pepper and red peppers (I used about…. 12 hot pepper pods). Mix all seasonings with greens and green onions.
Cut slits to your preference. I’m officially on team “bone hole” personally. Like…. you could even boil the bone in the pot if you care about the flavor. Stuff the ham and place in a pillowcase or an old clean t-shirt, pat with all the remaining greens and tie it tight.
Boil for 15 minutes per pound (or until internal temp is over 160 degrees… let it go a little beyond that this isn’t some pork roast) then allow the ham to cool in the water before removing to slice and serve.

Recipe adapted from BGE Cookbook “Maryland Classics,” the Southern Heritage Cookbook Library’s “All Pork” and “Family Gatherings” & “300 Years of Black Cooking in St. Mary’s County”

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