The congealed concoction pictured above is actually one of the least repugnant dishes that Americans were so enamored of in the 1950s and 60s, and even into the 1970s. There it is, an elaborately layered composite of garden vegetables safely encased in a nice, neat covering of gelatin.  It looks good enough to serve at dinner when Hubby’s boss comes over, right? 

But wait, it gets worse.

This appetizer, meant to be spread on crackers, consists of finely chopped ham, cream cheese, sliced green onions, pickle relish, slivered almonds, and Miracle Whip to hold it all together. Imagine a buffet with this creation on the table today. Better not; its rightful place is in the gallery of horrible past foods. 

Still, a modern-day blogger whose taste seems to match the palate of the 1950s reproduced the dish, with some adjustments. And good luck to her, I say. 

To really give you the willies, here’s a dish whose name and ingredients are unknown. It looks like ground beef, or possibly Spam, and onions and peppers, possibly baked in a bundt  mold, cooled and slathered with mayo tinted with green food coloring – sort of a glorified meat loaf – but your guess is as good as mine. 

The magazines of the 50s and 60s initially offered these recipes to American women who needed a handsome buffet dish that stayed in one neat piece on the plate. Later the recipes emphasized using up leftovers and making prep-ahead foods for the working mother who needed to put dinner on the table fast.

Here’s an example:  leftover roast pork mold. All the ingredients, except for the leftover meat and a green pepper, come out of cans.

Fancy molded dishes were always status symbols.  Molds that survived from medieval times can be viewed at some museums. As long ago as 1520, Henry VIII enjoyed a jelly consisting of squares of rose-flavored milk jelly made more precious by gold leaf. 

Source: www.historicfood.com

Elaborate dessert molds from the 17th and 18th century exist. Mrs. Beeton’s famous  “Book of Household Management” (1861) offers a variety of molded jelly desserts, some tinted with cochineal (a dried, powdered insect that yields a red color and which is still used in some industrial foods).

Over time, the domestic servants needed to produce these culinary marvels were replaced by appliances. The vacuum cleaner, the electric iron, and the refrigerator were new-fangled status symbols. Some food historians suggest that a fancy, gelatin-based food, which had to come out of a refrigerator, subtly reflected the affluence of the household. In other words, showing off with food, just as they did back in Henry VIII’s time.

Others propose that the emphasis on using up leftovers in gelatin was a  thrifty hangover from the austere WW2 years. 

We look back on those mid-20th century congealed foods with a shudder. Those were the days of the “Sensational Avocado-Turkey Crown,” which allowed the wise American housewife to use up “tag ends of turkey.” The days of the Can-Opener Cookbook (Poppy Cannon, 1951).  But we understand the appeal of industrial foods like gelatin, mayonnaise, and canned vegetables. A woman could, for example, turn a couple of cans of Spam and biscuit mix into a quick, filling and cheap dinner for the family.

There’s not much to be said in favor of the foods concocted out of industrial ingredients except that they did offer convenience and economy.  I may view them with repugnance, but I respect the women who saw them as God-sent answers to the pressures of fitting into the job market and running their homes at modern standards in the post-Great Depression and post-WW2 era. Those grandmothers were convinced that they were doing their best in the brave new world.

A final quickly prepared family meal: Spagetti-O (canned pasta) Jello salad with a fillip: boiled hot dog sticks. And no, I’m not giving the recipe. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

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Khirret, an old-fashioned sweet made in southern Iraq, is concocted from male cattail reed pollen. It’s intriguing as an historical relict, but not so much for its taste. People who still remember the flavor and texture of khirret agree that it tasted faintly-sweet and felt like chalk in the mouth. Best known in Iraqi culinary history, it might be one of those foods best left to history altogether.

Cattail reeds are a useful plant that has helped sustain indigenous people wherever it grows, around the globe. Native Americans have many uses for all of its parts.Traces of cattail tubers have been found in crumbs of Neolithic bread found in Jordan. Those long-ago people wasted nothing they found nutritious.

And Iraqi tradition, according to food historian Nawal Nassralah, knew the value of khirret well:

Khirret as medicine

“Khirret is a nutritious food high in protein, and its medicinal benefits are believed to be many. People eat it to relieve indigestion. It is said to be good for the colon and respiratory tract. It is used to cleanse the urinary system and stop diarrhea. The raw pollen is put on wounds to heal them. It is also popular among women during the early stages of pregnancy. Moreover, it come in very handy for bee-keepers, who use it to feed their bees.”

An Indian blogger at sindhirasoi.com also has memories of khirret, which she knows as bhuri. As she recalls, eating it was less than pleasant. She describes the flavor as fermented-floral. But her parents encouraged the family to eat it, presumably because it was cheap and nutritious.  It has almost disappeared in her culture as well. 

Recipe for khirret

To make khirret, you first need to row out to where the reeds grow in a marsh and gather cattail reeds plump with bright yellow pollen. Back on dry land, you strip the pollen off the stalks with your hands, sieve the collected material to separate any insects, and set it out to dry in the sun. A video below shows how it’s done.

Mixed with sugar, the pollen is then steamed inside a cloth until solid, traditionally over a boiling pot whose edges are sealed with mud. There must be a point in which the experienced khirret cook knows it’s ready, but that’s information no one has provided. Someone wants to take on the challenge?

It’s then broken up  into irregular chunks and is ready to eat. 

What brought Nasrallah’s attention to khirret was a memoir of life in Bagdad in the 1920s by the scholar Abbas Baghdadi. He recollects khirret as being a street food manufactured only by Jewish vendors.  He says that the Jews of Bagdad ate it especially at the festival of Purim, which occurs in March/April – just when the male cattail reeds are loaded with pollen and ready for processing.

I asked food historian and chef Moshe Basson,  69 years-old and himself a descendant of Iraqi Jews, if he had memories of eating khirret. He doesn’t recall eating it, although he knew what it was from hearing of it at home: perhaps his parents mentioned it at around Purim.

There’s no folklore or connection with Biblical stories about the candy that Basson is aware of. Presumably it was simply a seasonal treat whose golden color was appropriate to the general air of festivity at the time. He does recall that his childhood Purim treats included a coconut candy that was also bright yellow; maybe a reference to the khirret tradition left behind.

Iraqi Jews abandoned khirret when they left Iraq for Israel. There’s very little marshland in Israel, and that located in two nature reserves. They took to agricultural work and small businesses, and so the tradition in Israel has died away. 

Khirret is still made in southern Iraq and other parts of the Middle East, but it’s appreciated for its rarity, rather than a sweet that stands in competition with commercial candies. But as for its medicinal value? Worth exploring more.

Photos of khirret and reed with pollen from Nawal Nasrallah’s blog, In My Iraqi Kitchen.

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