The olive wreath mold

happy birthday, mom

Hi, it’s Davida!

Guten Tag, Clowns, or whatever Dennis is calling you all these days. I hope everyone had a safe and happy holiday weekend, and that no one is still hungover, otherwise you might not want to read this.

Dennis and I took a jaunt up to Wisconsin last month, and my brother sent me home with an invaluable treasure: my late mother’s recipe box. I say invaluable because not only does it contain precious memories of my childhood, but also because my mother was a baby boomer, which means some of the recipes are truly fucked up relics from decades past in the vein of Beef Fizz.

This is part of my mom’s Sauerbraten recipe. English was her second language and “stick in meat (like you wood a ham)” is simply magnificent.

I pored over the recipes when we got home, set aside a few gems, and didn’t think much of it until I realized my mother’s birthday was this week. It’s today, in fact. And so, in her honor, I present to you something that made my jaw drop: The Olive Wreath Mold. 

The fuck?

I found this recipe in a church cookbook (man, those things always deliver) put together by the St. John’s Women’s Guild of Random Lake, Wisconsin. I do not know these women, and I don’t recall ever hearing that my mom was a member, but I do know that she was a heavy thrift shopper, so it’s possible she purchased it later. 

This particular recipe was contributed by a woman named Opal Gasser. I did find a slightly different recipe online as well, meaning this monstrosity is apparently not an Opal Gasser Original, which somehow makes it worse. No, Miss Opal found this recipe in some woman’s magazine or whatever, thought, “Yoooo, this looks lit” (or “peachy keen” or whatever they said back then) and decided to make it and share it with her friends. I like to think Opal was a top-tier troll.

I assembled the gang and got to work.

Dennis was busy doing real work at his big boy job so this one was all me, even the chopping, which was an adrenaline rush because I have the knife discipline of a three-year-old.

Possibly the most difficult part of the process was grating the cheese.

American cheese is not famous for grating well, or at all. The second most difficult was whipping the cream, because I am weak, and it wasn’t until halfway through that Dennis reminded me that we have an electric beater. And the inclusion of celery was just a kick in the dick, as it’s probably my least favorite vegetable. My enthusiasm for it peaked when I was young and truly believed it was negative calories.

After whipping the cream, I took a break and checked my horoscope. It said, “Your body is a city.” I agreed with this, since putting this dish in there had to be pollution.

Using the pineapple juice as a base for the Jell-O worried me, as there wasn’t really much liquid to work with.

As I stirred in the Jell-O mix, I theorized that pineapple was more expensive back in ye olden days so the cans were probably bulked up with liquid. I have no idea if this is true, but I choose to believe it, because I desperately need some part of this recipe to make sense for my mental health.

This looks 100% toxic.

I made Dennis come look at the jarring mixture. He said the color reminded him of Chicago-style relish, which didn’t make me feel better about eating it. 

It was after folding in the cream that I finally snapped and said, “I can’t believe this is food.”

A brief Googling suggests that the Random Lake St. John’s Women’s Guild has disbanded, which is good news for them, because I was ready to march right into that church and tell God on them for unleashing this demonic recipe into my life.

I lined the bottom of the last Bundt pan Jewel-Osco (our local grocery store chain) had in stock with olives, which I bought pre-sliced.

Apparently this was wrong, because afterward I looked at some pictures online and realized the olives were supposed to be lovingly sliced and placed sparingly as a sort of garnish, not dumped in an unceremonious mess. I had to remind myself that this was a small problem compared to the rest of the recipe, and if it turned out badly, it wasn’t my fault, or even Opal’s. 

Look at me pouring in the mixture, featuring my chaotic mise en place.

Once I poured the unholy mixture on top of the olives, I realized something devastating: there was too much room left in the pan! I stuck it in the fridge anyway and prayed it would never set so I wouldn’t have to eat it.

After around 4 hours, I pulled it out of the fridge.

I had feared that it was too deep inside the pan to come out without a little help, but no, the fucker slopped right out onto the cutting board. I probably could have let it set a little longer, but that would’ve been like rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic.

The first thing I noticed looking at the thing was that it looked very small, and sad.

My olives, instead of providing a charming garnish on the top, ended up swimming around as part of the mix. If I were an old timey businessman coming home after a three-martini lunch and my wife served me this, I would kiss her very sweetly and tell her she tried her best and that she could have the dog in the divorce.

The cross-section (if you can call it that) wasn’t much better, but I steeled my nerves and took a bite.

WARNING: DO NOT MAKE THIS DO NOT MAKE THIS.

Opal. Girl. Talk to me. What did those old biddies in the Women’s Guild do to you? Were they talking shit? Did you catch them being stingy with the offering plate? That’s God’s business. You didn’t have to do this.

The olive situation turned out to be more of a problem than I’d thought, because between them and the added salt the flavor was just too much. The cheese somehow became both mealy and rubbery; in fact, the whole thing was a textural nightmare. As I ate it, I kept pondering what ingredients I could remove to make it better until I thought, well, I could just eat a can of pineapple.

Bizarrely enough, our kitten Sub-Zero was absolutely obsessed, and I had to put my plate up high to get her away from it.\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

[Editor’s note, aka, Dannis: It appears that Sub-Zero is the one that typed in the “\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\" in the caption above. I have left it in so she can be a fully accredited food writer, and congratulations, she just won every James Beard Award and you just lost all of yours.]

Would I make this again? No. Am I glad I made it today? Just for the experience? To build character?

No.

Happy birthday, Mom. I’m so glad you had nothing to do with this recipe, because this old picture I found of you sums up how I’m feeling completely.

My mom playing chess next to my Oma sometime in the 60s.

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Let’s thank Davida for digging deep into the past and unleashing a culinary demon into the modern world. Seriously, what the hell, did people really eat this stuff back then? No wonder the whole world is always so messed up now. Everyone has a permanently upset stomach.

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