The other day I needed to make a salad to
take to a funeral dinner, so I did what any modern kitchen wizard
would do.
I Googled it.
Usually I
just take my go-to specialty for any gathering: orange
sherbert/Jell-O salad. I even keep a supply of orange Jell-O and
mandarin oranges in the cupboard in case of emergency.
The key ingredient, of course, is the
pint of orange sherbert. That's just not something I'm willing to
sacrifice freezer space for long term. And no one wants long-term
orange sherbert, trust me. For some unfathomable reason, pints of
orange sherbert can be very hard to find... especially when I am in
dire need. This always makes me wonder: Is everyone else making
this salad, too?
Do people actually eat orange sherbert by itself? Or is it like Cool Whip (the final ingredient), relegated forever to a supporting role?
Do people actually eat orange sherbert by itself? Or is it like Cool Whip (the final ingredient), relegated forever to a supporting role?
As my wondering grows exponentially,
eventually I arrive at: Do grocery stores on either coast even
stock Jell-O and pints of sherbert?
We in the Midwest do love our Jell-O. Jell-O and sherbert seem to go hand in hand, at least when it comes to salads. Would I want to live in a world without Jell-O? Or sherbert?
We in the Midwest do love our Jell-O. Jell-O and sherbert seem to go hand in hand, at least when it comes to salads. Would I want to live in a world without Jell-O? Or sherbert?
This orange salad is a tradition in my
husband's family. His grandmother used to make it for him and, as he
was the only boy-child in the family, his mother and sisters followed
suit. I'm more than happy to join the enablers because it is an easy,
easy recipe. One that I have only screwed up a couple of
times.
I have even been entrusted with the
special bowl that Grandma always served it in. Or not. That's the
problem with family recipes. There's a certain amount of built-in
ambiguity – or as the hubby calls it “revisionist history.”
Everyone remembers a different bowl and/or salad. (But if
either sister is reading this: You are right. Your sister is wrong.)
While I happily make the salad, I draw
the line at using The Bowl. Despite years of marriage, I carry
outsider guilt. What if I break The Bowl?
Some family members think The Bowl was used for the other salad – a strawberry concoction that (may or may not have) had a pretzel crust and layer of cream cheese. Then again, either of the salads (orange or strawberry) may (or may not have) been made in a ring mold.
Some family members think The Bowl was used for the other salad – a strawberry concoction that (may or may not have) had a pretzel crust and layer of cream cheese. Then again, either of the salads (orange or strawberry) may (or may not have) been made in a ring mold.
Of course it's not just my husband's
family who perpetuate the whole recipe/serving dish family tradition.
My grandma always made what (I swear) she called
“Heavenly Hash,” although if you Google it, you'll need to look
for “Waldorf Salad.” Her version featured Cool Whip,
mini-marshmallows, apple chunks, pecans, and swearing whilst halving
the red grapes to remove the seeds. And it was always – always
– served in a white milk-glass bowl.
My mom always made Four-Layer Dessert
for funerals and other functions. She usually made chocolate
(topped with chocolate curls) or coconut (with toasted coconut), but she was also known to make the occasional banana version (with
real banana slices) if she was feeling wild and crazy.
My first memory of this dessert was a
pistachio version made for a 4-H meeting, back when we always had
color-coordinated refreshments served on glass snack trays. The punch
(usually featuring sherbert) was served in matching glass cups,
ladled out of an honest-to-God (glass) punch bowl.
The hub's family calls this dessert
Texas Special, and it is almost exclusively chocolate. Not that I'm
complaining. Everything tastes better when someone else make it.
I, myself, am a complete and total
failure when it comes to making this dessert. I am unable (no matter
how many tips my sisters-in-law give me) to successfully make the
crust. However, I do double up on the cream cheese/Cool Whip/powdered
sugar layer to compensate. In my humble opinion, this layer should be
designated a salad in its own right and served in the Holy Grail.
But I digress.
My Google search for “funeral salads”
was both surprisingly successful (apparently “funeral salads” is
a popular search term), and dishearteningly un-varied. I am currently
taking a class in nutrition, so I am victim of a nagging little voice
that poo-poos all the traditional funerial salads: mayonaise, Cool
Whip, mini-marshmallows, Jell-O... ewww! All of these are
comfort-food – and thus funeral-salad – staples.
The problem is that in a pot-luck
setting, everyone has their own speciality. I could have tried to
branch out to broccoli salad, but someone always brings one of those.
I could have tried pasta salad – ditto. Don't even think about
pea-salad or macaroni salad, the market is covered. And potato salad
straddles that fine line between side dish and salad. Better to
commit a mortal sin than to annoy the church kitchen ladies.
Then there are my own personal food rules:
no mixing veggies and fruit. Or veggies and Jell-O, if I can help it.
God forbid you combine veggies and Cool Whip. Lime Jell-O deserves
its own special ring in Hell. And, although I like raisins in theory
(and by themselves), please keep them out of my salad. I will eat
them in a broccoli salad provided it includes bacon, but I won't be
happy about it.
While we're at it, the only Jell-O I
want at my funeral dinner is Jell-O shots.
Let's just make this easy on every one
and order pizza.
And beer.
And let's do it before I die.
