The I Hate to Cook Book (21 page)

6 ample servings

(Nearly every wild-rice recipe you run into calls for mushrooms—which make an already ridiculously expensive dish more so—but this recipe doesn’t. It’s easy, too, and quite delicious, if I do say so myself.)

1 cup wild rice

3 cups boiling water

salt

1 middle-sized chopped onion (or 6 chopped green onions)

stick of butter, melted

½ cup grated Parmesan

6 strips bacon, fried and crumbled

Wash the rice, being careful not to let one little platinum-plated grain go down the drain. Then add it, with the chopped onion, to the salted boiling water. Simmer this until the water is absorbed—about thirty-five minutes. Now mix in the melted butter and Parmesan. This will sit happily for hours in the top of your double boiler, if it has to. Just before you serve it, mix in most of the chopped bacon, and sprinkle the rest on top.

OR HOW TO BRING THE WATER FOR THE LEMONADE

D
o you see that shaft of sunny sunshine cutting the kitchen murk? This, friends, is the Potluck Supper—quite the best invention since the restaurant.

Potluck, of course, seldom means potluck. Once in a while, potluck means that your hostess hasn’t decided yet what she’s going to serve, and, in any case, doesn’t intend to knock herself out. Even so, you’ll find when you get there that she’s done a good bit more than throw another potato into the soup, and you needn’t think the family eats that high on the hog every day in the week, because they don’t.

More often, however, potluck means a supper to which every lady brings a covered dish.

Think of the advantages here!

First, you need to cook
only one thing.

Second, having cooked and brought your one thing, you don’t actually
owe
anyone a dinner, and you needn’t invite them to your house unless you feel like it.

The one trouble with Potluck, when you hate to cook, is that you never can think of anything interesting to bring; and so you usually end up bringing a Covered Dish and hoping it stays covered.

It is this situation that the recipes in this chapter are designed to ameliorate. They are a little different from the usual line of groceries, and most of them look and taste like more trouble than they were.

First, however, a word of advice on how to handle yourself when a Potluck is being planned.

Beware of the entrée.
The entrée is usually the most trouble, as well as the most expensive. So never volunteer for it. Instead, volunteer somebody else.

“Ethel,
would
you make that marvelous goulash of yours?” you can say. The other ladies will probably join in—it would be rude not to, especially if they’ve ever tasted Ethel’s goulash—and while Ethel is modestly dusting her manicure on her lapel, you can murmur something about bringing a couple of your delectable

     LEFT BANK FRENCH LOAVES     

2 loaves sour-dough French bread

2 sticks softened butter

1 package onion-soup mix

You split the loaves in half, the long way. Then cream the onion-soup mix and butter together. Spread this on all the cut
sides, then put them back together again, wrap the loaves in aluminum foil, and throw them in the back seat of the car. When you get to the party, you can ask your hostess nicely to put them in a 350˚ oven for twenty minutes. Open the foil a bit to keep them crisp.

Another good gambit, when a Potluck is under discussion, is to move in fast with the dessert. You say, “Girls, I’ll bring my wonderful Hootenholler Whisky Cake!” (These things must always be done with a good show of enthusiasm.) Suggesting this Whisky Cake is a shrewd move, too, because you can make it six months ago; it’s easy and very good; it’s cheap, as good cakes go; and as good cakes go, it goes a long way. Also, it has a rakish sound that is rather intriguing.

     HOOTENHOLLER WHISKY CAKE     

½ cup butter

1 cup sugar

3 beaten eggs

1 cup flour

½ teaspoon baking powder

¼ teaspoon salt

½ teaspoon nutmeg

¼ cup milk

¼ cup molasses

¼ teaspoon baking soda

1 pound seedless raisins

2 cups chopped pecans (walnuts will do, but pecans are better)

¼ cup bourbon whisky

First, take the whisky out of the cupboard, and have a small snort for medicinal purposes. Now, cream the butter with the sugar, and add the beaten eggs. Mix together the flour, baking powder, salt, and nutmeg, and add it to the butter mixture. Then add the milk. Now put the baking soda into the molasses and mix it up and add
that
. Then add the raisins, nuts, and whisky. Pour it into a greased and floured loaf pan and bake it at 300˚ for two hours.

Your Whisky Cake keeps practically forever, wrapped in aluminum foil, in your refrigerator. It gets better and better, too, if you buck it up once in a while by stabbing it with an ice pick and injecting a little more whisky with an eye dropper.

Another good thing to jump at is the dip and/or canapé bit. This may seem a little odd to the other ladies, but you can say—to the prospective hostess—“Oh, let me bring some odds and ends, and you won’t have to go to all that bother.” Nor will you, because all you need to do is pick the easiest dip recipe out of
Chapter 8
—say, for instance, the onion-soup-mix–avocado business on
here
—and assemble a few boxes of variegated cocktail crackers. If for some reason you want to indicate that your heart is really in this, you can also put some 5 O’Clock Biscuits (
here
) on a cookie sheet and bring them as well.

And don’t forget about the salad!

“I’ve got this gorgeous new dressing I think you’ll love!” you can cry. You can then collect some varied greenery, arrange it in a bowl, and bring along a jar of:

     PRETTY TOMATO DRESSING     

Just mix these things together

3 whole green onions, minced

3 sprigs parsley, chopped fine

2 large tomatoes, diced

¼ cup Parmesan

1 teaspoon paprika

1½ teaspoons salt

1 tablespoon vinegar

1 cup sour cream

Another good salad you might volunteer to bring is Aunt Bebe’s Bean Bowl, which has a number of plus factors in its favor. You make it the day before, men usually like it quite well, and it’s easy to carry—just a jar of the bean mixture and some lettuce to line the salad bowl. Don’t be afraid of that three quarters of a cup of sugar, incidentally, as I was. I thought, “This will
never
work out!” And I thought, further, “Who is
that
fond of beans?” But it did and I was.

     AUNT BEBE’S BEAN BOWL