And the award for worst cellophane AND parenting practices goes to…. Du Pont!

You guys.

I don’t even.

I mean…

I just…

Surely that ad was a mistake, and they’d never run something so completely insane again right?

Really?

Well then.

Oh.

Oh dear.

TGHP Day 10: Recappin’ and then, telling him how grand he is

My days have seem to have run together in a never ending whirl of aprons, casseroles, scrubbing, threats of jello molds and always present shoulder bursitis.

But, since Ive been doing this for a  little over a week now– and I can only talk about casseroles so many times before I become a terrible bore– I think I oughta start with a recap.

– My house is cleaner and more presentable than it’s been in ages. I wasn’t exactly a terrible housekeeper before, but the new habits I am developing are keeping things at a much higher standard at all times. I like that if I have unexpected guests drop by (and please dont do that, seriously. A girl needs a bit of warning so that she can put pants on.) that I will not be stressed and uncomfortable about clutter/dust I have been ignoring.  Anyway, once I got things to a presentable level, it’s so much easier to spend 5 minutes a day maintaining it, then letting it get bad again and having to do all the scrubbing all over again.

-The routine I have adopted when Johnny Rotten gets home from work is going way better than I thought it would. I never really ignored him when he got home, but quickly freshening up and then going over to greet him with a “Hi, how was your day?” is a whole lot more than than me simply calling out “Hey” from whatever room I happened to be in at the time. He feels appreciated, I feel far more put together and ready to shift gears into him being home, and this whole routine is a win.

-Expanding my horizons into vintagey cleaning products has been great. While there are a few that I’m not wild about, for the most part, they persisted for a reason. My mom pointed out that perhaps vintage cleaning products are meant for vintage materials, like my formica countertop. Smart lady. It seems as though they are.

-I have a whole new appreciation for my modern appliances. A couple of days ago, I decided to make a pot of coffee with my stovetop percolator instead of my coffeemaker, and while the coffee was excellent, it took 25 minutes to make, and that was simply unacceptable to me. When I want coffee, I want it NOW.

I love you, old timey percolator,  but I can’t wait my whole life for you. Its not you. It’s me.

My immersion blender, my breadmaker, my super quick electric kettle and my microwave are also now treasured items in my life, and after attempting to make things without their help, I have a whole new understanding of exactly how hard ladies from the midcentury worked and the patience and timing they had to have in order to put even a basic meal together.

-I have learned that gartered stockings are the worst thing ever. They look great and far more classy than pantyhose, but only until they start sagging and bagging and pinching your bum with the little clip thingies with every step you take. You cant look like a classy lady when you are constantly dealing with surprise bum pinches, so we’re going to file that under “N” for “No”, “Nuh uh” and “Never again”.

-Vintage cookbooks are fun and the meals– though scary looking sometimes– are often surprisingly tasty and economical. However, I do not approve of the amount of MSG they call for. Two part question: Can you even still buy that? If so, for the love all thats good and right, WHY?

-I cannot bring myself to make jello molds. Sure, they look all pretty, but then I realize it’s boiled horse toenails and it puts me right off that idea, even if it is lime flavored and full of mini marshmallows and celery.

Does anyone know what wine goes best with horse toenails?

Anyway, The Good Housewife Project has gone smashingly well so far. Yes, smashingly. I’ve learned a lot, developed quite a few new good habits, and I’m having a lot of fun.

It struck me, a few days ago, how indulgent Johnny Rotten was of this idea, even though he clearly did not think it was swell when I first announced that I was going to do this. And, I should point out, that he did not actually have any say in this matter. It wasn’t a matter of “Hey sweetie, what do you think?”, it was more of “For the next three weeks, I am going to make you food with scary names like ‘Party Loaf’ and while you don’t have to like them, you are going to eat them.”

He’s not one to turn down food other people make. I guess years in the military trained him to like just about anything that doesn’t come out of an MRE bag. But, I was honestly surprised how he’s gotten into this whole thing. He’s surprised me with cute new aprons. He’s gone to the thrift store and picked out all the midcentury cookbooks he could find, knowing full well that I’m going to make him eat the recipes inside. He’s been just grand.

But, how do I tell someone who is being just grand that they are, in fact, being grand?

Maybe this’ll help.

It’s a Wittnauer 10k gold filled watch, from the early 1950’s, I believe. It’s a little beaten up, but it runs, um, like a clock, and it’s so, so pretty. I just got it in the mail today (and can I tell you how happy I am that I don’t live in an era without ebay? Egads, the horror of that thought) and I can’t wait to give it to him.

Cross your fingers for me that he likes it!

TGHP Day 7: Ready to take on Cobra Kai

I didn’t post yesterday. A lady cannot possibly blog every single day and maintain her wit and charm, or she’ll get the vapors. No one wants the vapors, so yeah. I took a day off from this. I did not, however, take a day off from housewifing, . Today’s entry is all about wax–not the hair removal wax that I have already proven is too dangerous for me to have– and is a review, because I am a helpful kind of lady when I don’t have the vapors.

 

Step 1: Wax on. Step 2: Wax off. Step 3: Repeat steps 1 and 2 until desired level of gleaminess is achieved.

All right. Review time! Here we go!

First is Butcher block conditioner:

 

The butcher block conditioner is a new love of mine, and while it’s not super retro-y, it is super handy to have. As I mentioned before, I picked up some battered (and not in the good way, like mozza sticks are battered) podwood/monkey wood/acacia midcentury  snack bowls at the thrift store for about $0.99 each, and the butcher block conditioner took most of the scratches right out.  I then tried it on my rolling pin and wooden spoons, and they looks better than they did when they were new.

This stuff is really easy to apply, is food safe, and has no significant odor. I’d say I’d buy it again, but considering how little I had to use, I think I’ll be having to bequeath the rest of the bottle to someone upon my death of really, really, really old age.

Verdict: If you have heirs to whom you can give wood conditioner, buy this stuff. Its great!

 

Next is Johnson’s Paste Wax:

 

As I told you guys last time, I got a new-to-me vintage dining room furniture set. It’s gorgeous and I love it, and I need to stop talking about it before I dissolve into a fit in excited, incomprehensible babbling and idiotic hand clapping.

I used Johnson’s on it, and while I like it, I also hate it, but I like it… but, I hate it. It gives a great satiny shine, and the wood feeeeeeeeeeeeeels good after being waxed and buffed. It leaves a really nice finish, and doesn’t seem to attract dust and pet hair like furniture dusting sprays do.

(You know there’s a but coming, right? Wait for it….)

But.

(There you go. I bet it feels good to get rid of that “She’s going to say but” anxiety!)

But. It stinks like shoe polish, and I got The Vapors at least twice from the fumes while buffing. And holy cow, it is a chore to buff off completely. As I was buffing and buffing and buffing, I realized that pretty much every housewife who used Johnsons would be able to compete in a pro arm-wrestling circuit, if there was such a thing. It is work.

I actually feel like a whiny baby for about complaining about buffing the table. Apparently, ladies of the time used to do their floors regularly with this stuff. My hat is off to them, but I think I’ll stick with my new fangled floor products. Waxing my floor by hand is a serious limit for me. No. Just no. 

The Verdict: Johnson’s paste wax provided a great shine, a weird headache from the fumes, and a workout like I’ve never had before. I don’t know how I feel about this.

Last up is Jubilee Kitchen Wax:

I saved the best for last, and I’d like you guys to meet my new best friend Jubilee Kitchen Wax. (“Guys, this is Jubilee Wax. Jubilee Wax, these are the guys.”) This was taken off the market for approximately a gazillion and four years, but has recently returned much to the delight of people who are far better housekeepers than I.

And, I admit that I can totally see why. I’m in full on love with it. I guess it’s meant to polish and protect your stove front, your fridge, your toaster and other kitchen food-prep-things, and it does. Everything is reflective and much cleaner looking, and fingerprints seem to wipe off much easier. However, it really shines– pun fully intended– in the bathroom. I wouldn’t use it on the floor or tub because of slipping risk, but omgomgomgomgyouguys, everything now glistens in there, from the faucets to the green tile someone installed to halfway up the wall because it was 1952 and green wall tile was the hip new craze, like the twist or um….going to the sock hop with your best gal in one hand and a malted shake in the other. Anyway, water spots wipe right off, pet hair doesn’t seem to want to stick to the tile, and my bathroom is now so much easier to maintain.

The Verdict: I can’t talk right now, I’m too busy gurgling delightedly over the shininess.

I waxed on. I waxed off. I’m ready to blind Cobra Kai with my shiny appliances, wood furnishings and bathroom tiles. Go me!

 

 

TGHP Day 5: The Midcentury Era Thinks You Suck (And So Does Your Spouse)

Today, I really didn’t housewife it up much because the lovely Johnny Rotten and I were out shopping. I finally harangued sweet talked him into going out to look for a dining room table that ISN’T a patio set reject from before we were married, and surprise of all surprises, he not only agreed to look, but we are having a Duncan!! Phyfe!! reproduction!! from 1940ish!!! dining room set!!! delivered some time within the next week.

I guess I’m both cute and vitamin-enriched lately, because he just couldn’t resist my pleas for a real table.

So anyway, I’m 31 flavors of stoked about that, but I really didn’t do anything midcentury at all today, other than the daily tidying up that has become the norm around here. I’ll be posting photos the moment the set arrives, because YOU-GUYS-ITS-SO-PRETTY-AND-AWESOME!!!

Speaking of pretty and awesome though, did you know that you’re not? I mean, I personally think you totally are, and I mean that for each and every one of you, but the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s would beg to differ. In fact, they’ve been meaning to talk to you about a few things.

First of all, your stocking maintenance has really been lacking lately, and you spouse can no longer admire you.

And if you aren’t serving him breakfast in bed on your knees while he’s inexplicably dressed in a suit and tie, you’re wifing so wrong.

 

I mean, he’s willing to be benevolent, but let’s face it, you’re pretty inept at ALL THE THINGS. Sorry to tell you, but you need to know.

 

Your choice of coffee is so bad, you deserve to be physically assaulted.

Even if you’re an outstanding cook, and your choice of coffee is superb, you’d still better not get older. Your husband won’t love you any more, and understandably so.  Girl, THAT SKIN. Stop it.

It’s not just middle aged women with middle aged skin that go unloved. If you don’t brush with the right toothpaste, 4 out of 5 dentists agree that your husband will stray.

But really, there’s one problem that’s more of a problem than the rest of your (many, many, many) problems.

You haven’t cleaned your nether regions with Lysol, and you suck as a person. More importantly, you suck as a wife.

No. He would not. In fact, it seems pretty clear that you disgust him in every single way he could ever think of, and even in a few ways he hadn’t thought of. Maybe you should go talk to your friends instead?

Just kidding. You disgust them too.

 

Holy cow, you guys. I need a cookie and a hug just for reading through all of those.

TGHP, Day 4: I’ve been possessed!

Today I baked like a woman possessed. I have seen The Exorcist, and it wasn’t that kind of sweary, head-spinning possession, so Im figuring it was a much friendlier ghost that possessed me. Maybe Julia Child? Everything I made today turned out well, and I was irrepressibly cheerful and Google tells me that she passed away in 2004, so it’s entirely possible.  I don’t mean to get all “It was a ghost” on you guys, but really, all the evidence points in one direction.

It was her!

First up was a simple pumpkin bread with dried cranberries and pecan bits. I didn’t take a picture because it was a gussied up boxed mix, but it turned out splendidly. I made two pans of it– one decoy cake for the family to try today, and one for the freezer for midmorning teatime with company.

It’s funny that I make decoy cakes, but that’s how it has to be with Batman in the house. If she sees a baked item cooling, she will help herself to it, regardless of whether she’s been explicitly forbidden to do that very thing or not. Frosting gets poked, the cookies dwindle until there are only 3 left on the cooling rack (“there’s still some left. Maybe if I space them out evenly, mom won’t notice 90% are missing?”), and cakes end up gouged. Its impossible to recover from in any aesthetically pleasing way.   She can help herself to the test batch, make suggestions on how it might be better, and most importantly, leave the real baked goods alone.

Batman wuz here!

Anyway. The pumpkin bread was pretty darned good. The “recipe” is simply to make the mix as Ms. Crocker tells you, then stir 1/2 cup pecans and 1/2 cup dried cranberries into the mix before pouring in your pan and baking.

It was easy. Too easy, as a matter of fact. I understand how those prepackaged cakes are great for the career gal (that’s what we call them, way back here in nineteen-fif-sixty-mumblemumble) but it wasn’t really what I had in mind for baking today, so I ended up developing a recipe.

Wait. That sounds far too fancypants and gives me far too much credit for knowing what I’m doing in the kitchen. I did develop a recipe, but it was more because I didn’t realize until halfway through making a recipe that I was out of a key ingredient or six and had to substitute on the fly. You know how your home ec teacher told you to alwaysalwaysalways read through recipes before you actually did anything, just in case you didn’t have everything you needed? Naw. Unnecessary. Just have a sense of adventure and call it ‘recipe development’, and you’ll be fine.

Recipe I kind of invented: The Fruited Cinnamon Roll Things, or, “What happened to all of the raisins?!”

You’ll need:

Dough of your choosing, dried fruit, spices, butter, brown sugar.

Use your favorite cinnamon roll dough. I made mine in a breadmaker’s dough cycle, because I felt far more like pushing a button than actually kneading. Use your breadmaker, make it the old fashioned way, or use some pre-made cinnamon roll/pizza dough from your grocery refrigerator case. Seriously, do whatever you want. Even if I were going to come to your house and judge you for your choice, you could be condescending and tell me that you were simply developing a recipe, and there’s nothing at all that I can say about that. Fair’s fair, and shhhh…. I do this all the time.

For the filling, I used 1 1/2 cups chopped up dried fruit mix (apples, apricots, peaches and plums) and a handful/end-of-the-bag of pecan bits, tossed with 1 cup packed brown sugar, 1 tbsp cinnamon, 1 tsp of nutmeg, 1 tsp of ginger, and a dash of salt because the salt shaker dropped out of the cupboard and landed in my bowl, spilling some. I’d say a scant 1/16 tsp of salt, but feel free to omit that part because it’s messy, unnecessary and startling. Use what you want though– I’m not here to tell you how to live your life or how to bake fruit into things.

Roll out the dough, brush with 2 tbsp melted butter, then sprinkle about 2/3 of the filling mix on to the dough. Roll it up and pinch to seal.

Lightly spray your pan with baking spray, then melt 1 tbsp of butter in there, and sprinkle the rest of the filling mix into the pan.

Slice the filled roll, then place slices into the prepared pan. Let rise again until doubled in size, which for me was about an hour.

Bake at 350 for 20 minutes, or until the edges start to turn golden brown and your house smells ah-MAY-zing.

When you get this look on your face, they’re done.

Take out of the oven, let cool for twenty minutes, invert onto your serving plate and glaze.

Since I had no idea how to make a glaze, I sort of winged it. I know it’s this thin frostingy stuff that has no flavor other than “toothhurtingly sweet”, so I aimed for that. I used 2 tbsp of milk, a dash of powdered ginger, and 2 tbsp of date molasses in a glass measuring cup, then topped up the measuring cup with confectioner’s (icing) sugar until it measured just over a cup. I stirred it until it was smooth, then drizzled over the warm rolls.

Johnny Rotten deemed them “blue ribbon at a state fair” good.

Batman’s response to them was “Mrrrrrhhmmmmpphhmm”, with two thumbs up, because her mouth was full.

They’re really rich. They’re really sweet. They’re really great for getting rid of those ends of boxes of dried fruit that I had sitting in my pantry.

I’m actually really proud of these, and I think I should be.

You know, maybe I didn’t actually channel the ghost of Julia Child today. I think I did something more important: I channeled the spirit of Julia Child, and I couldn’t be happier about that.

TGHP, Day 3: The Golden Age of Hot Dogs

Please forgive my lateness on this post. I was headachy and feeling yuck last night, and everything I wrote reeked of hot dog water and self pity.

Apparently you couldn’t swing a cat in a mid20th century cookbook without either hitting a gelatin mold recipe or a recipe involving hot dogs.

From the Good Housekeeping ‘Keep Cool Cookbook’, published in 1967, came yesterday’s lunch.

It’s obviously a loafy thing, and we all know how I love loafy things.

I couldn’t see that photo and just pass it by, you know? It’s too full of hot dog and loafiness. It’s the year 1967 itself, mixed into a pan and baked lovingly for 35 minutes.

See? Easy, especially if you decide that the gravy is an “over my dead, cholesterol riddled body” accompaniment and don’t make it.

So yes, I made it bright and early in the morning, so I wouldn’t get lost in my cleaning fume high and forget.

There’s a bottle of 2008 Albarino with it, because 1) I am a lady of class and distinction, and 2) what else would you have with hotdog loaf thing?

Unfortunately, it was stone cold and full of semi-congealed hot dog grease by the time that Johnny Rotten was due home for lunch. I wasn’t ready to throw in the towel on it, despite his desperate hopes that I would, so I cut off a generous slice, and grilled it with a bit of butter in a pan like I would a grilled cheese sandwich, and hoped for the best.

He tentatively, gingerly cut off a piece, and put it in his mouth like he was expecting it to bite him back.

“This.”, he said, then paused.

“Ahuh? This what?”, I encouraged.

“This is actually really good. It’s like a corn dog, but the crispy grilled outside makes it better than a regular corndog! You should make this again!”

I couldn’t believe that I didn’t notice that before. Cornbread plus hot dog equals corndog, no matter how you make it or what you call it. This frankfurter loaf is the perfect food for people who love corndogs but are irrationally afraid of food on sticks, who really love loaf pans, or maybe live in an area where sticks are hard to find or something.

Someone should tell this guy that he can just use his loaf pan, instead of going out to look for sticks on the frozen tundra.

Final judgment: Frankfurter loaf was a success. Not just an “It’s okay for a vintage recipe” success, but a “nom, this is good, you should make this again” success. Would recommend.

An Urgent Public Service Announcement, Part Two

Dear Internet,

Do you remember when I snarked at all of you about violas and voilas not being the same thing? Okay. Good. I don’t mean to be that guy but may I please talk to you for a moment about aww and awe?

See, the following photo deserves an ‘aww’, because it is cute. You can use ‘Aww’ for cute.

Aww, cute puppies!

You can also use ‘aww’ when something is sad. It’s a bit different, but I have faith that you will understand the context, and will aww appropriately.

Awww, sad clown.

This next one is a bit harder.

Awww, cute! Awww, sad! ALL OF THE AWW!

Then, there’s ‘awe’. ‘Awe’ doesn’t have any place with any of these pictures, because it isn’t a socially accepted noise for when you think something is touching, cute or sad. Awe is a real word, with a real definition, in real dictionaries! Really!

Awe is defined as

n. 1. A mixed emotion of reverence, respect, dread, and wonder inspired by authority, genius, great beauty, sublimity, or might: We felt awe when contemplating the works of Bach. The observers were in awe of the destructive power of the new weapon. 2. Archaic a. The power to inspire dread. b. Dread. I get that the clown above might qualify as an ‘awe’ under the archaic definition. I did feel a bit of dread, but it wasn’t really because of mightiness or sublimity. It was more just… well, clowns. You know. Awe. Not aww, unless it has puppies. You guys, I know I have my grammatical issues. I abuse commas harshly and without a shred of remorse. My sentences run on and on and on and on. I need help with these issues. I’m not perfect.  But, from one imperfect English user to another, could we all please try to get better?

TGHP Day 2: I can file 90% of Today under F for Fail, or for Just Being the Facts of Life.

Today was a blur of a doodoo storm (Oh, language, Amy!)  and Im still pretty busy so rather than give a play by play, I’ll be hitting the highs and lows like a soprano and a baritone singing an offkey duet while accompanied by a chorus of fighting cats who may or may not be in heat.

The Bad:

-I scalded my right hand last night, and while it’s not a Very Awfully Terribly Grievous Injury, it affected my everything today because I was trying to protect it. I was trying to do everything left handed, and I have discovered that my left hand serves no purposes other than making me look reasonably symmetrical and being a place to put rings and bracelets. If you ever asked yourself, “Can Amy do anything at all with her non dominant hand?”, you now have an answer, and that answer is a hearty, bitter laugh right in your face for ever wondering something so ridiculously impossible.

-50’s pop music is terrible. I forced myself to listen today, and despite my saintlike patience and endurance of bad situations,  I just couldn’t take more than 90 mins. Do you know why the bad guys in horror movies always go after the lovestruck, swoony, smitten teenagers in those cheesy flicks? It’s probably because the bad guy was forced to listen to Dion and the Belmonts song “A Teenager in Love” on repeat and is trying to remove any inspiration for more songs along this vein. I get you, Movie Bad Guy. I totally get you.

He knows what he did. But, alas, his self-reflection comes too late and we all have to live with the consequences.

– I tried to freshen up before Johnny Rotten got home for lunch with a lovely smelling spritz of the period-appropriate perfume White Shoulders. While the intention was good, my co-ordination with my left hand was not, and I sprayed myself directly in the mouth, leaving a tuberose and gardenia taste for hours.

Smells like coziness and romance. Tastes like burning and sadness.

-An electrical outlet decided to go out with a literal bang and puff of smoke, so most of the things I had planned for today were put on hold while I investigated whether my house was actively in a state of burning down, and then waiting for an electrician. Not to worry though– all’s well, and it was a quick, inexpensive repair by a licensed professional.

Okay, enough of that. No one likes  a Debbie Downer, so here we go with the good.

– Johnny Rotten is the happiest person in the world with this housewife project, because he gets lunch. Seriously, that’s pretty much it.  If I had known it was this easy to make him so happy, I’d have done it years ago. Im not much of a lunch eater, myself, so I didn’t put a ton of priority on it. That’s not to say I was awful and actively prevented him from eating lunch, but it was hit or miss. Today, I made him a chicken salad sandwich from the leftover party loaf chicken salad mix, and he was THRILLED. I didn’t take a photo to show you, because I’m still pretty astounded that chicken salad sandwiches are that exciting to anyone. If I’m wrong, and you cannot live another day without seeing what he had for lunch, please let me know in the comments, then maybe seek help for your unhealthy interest in other people’s lunches, okay?

-I got my super awesome apron in the mail today, and it fits like a dream! It’s impossible not to be happy while I’m wearing it.

I’m too busy making squealy girl noises to properly caption this photo of my apron.

And speaking of little things, do you guys remember the monkeywood/podwood/acacia snacky-serving bowl things I got at the thrift store a few days ago? I didn’t take before photos, but they were incredibly grimy and scratched up. For 99 cents, they were worth trying to clean up, but I wouldn’t have paid much more for them, given the condition.

After using my new best friend Murphy Oil Soap and then butcher block conditioner, look!!

Gleamy!

So, today. It’s been a day. But, as a wise housemother once said to me, “You take the good. You take the bad. You take them both. And there you have, the facts of life.”

Wise words indeed.

TGHP, day 1: I knew it was going to be a good day when I confused David Lee Roth with Bing Crosby and then confused a sandwich with a cake.

The Good Housewife Project started today with the cat scratching at the bedroom door, me getting up to let him in and then back out again, looking at the time, and then shrieking at Johnny Rotten that his alarm didn’t go off and that he needed to get up Right Now or he’d be late for work. On the bright side, there was no time to chat or to even consider making breakfast, so it was a lot less awkward than it could’ve been, given the hard line he’s taken against both breakfast and talking in the morning.

After he left, I set about my task of making my home a clean, pleasant place to be– but first, I put on some period appropriate music and got myself presentable.

First song up?

Yes. Bing Crosby, singing “Just a Gigolo”. Let that sink in for a minute. Not David Lee Roth as one would assume, but Bing Crosby. That Bing Crosby.

My mind was blown, and I was pretty sure it was a sign of a good day ahead, because c’mon. Bing. Crosby. Singing. Just. A. Gigolo. Here, seriously… go listen. I’ll wait.  (Fixed so it’ll open in a new tab. Now you can listen while you read! ~A)

I don’t even know what to say.But, you’re totally welcome for that. Kinda makes you want to light a fire, dim the lights, pour a glass of good wine, and hire a male companion for the night, doesn’t it? No? Just me? Okay. Anyway….

Most of my day was pretty uneventful.I cleaned like I was a prideful housewife and that my most judgmental acquaintances were coming over for a game of bridge and some finger sandwiches. I got my apron filthy. I baked a loaf of bread, made lunch, got compliments from the spouse on not looking like a hobo, did dish after dish after dish, and by mid-afternoon, I looked like this.

Raise one eyebrow if you are under duress, ma’am.

I wasn’t done yet though, as dinner still needed to be made. What to have, what to have? I checked out party food, because today is the first day of TGHP. I settled on something ominously called “party loaf”. I like loaf things. I like parties. How could it possibly go wrong?

I guess I need to explain what “party loaf” actually is. It’s a sandwich, or actually, a bunch of sandwiches, that are dressed up to look like a cake. Please don’t ask me why, because I can’t even begin to guess at ‘party loaf’ logic. It’s one of those things that just is.

Betty Crocker’s version looks like this:

That’s… kind of pretty-or-something, right? Vaguely celebratory? Festiveish?

Mine turned out like this:

So yeah. Apparently, I’m not a prodigy at decorating sandwiches to look like cake. But, I spent hours on it, and I even made a weird olive and pimento flower as a decoration (because that seems like it’s totally appropriate in a situation like this, of course). Were midcentury meals really as garnish happy as I suspect? All Im seeing is olive slice this and radish rose that when I look up recipes. Im not sure if it’s really offputting or if I’m just jealous of their mad garnishing skills.

As it turns out though, the party loaf was pretty good. Batman grinned through a mouthful and gave me two thumbs up.Johnny Rotten was a harder sell, and went from, “Well, I don’t hate it” to “this is actually pretty good! I was expecting it to be so much worse! ” in a matter of a few bites. Success, I think? What they don’t know, in approving of this recipe, that they have opened the door for far more out there recipes. Poor family.

Now, I’m relaxing. Honestly, truly, I have not sat down almost all day. I took a few breaks here and there, but I have been so incredibly busy in doing things in a far more purposeful way. When I cleaned today, I did not wipe a few things, get on facebook, wipe something else, play with the dog, rinse my rag, read cracked, and so on. I cleaned without distraction, and got so much done. I’m exhausted and sore, but the fam is happy and my house is starting to look great. Feels good, y’all.

Murphy’s Oil Soap, or, Hey, Does This Smell Like Church to You?

While The Good Housewife Project doesn’t actually start until Monday, I had some time today, and since I have company coming at the end of the month, I’d better get to cleaning when and where I can. I’m not going wild though– the experiment hasn’t started, and no one is making breakfast for anyone yet. That’d just be craaaaaaazy.

It strikes me that housewives of olden days seemed to be able to make whites whiter, brights brighter, wood surfaces gleam and floors sparkle in a way that I have never figured out. Maybe it’s that those homemakers just had better cleaning and laundry products than I do, because it’s not at all that they worked a whole lot harder than I do at homemaking. Just kidding, they totally worked harder. But, since I have acquired some retro cleaning products, let’s give them a try anyway, shall we?

First up in this series is Murphy’s Oil Soap. I think I got mine at Target, but I’m sure it’s available pretty much in every cleaning aisle, everywhere.

Murphy’s AND a gold flecked formica backsplash in one photo? All I need is a healthy phobia of communism, and I’d swear I’ve invented time travel.

I’d never, to my knowledge, used Murphy Oil Soap. I knew it existed of course, but I always figured that it was for people who actually cared about the gleaminess of their wood furnishings.

I opened the bottle carefully. Because I sort of paid attention in Mr. S’s high school chemistry class, I knew better than to stick my nose over the bottle and breathe in deeply, and wafted the scent towards my delicate little nose instead.

The scent was sort of…. lemony? Ish? I couldn’t really place where I had smelled this particular smell before, but I knew that I had.

Then it hit me, and I bellowed in a ladylike way for Johnny Rotten to come here RIGHT NOW. He came running out of the bedroom, probably thinking that I had injured myself again. He saw me standing there, very uninjured and holding a bottle of cleaner with a confused look on my face.

“Hey, um, does this smell like….church…. to you?”

He stuck his nose over the bottle and breathed in deeply, because he obviously didn’t have Mr. S as a chemistry teacher, and wrinkled his nose.

“Yeah. That’s church. In a bottle. Can I please go now?”

He wandered off, leaving me to my elation and my scrubbing. See, I figure that the ladies in churches probably have many talents, but they seem to be world class pros at two things: potluck food, and cleaning. Finding a church worthy cleaning product was guaranteed to be as good as finding a church fundraiser cookbook. There’s a reason why “Edna Mae’s Perfectly Mediocre Apple Pie” is never featured. It’s always “Edna Mae’s World Famous Apple Pie” or something. It’s all about reputation. Cleaning products should be the same, I reasoned. If it’s good enough for their gleamy needs, it’ll definitely be good enough for me and my dull, fingerprinted wood items.

Holy cow, yeah. After using it,  I’m a believer. It took off all dustiness and fingerprints, and wasn’t strong smelling or harsh on my skin while I was cleaning. Once I finish this bottle, I will be purchasing it again. It’s good stuff, and after getting used to the smell, I quite like it. It’s clean and nostalgic.

Verdict: Murphy’s Oil Soap has been around for more than a century, and for good reason. It’s a winner.