Yesterday my nephew Daniel e-mailed me for my jello mold recipe. He and his wife Laura are hosting their first seder. I was touched that Daniel wouldn't consider it an authentic holiday meal without my usual contribution to family gatherings. He wondered if I would mind sharing my recipe. I was flattered that he wanted it and enjoyed Laura's recent e-mail about successfully preparing the first layer of jello last night. So for them, and the rest of you, here is an essay. The recipe will follow.
I prepared a small dinner party for six friends a few weeks back: lemon chicken, tricolored pasta salad, Sicilian olive loaf and jello mold. When I set the jello down on the diningroom table, my friend Howard exclaimed: “It’s like the High Holidays at Grandma’s...Who makes jello anymore?” I make jello because it’s a refreshing accompaniment to any meal. It adds color to the plate and it’s not too sweet; just a touch of freshness.
When I became part of my husband’s family I discovered that holidays were a pot-luck affair with everyone taking turns hosting the growing group of relatives, so that no one family would always shoulder the full responsibility. This pot-luck quality was a great idea because each woman (no man cooked on these occasions although many washed dishes or vacuumed) brought her favorite dish, so the meal was scrumptious. My mother-in-law kindly suggested: “Why don’t you make jello mold? It’s what I used to make for my husband’s family, before I could make anything else.”
I immediately liked the idea of making jello, because my grandmother had always brought her molds along with her fancy baked desserts to holiday gatherings at my mother’s house. My grandfather carried the molds into the kitchen with much fanfare: star shapes, pineapples and hearts filled with cranberry jello, walnuts and pears. My grandmother’s ability to successfully create jello in these shapes impressed me even more than her six-inch high Passover sponge cake or her butterscotch, chocolate chip brownies.
The first Rosh Hashanah that I made Mandarin Orange Mold (orange jello, sour cream and mandarin oranges,) I had trouble unmolding it. I didn’t know how to time leaving the mold in hot water, so I wound up with a river of orange jello oozing around the serving plate. “Don’t worry about it.” My mother-in-law encouraged me. “That always happened to me...that’s why I learned to make brisket. You can’t kill that meat. Do you have any oranges? Just slice them up and put them around the plate. They sop up the runny jello.”
I discovered that my husband’s relatives loved my imperfect jello, so I perfected it. I figured out that if I sprayed the mold with corn oil before pouring in the jello and put the mold in hot water for twelve seconds when I was ready to unmold it, it would come out nicely each time. I became adventurous, making layered molds with varied flavors and fruit fillings. Yet I found that lemon and lime jello were too tart, and no other canned fruits tasted quite as tangy as mandarin oranges. I experimented with Grandma’s cranberry jello, but never got the rave reviews that strawberry, raspberry, cherry or orange jello whipped with sour cream always received.
Over the years I’ve brought hot apple pies, fruit compotes and matzah kugels to family gatherings; but I’m always asked to please make jello again if it’s not too much trouble. It’s no trouble for me. It looks impressive because the layers are firm, line up perfectly, and I garnish the serving plate attractively with fresh berries. But really, the only talent involved is planning ahead so that each layer can harden overnight.
When I prepared dinner recently for my daughter and several of her friends, I smiled to myself when she set the jello down on the table and exclaimed:
“This is my mom’s famous jello mold, a specialty of the house!”
I’ve decided it’s not a bad thing to be known for. After all, how often are you served jello except in hospital rooms and cafeterias? And even so, that’s just plain jello.
