Waxing Nostalgic

I've Fallen for a Food Wrap

From Karyl’s Cook & Tell Newsletter (May 2007)

My daughter says I’m the only person she knows who uses waxed paper.

Before I go on, let me interrupt myself to insert a point that might be considered, in any other publication, beside the point. (At Cook & Tell, we’re not always sure just what the point is). I was once informed by an authority apparently higher than my own common sense—a book editor, actually—that the correct form of the phrase denoting paper that is coated on both sides with wax is wax paper, not waxed. Sorry. I do not accept that. The daughter under discussion—whose use of the phrase is limited to occasional reminders, when relevant, that I am the only person she knows who uses the product—also calls it waxed paper. Bless her heart for that. I raised an English major so there’d be another nitpicking grammarian in the family for backup.

So anyway, according to Amie, what I’m using to wrap sandwiches and brownies is passé, archaic, antiquated, old fashioned, quaint, obsolete. It is a relic. Maybe even pre-glacial.

Listen, Kid. Here are some good things about wax paper (I’m trying, I’m trying). It doesn’t stick to itself on its way out of the box the way Saran wrap usually does. You can actually find the leading edge of the roll of your waxed paper with your eyes closed. It cuts good. Okay, English major, book editor, anyone who cares, you want an adverb? Take two. It cuts cleanly and sharply. Its jaunty crispness helps it conform squarely to the sides of tins used for storing cookies. The plastic so-called competition often can be seen crumping out and fainting in a wimpy wad on its descent into uselessness.

You can tear off a square of waxed paper and grate cheese onto it. Would you care to demonstrate that simple job for me, using plastic wrap? Don’t you love it when your grater skids on the limp, slippery square, trapezoid, rhombus—whatever the shape you manage to tear off—of the plastic wrap you laid on the counter to receive the gratings, and how, when you untangle the grater from the clutches of the rumpled plastic, cheese flutters all over the place? To make another point beside the point, I know you grate cheese by hand. You talked me into upgrading my antiquated, obsolete, etc., set of individual graters for one six-sided job like yours, Kid. Although I think yours has five sides.

Wax paper (how can that be correct?) is perfect for collecting spills under a rack of cookies being treated to a dribbly glaze. Roll out piecrusts between layers of the waterproof paper. Drop melted chocolate and peanut candy mounds on waxed paper-lined trays. Wrap it around an ear of corn and nuke it in your microwave: Pre-glacial meets hi-tech. In the heyday of the brown-bag lunch, you just know waxed paper was right there doing the job for which it was intended, holding sandwiches together and keeping air out. It’s still made, and it still works. Only now they call it wax paper.

I don’t want to hear about baggies. I know they have their place; I use them. I’m sticking up for waxed paper here. With waxed paper there is stability. Pull up two opposite edges to the middle of a sandwich, fold them over and then over again for a good seal, fold the other ends into points like gift wrap, and tuck them under. Voilà. A self-reinforced covering without a wrinkle or rumple. Wax paper folds nice.

Yes, “nice.” I know. My revenge on wax paper.

PS: Don’t go editing every “wax” in this piece into “waxed” or vice versa. I used both forms to drive everybody, including myself, crazy.

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sketch by my mom, Karyl Bannister

Amie’s Headnotes

In an astonishing turn of events that would make my mother proud, I’ve become a teensy bit enamored with waxed paper. It’s been popping up in recipes everywhere lately, like the Date Take 5 Bars in the last issue and these easy no-bake treats made from all your vintage favorites.

Ready to give them a whirl? Nibble a Nilla wafer, thaw your orange juice and prepare to wax nostalgic when you haul out that box of Cut-Rite that’s been sitting in your drawer for 20 years.

ORANGE COCONUT SNOWBALLS

Makes 36

• 12 ounces vanilla wafer cookies, finely crushed

• 1 cup confectioners' sugar

• ¼ cup (4 tablespoons) unsalted butter, softened

• ½ cup orange juice concentrate, thawed

• ½ teaspoon pure vanilla extract

• 1 cup pecans, chopped

• ½ cup shredded coconut, for coating

Combine the vanilla wafer cookie crumbs and confectioners' sugar in a mixing bowl. Add the butter to the crumb mixture and blend in well.

Stir in the thawed orange juice concentrate; add vanilla and nuts. Mix with your hands until all the ingredients are fully incorporated.

With your hands, shape the mixture into balls about the size of walnuts. Place the prepared balls in a food storage bag with the shredded coconut. Shake the balls around so that the coconut sticks to the balls. You may want to do just a few at a time to prevent overcrowding which could impact the shape of the balls.

Remove the balls from the bag and arrange in single layer on a waxed* paper-lined cookie sheet. Store them uncovered overnight in the refrigerator for the best flavor.

*Recipe credit: thespruceeats.com, who gets props for using the Cook & Tell-approved “waxed” paper.

Note: Back in the day, the only words appearing on a box of Cut-Rite were, in fact, Cut-Rite, a Switzerland-style approach to avoid offending nitpicky word nerds. Somewhere down the line, “Wax Paper” was added to the label and I am still struggling with how to process this.

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Amie’s Endnotes

In honor of the Passover holiday beginning next weekend, I’ll leave you with a quote and a bonus Passover issue with recipes everyone can enjoy, whether you’re celebrating the holiday or exploring unfamiliar food traditions.

“We…sweep away even the tiniest crumbs [of leavened products]. In the same way, we sweep away the cobwebs from our hearts and minds, ridding ourselves of anything that might obscure our vision of who we are and what we strive to be.”

--Tastes of Jewish Tradition | Jewish Community Center, Milwaukee, WI

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Your pantry pals,

Amie & Karyl

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