Experiment #5: Shrimp Mold

Trigger warning: savory gelatin.

When we first attempted to explain this blog to our friends, they kept saying the same thing: “Like Julie & Julia, right?”

We were coy in our responses then, but we’re finally ready to admit it. Yes. What we’re doing is exactly like Julie & Julia—except we feel confident Judith Jones will never invite herself over for dinner.

Much like Mastering the Art of French Cooking, the 1982 Congressional Club Cook Book is chock full of meaty aspics and aspirational gelatin molds. If you’ve never made an aspic, you were either born after 1960 or have a functioning tongue and eyes. They’re traditionally made from collagen-heavy animal stock—but this is the 1980s, so we're mixing up a forklift of ketchup with some shelf-stable packets of Knox Gelatine [sic][sick] instead.

Knox®: Grinding up Ponies Sending up Culinary Red Flags since 1889.

This week’s recipe—the appetizingly named SHRIMP MOLD—comes to us care of Mrs. Franki Fann Roberts, wife to our first sitting senator from the cookbook

That’s right: we’re eating like Pat Roberts (R-I’m the Matter with KS), a 36-year senator famous for representing a state he finds too repulsive to live in.

Franki’s blood sacrifice shrimp mold is awesome in the true sense of the word: it is a fearsome thing to behold. It quivers. It shivers. It…glistens.

Sheen level: Martin 

Let us set aside for now the absurdity of forming shellfish into the shape of what is clearly a rainbow trout with spina bifida. 

This shimmering marriage of tomato sog and Tiny Shrimp™ is exactly the kind of red-blooded American artifact you might expect to emanate from a state that hasn’t had a Democratic senator since 1939.

Charles Patrick "Pat" Roberts was born in Topeka in 1936 and attended K-State, where he majored in journalism. After graduating, he wrote copy in Arizona for a few years before moving to his permanent home in Alexandria, VA. Roberts met his wife, Franki Fann, when she was a staffer in Sen. Strom Thurmond's office, where they presumably bonded over the shining promise of segregation. 

Over the course of his long political career—Roberts served in the House of Representatives from 1981 to 1997 before making the leap to the Senate—the senator has sponsored 526 pieces of legislation, only eight of which ever became law (three of those eight simply named local buildings and courthouses). 

Roberts currently serves as Chair of the Senate Agriculture Committee, a responsibility he takes so seriously that he missed two-thirds of the committee's meetings from 2000 to 2014. 
 
From L to R: Sen. Pat Roberts (R-KS), Shrimp Mold (R-TX), Franki Fann Roberts

If you squint, Pat Roberts looks a little like Sir Patrick Stewart, if Sir Patrick Stewart had been pummeled repeatedly with a meat tenderizer and left to bake until his muscles atrophied under a cloudless Arizona sun.

Tom and I are perilously close to being Shrimp Mold Constituents, but even our national readers are likely familiar with Roberts for his famed foot-in-mouth syndrome. In March, Roberts (devoted husband father to two daughters) took heat for his glib comments on women's health care.

"I wouldn't want to lose my mammograms," he snarled when reporter Alice Ollstein asked him about scrapping Essential Health Benefits from the aborted American Health Care Act.

The good news: you won’t NEED mammography after following Franki’s recipe, as the shrimp mold doubles as a practice dummy for at-home breast exams. Palpate those fins! Hunt for tiny, briny shrimp lumps in a jiggle-dense tomato blob! This dish is exactly the texture of that fake silicone boob from your 7th grade health class.

Participation Trophy: Pat (sort of!) believes in climate change! In 2010, he told a group of oil industry patriots:

"There's no question there's some global warming, but I'm not sure what it means. A lot of this is condescending elitism."

That ringing endorsement for Mother Earth may explain why Franki insisted on using Sustainably Engineered Farmed? Canned Tiny Shrimp™ in this recipe.


Step 1. Assemble the accused


Nothing like a can of Chicken of the Sea™ brand tiny shrimp to spur the appetite.

We’re getting fairly well practiced in sniffing out a recipe’s success based on its ingredients. We’d never purchased a can of tiny shrimp before, but we (naively) assumed it couldn’t be any worse than the freeze-dried commas at the bottom of a pack of shrimp-flavored Maruchan Ramen. 

Plus, there’s a lot we like here—horseradish! Tabasco! Worcestershire!—but the quantities are so scant as to be useless. This shrimp mold is where flavor goes to die, drowned in a glurpy ocean of vaguely sweet red.


Step 2. Mix your ketchup and slightly onionier ketchup

Look at those handsome flecks of undissolved gelatin. Liz's childhood Furby used to make a lascivious, sarcastic-sounding "YUM" noise when she pressed its plastic tongue. That's the soundtrack you should imagine throughout.

Franki has your back. She makes sure to specify that you should heat your gelatin and tomato purees in the top of a double boiler, not the bottom like a big maroon.

The bulk of this mold comes from the ketchup and the “chili sauce,” which is a condiment with which we were previously unfamiliar. We expected cocktail sauce, until we looked at the ingredients. It’s…basically just ketchup with a little vinegar, dehydrated onion, and garlic powder.

“So why not use chili sauce for the whole thing?” you ask. “Why use ketchup at all?”

GOOD LORD. DO YOU WANT TO PERISH FROM ZESTINESS?!?!


Step 3: Punish your onion 

There are two tablespoons of grated onion and its attendant bog water for the entire fish mold. Vegetal points = no.

Confession: neither of us had ever grated an onion before. There was something uncomfortably intimate about scraping half a yellow onion along the hungry holes of a box grater until it dissolved into a slushy alium mousse. We kept apologizing to the root end.

We then learned why we've never grated an onion before. The flavor is not discernably sharper, and it has the weepy texture of shaved ice that’s cured for too long in the cupholder of a summer-warmed minivan.

Also pictured: horseradish, Worcestershire, and lemon juice. You should probably just mix this into a Bloody Mary instead of continuing with the mold.


Step 4: Add your Certified Tiny™ shrimp

Nothing captures the frizzy contours of a tiny shramp quite like a sickly LED spot light.

Canned Tiny Shrimp have a dirty, mealy, alien texture befitting their nubby appearance. For whatever reason, Franki specifies you should mix these in last. We suspect it’s to prevent you from abandoning the recipe early: as soon as they’re coated with the ketchup soup, they look alarmingly like caterpillar larvae.


Step 5: Grease your fish mold

The recipe calls for a “fish mold,” which left us temporarily scratching our heads. If you’ve never seen one of these before, it’s exactly what it sounds like.

Liz’s mother tells us there was a time when all newlyweds could count on receiving a copper-colored fish mold for their nuptials. While we no longer live in that benighted age, thrift stores and antique malls are LOUSY with these guys. 

Our version came from River Market Antiques, which is basically a four-story fish mold warehouse. They had tiny fish (baby’s first fish mold!). They had giant fish. They had enormous ceramic molds shaped like mutant sewer lobsters.

dat phallic snout tho

These molds are always sold as “copper”—and sure, there’s a distinct pinkish tinge—but we have our suspicions about the metallurgy. 

The mold is thinner than Roberts’ sideburns, its inside is the color of burnished aluminum, and its outside is stamped with the word “COPPAR,” evoking the Legally Distinct spellings of mechanically separated chicken WYNGZ.

Aluminum sheen level: Charlie
  
I know what you’re thinking: real photography pros shoot in portrait.

As soon as you pour your hot grub paste into the mold, cover with plastic wrap and fridge “until set.” We didn’t want to take any chances in the structural integrity department, so we chilled overnight. But we suspect this was overkill.

This mold is firm.

Step 6. Garnish with a vegetal

BEHOLD. 

We’re plating this atop raw collard greens for that 1980s neon-green vibrancy. And a halo of Ritz crackers, as befitting a fish of import.

This is simultaneously the most impressive and least appetizing dish we’ve made thus far. 

The shrimp-maggots hang suspended within the cold gelatin, like prehistoric insects trapped in amber. The fins feather across the plate with the fine-boned texture of a Shrinky Dink®. The nose…we’re not going to talk about the nose.

Flavor-wise, this just tastes like ketchup flecked with shrimp-pockets of soily brine. It might be slightly more palatable were you to triple the amounts of Worcestershire, horseradish, and Tabasco called for, but there’s still the problem of the texture.

Cross-section from the court-ordered autopsy

We had a hard time summoning the courage to lift the be-gelatined crackers to our mouths. 

The texture of this unsettling reverse-homunculus is a paradox. It’s too firm to scoop with crackers, which crumble into butterdust at every attempt. But when you finally get a spoonful, it slides into your mouth like an oyster before collapsing into a mealy, mushy, spreadable paste. 

Liz recorded Tom’s first bite, which sums it up pretty well:


We did not go back for seconds, yet we couldn’t bring ourselves to throw it away. This mold is really a pretty good analogue for Pat Roberts’ career. It sat around in our fridge forever, but was ultimately pretty useless. By the time we were ready to toss it, we could barely bring ourselves to look it in its creepy eye divot.



This is The Blob. This is The Thing from Beneath the Sink. This is a harlequin baby in edible form (don’t Google that).

REE REE REE REE

But man, is this thing solid.

We're reminded of a (100% real) radio ad Sen. Roberts' own campaign paid for during his last contested election.

"Pat Roberts isn't perfect," a husky female voice purred. "But at least I know where he stands."

Franki Roberts' shrimp mold isn't perfect. But hey—it stands. 

Shrimp Mold
By Mrs. (Franki) Pat Roberts
Adapted from the 1982 Congressional Club Cookbook

1 cup chili sauce
1/2 cup ketchup
2 envelopes unflavored gelatin
1 teaspoon sugar
2 tablespoons grated onion
1 teaspoon Worcestershire
1 teaspoon horseradish
3 tablespoons lemon juice
4 drops Tabasco
2 5 oz cans tiny shrimp
2 cans Hamm's

Mix chili sauce, ketchup, and gelatin in top of double boiler. Heat until gelatin is dissolved. Blend with the remaining ingredients. Add the shrimp last. Pour into greased fish mold or other mold which will hold about 3 1/2 cups. Chill until set. Drink Hamm's until brave enough to sample, then serve with crackers on bed of lettuce. 

Experiments #3 and #4: "Scrumptious Taties" and Ritz Cracker Dessert

We’re bringing you a double feature this week thanks to the devious, dairy-loving mind of Mrs. Wayne (Millie) Grisham.

Millie contributed two recipes to the Congressional Club Cookbook, “Scrumptious Taties” (scare quotes hers) and a Ritz Cracker Dessert.

The bad: both of these dishes are clotted beige conglomerations of milk and salt.
The good: the shared palette is strong enough to anchor a dinner party, assuming the theme of that party is “wet nubbins.”

We’ve barely scratched the surface of this cookbook, but our exposure thus far suggests 1980s cuisine has a gloppy, bog-like quality to it, a marbled, mottled, je-ne-sais-ew that we can only describe as “mulpy.”

Millie Grisham makes mulpy food.

But it was enough to sway her high school sweetheart, the steely eyed (and stomached) Reverend Richard Wayne Gary Wayne Rep. Wayne Richard Grisham.

The Hon. Mr. Steal-Yo-Girl, (R-CAn I get your number?)

After a stint as an airman in the European Theater of World War II, the serial realtor served California’s 33rd Congressional District for a whopping five years before being demoted to Strom Thurmond’s caddy  the night shift at the Denny’s the *gasp* STATE LEGISLATURE.

That’s right, folks. Politics is brutal business, even when you’re a straight white man with hair.  

Blame Grisham’s reverse-Gatsby on a nasty bout of redistricting that left him scrambling against a strong primary contender. After his loss, the self-described “conservative do-gooder” spent a year directing the Peace Corps in Nairobi, Kenya, before he was elected to California’s lower house. He later attempted an upgrade to state senate, perhaps believing his bad luck had run out. He was wrong.

During his brief tenure as a real boy Congressman, Grisham sponsored nine bills, all of which died in committee. He spent most of his political capital trying to nab tax credits for health insurance premiums and other medical expenses.

Although we don’t have access to his medical records, we suspect he may have needed the aid.

There are approximately 2780 calories in Millie Grisham’s “Scrumptious Taties,” and only about 600 of them come from the potatoes.

That’s right, folks. Buckle up for another wild ride through the clogged-artery theme park of Buttermelt and Sour Cream. Let the flavors transport you back to a simpler, milkier time, back when men were men and women were housecoats and you could read the word “taties” and not hear it hissed in a Gollum-like cadence by a nearly naked Andy Serkis cavorting in front of a green screen with tennis balls glued to his thighs.

Step 1. Fondle your cans
The lone 1980s vegetal in its natural habitat: surrounded by starch and lactose.  

The omission of spices is not a transcription error. There’s no spice like the comforting, chicken-adjacent hug of condensed cream soup.

Millie’s short on instructions, but the recipe advises you to “boil peeled potatoes.” first. How long? Who knows. Our recommendation: boil them and then wander into another room and complete a task. The potatoes are done when the jolt of recognition hits you: oh shit, I left the stove on.

Step 2: Apply goo

Slice the soft potatoes and combine them with other soft things. Specifically, a stick of melted butter, a pint of sour cream, a can of condensed chicken soup, and a stock pot of shredded cheese.

Oh, and a green onion. Because health.

Don’t be alarmed if your potatoes aren’t neatly coated in cow. The sauce doesn’t cling to the taties so much as it inevitably winds up adjacent to them.

Step 3: Add some cornflakes why not

The final assembly step is also the most puzzling. Millie instructs you to “top with crushed, buttered corn flakes” as though buttering a cornflake were the most sensible thing in the world.


We forgot to crush the cornflakes until we’d already decoupaged the top with dry cereal. So we just added more. Truthfully, the zestiest part of this dish was the cornflakes, and we didn’t even butter them.

Step 4: Bake until the butter screams for mercy  
Objects in mirror are crunchier than they appear

We’re going to level with you here: something in this mixture (looking at you, cream of chicken soup) made the taties impervious to heat and time. After an hour in a 375 degree oven, they still came out with a paste-like exterior and the disappointing crunch of a canned water chestnut.

This seems like the kind of dish that would give Mitch McConnell heartburn: rich, but flavorless. The cornflakes are crispy. The potatoes are also crispy. The sour cream is…present.

But you can’t deny, that melted butter (IN GLORIOUS MOTION PICTURE) is sexy:




“SCRUMPTIOUS TATIES”
By Mrs. Wayne (Millie) R. Grisham
Adapted from the 1982 Congressional Club Cookbook

8 medium potatoes
1 stick butter
1 cup cream of chicken soup, undiluted
1 ½ cups grated cheddar cheese
1/3 cup chopped green onion
1 pint sour cream
1 cup crushed corn flakes
2 cans Hamm’s beer

Boil peeled potatoes. Drink Hamm’s until potatoes are almost cool and then slice or dice. Melt butter. Mix with cream of chicken soup, grated cheddar cheese and green onions. Blend with sour cream. Add potatoes and toss lightly. Top with crushed, buttered corn flakes. Bake 1 hour at 350°. Makes 6 to 8 servings.

“…but Liz and Tom,” you say through a mouthful of taties. “What if I want something bland and crunchy for dessert?”

Millie’s got you covered.

Truthfully, this was one of our most edible experiments thus far. If you forget about the salty Nabisco powder, this is basically a walnut meringue. Unfortunately, neither of us had ever made a meringue and assumed it was the sort of thing any competent chef could do by hand with a whisk.

They could. But they don’t.

Do not make this dessert unless you have a hand or stand mixer (or a child in need of punishment).

Step 1: Artfully arrange your cellophane packets
Our food photography services are available for a large fee. 


This is a pretty sensible lineup. Egg whites, sugar, whipping cream, quartered walnuts. And Ritz Crackers, because nearly every recipe in this book has a name-brand product that a lobbyist snuck in.  

Step 2: Go through all five stages of grief whisking
On Tom's whisk: a stiff peak. In the bowl: a dejected peak. Not pictured: profanity.

Full disclosure: we don’t bake a lot, so we weren’t exactly sure what “beat egg whites until stiff” entailed.

Answer: suffering. Again, DO NOT MAKE THIS RECIPE BY HAND. We whisked until our palms calloused. We whisked until we began to hate our own arms. We whisked as if in service of a cruel karate master, hoping it would all be worth it.

About two-thirds of the way in, we had a serious conversation about whether the meringue might be one of those prank inventions, like a left-handed screwdriver or blinker fluid.

But eventually (EVENTUALLY) it came together.

Step 3: Mix your wet and branded dry ingredients
Not convinced.

Millie says to “fold” the egg whites into the dry and crunchy ingredients, an instruction we followed with the razor-sharp focus and tentative dove hands of a bomb disposal unit. We’re not sure if this is necessary, but we weren’t about to risk deflating those peaks.

This looks not unlike the symphony of beef when you put it in the pie pan. The cracker crumbs and walnuts turn the surface an unpleasant shade of gray.

Step 3: Bake
Still not convinced. 

This smells quite nice and nutty while it bakes. We suspect the Ritz Crackers are doing a kind of prescient salted caramel thing to the sugary meringue.

It does look like a sausage frittata, though. And we cracked it, which we think is maybe bad? That sounds like a feature by which you might judge a meringue. Also, Millie doesn’t say to grease the pie plate, but we’re going to suggest you do.

Step 4: HAHA FUCK YOU MORE WHISKING

This right here is why you always read the recipe first. No sooner had we turned our first meringueish out to cool when we realized we were going to have to do MORE WHISKING. You could (and probably should) just use prepared whipped cream, but we were already planning to replace our forearms with bionic implants, so we just soldiered on with an 8 ounce carton of whipping cream.

If you’ve never beaten whipping cream by hand, for the love of God, CHILL YOUR WHIPPING IMPLEMENTS.

Whip despondently until it looks like something you should have just bought at the store, then spread over the surface of the meringue like frosting.



It’s nutty. It’s chewy. It’s completely devoid of dried beef.

Everything you could hope for from a Congressional Club dessert.

RITZ CRACKER DESSERT

3 egg whites
1 cup sugar
1 teaspoon baking powder
20 Ritz crackers, rolled fine
¾ cup walnuts
8 oz. whipping cream
2 cans Hamm’s beer

Beat egg whites until stiff. Drink Hamm’s to stay hydrated during vigorous whisking. Mix together sugar and baking powder. Fold in egg whites. Gently fold in cracker crumbs and nuts. Bake in a 350° oven for 25 minutes in 8 inch pie pan. Cool. Top with whipped cream. Chill for 2 hours before serving. Makes 6 to 8 servings.

Experiment #2: Rhonda's Secret Salad

Mrs. Rhonda Robinson Kornegay—daughter-in-law of North Carolina congressman Horace R. Kornegay—has a secret.

And that secret is that she hates you.

There’s no other explanation for "Rhonda's Secret Salad," a chunky slurry of pre-digested vegetable matter swimming in a sherbetized sea of Zesty™ Italian.

So terrible is Rhonda’s Secret, it prompted perhaps the greatest test to Liz and I’s marriage yet.

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness I saw the charming young woman that I married willingly return to Rhonda’s Secret Leftovers to lift spoon after spoon of sickly sweet garbage mousse to her defective raccoon mouth.

“I don’t understand why you hate this so much,” she said. “This is standard church funeral salad.”

“I’ve never been to a Catholic funeral. Do you eat the cadavers?”

She hesitated. An oil slick of vegetable mush slid from the spoon.

“Okay. This is protestant funeral salad." 

I'm forced to offer a correction: this recipe is not something you would ever give to a friend or loved one, especially during their time of grief. 

I can’t imagine what horrible series of tragedies would fill someone with the resentment necessary to bring this horror to life, but I can tell you that it’s likely nobody in the Kornegay household could taste what Rhonda was doing to them. That’s because the Kornegays are an unapologetically tobacco-centric clan.

Horace Robinson “Dag” Kornegay (D-Emphysema) was born in Asheville, North Carolina, as the humble son of tobacco farmers. Horace served in France as a machine gunner in World War II, where he learned that life is short, brutish, and full of pain and decay. Which is why he did an eight-year stint in Congress from 1961 to 1969 as an (ugh) conservative Democrat before taking on his true calling as President and Executive Director of the Tobacco Institute.

If you’re picturing guys in lab coats with beakers studying the biology of the tobacco plant and not gravel-throated stuffed suits handing over briefcases of cash on behalf of Phillip Morris, you’ve probably never met a lobbyist.

Of course, that isn’t how Horace saw things. “Dirty Dag” explained his side in “Oral History of the American South”:
“My own personal experience, the tobacco companies—I think this is true of the leaf dealers, warehousemen and growers, as well as the companies—made very little contribution to political campaigns.”
I am certain this same unbiased perspective on his industry inspired him to say, in the late 1970s, that factors such as “hospital pay status (public vs. private) have greater effects on pregnancy outcomes than maternal smoking.”

Perhaps this is why, growing up in a cloud of second, third, and fourth-hand smoke, Rep. Kornegay’s son married a woman whose only ambition was to see what human beings without working noses or tongues could be compelled to eat.


THREE FRESH VEGETALS. This is a Congressional Club record. 

Let us now praise famous cans list the contents of this abomination in ascending order of horror:
  • 1 tsp Oregano, 1 tsp Garlic Powder, 1 tsp Parsley, Salt and Pepper
A seemingly innocuous set of seasonings. You could make a lovely dish with these. Carry on.
  • 1 cup chopped onion
  • 1 cup chopped green pepper
Okay, we can work with this. Lots of tasty salads have raw green pepper and onion in them. I’m sure this will be one of those salads.
  • 1 ½ cups cauliflower florets
I don’t care much for cauliflower—raw cauliflower especially. But whatever, I can put my cauliflower prejudices aside and carry on, we haven’t done anything yet that would ruin the
  • 1/4 cup white vinegar

Wow. Okay. No, that’s fine. I like pickles, pickles are great. Maybe this will be just a great pickled salad. A pobucker’s giardiniera. Maybe this won’t be so bad afte
  • 1 can red kidney beans
…what? You want me to put soft, cooked, canned kidney beans into this perfectly good—and so far totally crisp and crunchypickled veggie mix? Jesus.

Look, nothing in this dish gets cooked, it’s all just mixed in a big cauldron bowl and dispensed cold. Under other circumstances, we might have had a chili going here with the onions and peppers and all, and I’d be totally down for that—really. But the vinegar and cauliflower mean we’re way past that now. Where exactly are you going with this, Rhonda?
  • 1 can French green beans
More mush? More briny, squishy babyfood with your crunchy pickled vegetable mix? Come on, I’m as adventurous as the next amateur congressional food blogger, but the blend of textures here is bordering on the profane. Even IF this somehow tasted good together, the jarring, arranged marriage of mush and crunch is going ruin everything. I mean, what’s next? A can of mushrooms?
  • 1 cup canned mushrooms
Aw, hell no. This is getting grim. What is Rhonda thinking at this point? How is this dish not just… an accident? Why would you write this down? Who agreed to typeset this? 

At least we’re done with the solid ingredients. Maybe, just maybe, the sauce can save us.
  • 3/4 cup low-cal Italian dressing
Low-cal. She specifies low-cal Italian.  Because Rhonda’s your friend, and she’s looking out for you. She’s totally not using you to purge recently expired goods from the back of her pantry.
  • 3 tablespoons honey
WHAT THE FUCK. WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK JUST HAPPENED!? This just went from awful church potluck staple to CLOYING IPECAC SLIMEPASTE. Who puts honey on mushrooms and beans, Rhonda? Who fucking does that?

Study for Improvisation V, mixed media. 

The dish looks TERRIBLE. We’re still too far away to smell or taste it, for now. It has a sodden, glistening, primordial quality to it. From a safe distance, the color is an unctuous gray-green-brown that’s hard to pin down and seems to shift in the light. This isn’t food. This is the prop substance that drips out of the monster’s mouth in the third act of your low-budget horror film. This is a Kandinsky painting rendered in cans.

Is there a word more viscous than “viscous”?

Rhonda’s Secret Salad tastes like garbage. Rhonda’s Secret Salad literally tastes like literal garbage. Like the commingled contents of a kitchen garbage can after a week of hurried, disappointing canned dinners.

Eating this is, I believe, akin to being waterboarded. You look at the ingredients laid out before you (canned mushrooms and green beans, a jug of water and a towel) and think to yourself “Well, everyone SAYS this is torture, but come on. It’s just some water and a towel. How bad can it be?”

You lay down, smirking. And then your world falls apart. And you beg your captor for mercy. And you will say anything to make it stop… You hear me, Rhonda? ANYTHING.

Fuck you, Rhonda.

Rhonda’s Secret Salad
By Mrs. Horace (Rhonda) Robinson Kornegay

Adapted from the 1982 Congressional Club Cookbook

1 can French green beans
1 can red kidney beans
1 ½ cups cauliflower florets
1 cup canned mushrooms
1 cup chopped onion
1 cup green pepper
¾ cup low-cal Italian dressing
3 tablespoons honey
¼ cup white vinegar
1 teaspoon oregano
1 teaspoon garlic powder
1 teaspoon parsley
dash salt and pepper
2 cans Hamm’s beer.

Combine all ingredients after draining thoroughly each canned item. Toss several times to blend well. Refrigerate for 12 hours. Throw out the salad and drink the Hamm’s instead. Makes eight no servings.