Princess Pudding
A beauty from Estella's archive.
The last two weeks have been busy over here. As summer enjoyed its official kickoff, I unexpectedly found myself cohosting two different tea parties. It seemed like the perfect occasion to dust off my vintage teapots and serveware and look to Estella’s cookbooks for party-perfect inspiration.
Estella’s collection includes over twenty gelatin-dedicated volumes from the major players—Jell-O, Knox, and Royal Gelatin. Judging by the wear on their pages and her party-filled social calendar, she didn’t just collect these cookbooks—she used them. Estella was a rural schoolteacher and a community fixture, hosting Garden Club teas, Happy Hour Club meetings, and church socials. Her name pops up repeatedly in the local paper’s social column. And you can bet many of those gatherings featured a shimmering, jiggling centerpiece straight from one of these books.
Growing up, Jell-O meant something simpler to me. My mom would mix a box, pour it into Pyrex bowls, and serve it to us kids after dinner. I loved the texture—and still do. And whenever we went to Bonanza Steakhouse, I skipped right past the grill counter to the dessert station. There, little glass compote bowls filled with red and green gelatin cubes, crowned with whipped cream, awaited my selection. So, when I opened Estella’s gelatin cookbooks, something stirred—memory, maybe appetite. I had the urge to make a dessert with wobble and shine.
To start, I selected the Royal Desserts and Salads (1936) cookbook. It’s not the oldest gelatin book in Estella’s archive (that title belongs to a Jell-O pamphlet from 1920), but I was immediately smitten with its dainty illustrations and approachable recipes.
Since this was my first time making a molded dessert, I started simple: strawberry gelatin with berries, set in a classic Tupperware ring mold. I followed the Royal instructions and the Jell-O box method, then waited overnight with more excitement than I’d like to admit.
In the morning, I ran to the fridge like a kid on Christmas. I dunked the mold in warm water, tipped it onto a plate, and gave it a hopeful jiggle. Nothing. After a few more nudges, I heard the Jell-O flop onto the plate. But when I lifted the empty mold, there was only a red pile of gelatin and fruit. Tasty—but not the showstopper I’d imagined.
Undeterred, I searched for unmolding tips and discovered the trick: a light coating of cooking spray before pouring in the liquid gelatin. My next attempt, a small heart-shaped mold, released like a dream. That win gave me the confidence to try the recipe that had truly drawn me to Royal Desserts: Raspberry Princess Pudding.
Doesn’t it sound glamorous?
The illustration promised a pink, cloud-like dessert studded with mosaic raspberry gelatin and sponge cake. It seemed straightforward and lovely. The recipe was simple and clear, but the process of assembling the dessert’s components was a bit more complex.
The timing of it all was a culinary dance. At one point, I had cream whipping in the stand mixer while whipping raspberry gelatin over ice with a hand mixer. The cubed raspberry jelly and sponge cake (both made a day prior) stood by, awaiting their cue to be folded into the mixture. The fluted copper mold gleamed nearby, freshly oiled.
Estella, how did you manage all this in your 1930s kitchen—and get the timing right?
I marvel at the promised ease of gelatin desserts—just a box, a mold, and a little chill time. The promise is breezy: pour, set, serve. But in practice, it’s all about timing, texture, and hope. You place a lot of trust in that shimmering tower unmolding cleanly, especially with party guests waiting. A gelatin dessert, I’ve come to learn, is a paradox: part nostalgia, part performance art, part kitchen drama.
I experienced this in real time when I decided to bring the Raspberry Princess Pudding to this weekend’s tea party. It was a warm morning as my husband carefully loaded a cooler containing the gelatin mold into the car. As I descended our front steps into the sunshine, I thought of Estella, packing a Jell-O dish for a summer picnic—was she just a bit worried, like me, about the dish melting before reaching the event?
Once at the party, I had several spectators and helpers in the kitchen as I began to unmold the Princess Pudding onto a cake stand. The anticipation was high, and when the gelatin finally released, I was so relieved to see the gleaming pink beauty stand proudly on the plate. There was a bit of melt happening (too much time in the warm water bath before unmolding?), which I camouflaged with a swirl of whipped cream and a few fresh raspberries. I felt Estella’s practical, kindred spirit guiding me: make the best of the dessert and get it to the table.
Here’s the most surprising part—the Princess Pudding was a hit.
My friends marveled at the lightness of the texture, the bright flavor, and even asked for seconds. The clear cubes of gelatin and sponge cake were a lovely contrast to the pillowy pink raspberry cloud.
I wasn’t sure what to expect, maybe polite compliments or nostalgic smiles, but this dessert, with its imperfections, held its own. It shimmered. It delighted. And in a quiet way, it connected me not just to Estella’s kitchen, but to something older: the joy of creating something whimsical and fleeting, simply to share.
As we passed around plates and spooned out seconds, I realized this wasn’t just about gelatin. It was about occasion. The kind you make on purpose. The kind Estella must have made dozens of times over a lifetime of gatherings. I think she would have enjoyed this one too.
What vintage dessert has a hold on your heart? I love to hear your story (and recipe too!) in the comments.
Gelatin desserts, such an innocuous Looking and sounding little item on the menu. Our thanksgivings and Christmas were always accompanied by this sweet little treat. The holidays would not be the same without it.🙊💕
I got a glass jelly (as we insist on calling jell-o in the UK) mould from a vintage fair a while back. It's a very pleasing object but hardly ever used - time it got an outing I think!