Sponge-worthy

I'm guilty of being a cookbook geek. When time allows for a bit of pleasure reading, I typically reach for either a book of food essays or a cookbook that contains a historical perspective in addition to the recipes. But lest you picture me with pinkie extended and shrimp fork aloft, I'll confess: One of my favorite passages in the annals of food writing has nothing to do with wine, fois gras, or linen napkins torturously twisted to resemble molting swans. It concerns gelatin. And Twinkies.

In numerous books on American culture and cuisine, authors Jane and Michael Stern have paid homage to any number of gelatin-based creations. But it's in "Square Meals," and in their instructions for their recipe "Undescended Twinkies" that they reach the journalistic apotheosis of pop-culture and cuisine.

Reassuring would-be cooks of the challenges inherent in the melding of the yellow cake and Jell-O, they manage to link three American icons — two culinary, one cinematic — in one poetic paragraph:

"If the gelatin is properly chilled, it will resist the Twinkies. You will push them in; they will slowly rise. It's a tense moment, like the scene in 'Psycho' when Tony Perkins tries to sink Janet Leigh's car."

I had this quote in mind as I looked through "The Twinkies Cookbook" (Ten Speed Press, 2006, $12.95), which features recipes created by Twinkie fans nationwide. While ostensibly dedicated to last year's 75th anniversary of the cream-filled snack, the book also serves as an unintentional 99-page tribute to the glories of sugar, food coloring, frozen nondairy whipped topping and instant pudding.

Beyond the deep-fried Twinkies that fairgoers hold so dear, the book offers a frightening glance into an American subculture in which the little golden cakes take on a mythic aura: A hostess nearly runs out of dessert. What to do? Shove hunks of Twinkie and fruit onto a stick! Unexpected dinner guest? Stretch the meal with a homemade pudding of eggs, butter, pineapple and, of course, Twinkies. An anecdote describes the genesis of each recipe and reinforces the notion that a box of Twinkies should sit right alongside duct tape in every American's Homeland Security kit.

Many of the contributors are grandmas who say they kept the recipes simple so that the grandkids could participate in the preparation. In my favorite, granny got the kids to settle down after their Easter-egg hunt by filling them with her special Twinkie creation, which calls for an array of well-known soporifics: spray food coloring, three jars of marshmallow cream, chocolate chips, jelly beans and chocolate pudding mix.

Some of the recipes offer visual fun (a Twinkie slice wrapped with green fruit leather becomes "sushi"), but most seem pedestrian (dunked in melted chocolate to become a petit four) or pointless (encased in a flour burrito with strawberries and chocolate). Most appealing were the recipes in the "Gourmet Twinkies" chapter, all of which used the cake's inherent spongelike nature to soak up a variety of flavors, from Kahlua to banana liqueur.

To its credit, the book does provide a bit of intriguing historical data along with vintage graphics. In an interview, one early employee remembers the challenges posed by the pedal-operated pump that controlled the flow of the cream filling. Woe be to the worker who applied too much pressure and caused the Twinkies to explode. According to the employee, there was a technical term for such a mishap: "oversquirting."

It seemed unsporting to criticize the creativity (or lack thereof) of the published cooks without putting myself to the test. My take on Twinkies is at right. Ahhh. Can you smell the island breezes?

Megan Sheppard is a Seattle writer and a frequent contributor to the Times: megans@hootspa.com.