You could say it all started with a well-known blonde named Martha.

She cooked, she cleaned, she crafted -- and a generation adopted her as their household-artist inspiration. Over the past 10 years, Martha Stewart has become not only a cultural icon but a mentor for many who aspire to her seamless blend of easy elegance, business savvy, and unrelenting resourcefulness.

But Martha Stewart and her empire stand at the beginning of the story. These days, gray-haired grandma is also a font of domestic inspiration. At the turn of this young century, tying on an apron suddenly became a voguish fashion statement, meat loaf shed its irony, and grandma's thrifty advice suddenly acquired new relevance.

Call it the comeback of Cold War culture, a fascination with the '50s, a hankering for homemaking, all spurred on by stifling the subversive. As the threat of terrorist attacks menaces our well-being, and the government deems "civil liberties" a gray area and regards people not fruuum here sketchy enough to interrogate and deport, cultural trends harking back 50 years have taken new hold on the American imagination.

It's Donna Reed and June Cleaver. It's Grease and Elvis. It's kitsch, but it's now cool in a less ironic way. And if young folks have thus far dipped only their toes into the trend, get ready for their full immersion in 2002. The scariness of the current war, along with the fear aroused by the government's newfound heavy-handedness, has catalyzed a trend that had already been seeping into our kitchens, our homes, and our lifestyles. Afraid of the world? Bake a pie. Can't speak out about how you don't really feel patriotic? Knit a sweater and keep quiet. And hey, go reinvigorate the economy already!

THE SIMILARITIES -- both political and cultural -- verge on the eerie.

In 1953, back when the Soviet Union was Public Enemy Number One, social theorist David Reisman -- author of The Lonely Crowd: A Study of the Changing American Character (Yale University Press, 1950) -- spoke at an academic conference on the subject of totalitarianism. He proposed launching a full-on "nylon war" -- literally bombarding the Soviet Union with stockings and other consumer goods in order to make friends with its citizens and encourage their alienation from Communism. Today in Afghanistan, the US government is substituting grain for consumer goods, dropping dinner for starving Afghans along with cluster bombs. But the inescapable irony of simultaneously killing and feeding, threatening and gifting, remains.

One of the most disturbing intellectual trends of the '50s was the blacklisting of writers, artists, and performers working in Hollywood. Names of filmmakers suspected of smuggling subversive pro-USSR, pro-Communist thoughts onto celluloid were placed on a secret list circulated throughout the entertainment industry, which flushed their careers down the proverbial toilet. Five years ago, the idea of the blacklist was widely condemned as something marking the darker side of another era. Today, not so. Second Lady Lynne Cheney, for one, hopes to revive a '50s-era muzzle -- this time, in the ivory tower rather than Hollywood. Last month, Cheney, one of the founding members of the aggressively conservative nonprofit watchdog group American Council of Trustees and Alumni, stirred up controversy when the group took scholars, students, and university presidents to task for making unpatriotic statements. The organization compiled a list of what it deemed egregious anti-American statements made by academics and posted it on its Web site (www.goacta.org/Reports/defciv.pdf) under the heading "Defending Civilization: How Our Universities Are Failing America and What Can Be Done about It." Some remarks cited in the report were as insidious as "Ignorance breeds hate," which was the cautionary yet dangerous thought of Wasima Alikhan of the Islamic Academy of Las Vegas.

In another similarity with the '50s, today's fears of anthrax and terrorist attacks parallel the atomic anxiety of yesteryear. What University of Pennsylvania professor Alan Filreis had to say in a 1999 paper on the cultural aspects of atomic anxiety sounds awfully familiar right now: "Once the bombs had been dropped, could Americans go on and play ping-pong or poker, go shopping, shoot cap-pistols in fringed jackets and Dan'l Boone caps?. . . The normal was no longer normal. Every innocent act had the potential of the acutest dramatic irony. Every ping-pong game could have the feel of false innocence, of denial." He quotes from Paul Boyer's 1985 book By the Bomb's Early Light: American Thought and Culture at the Dawn of the Atomic Age: "American culture had been profoundly affected by atomic fear, by a dizzying plethora of atomic panaceas and proposals, and by endless speculation on the social and ethical implications of the new reality."

ALONG WITH STRONG-ARM politics, threats to civil liberties, and terrific fear has come a return to domesticity, to the rosy ideal of the warm hearth and tight-knit family, to wholesome American values.

Witness young women's newfound fascination with knitting, one of the most striking ways Cold War culture has staged a comeback. Stitch 'n' bitch groups -- social gatherings of young knitters who assemble under the pretense of crafting rather than cocktailing -- started popping up last year. But these days, they've become wildly popular. Contacted on a recent afternoon, Niki Bronstein, owner of the Harvard Square knitting shop Woolcott & Co., is too busy to chat. "Business is phenomenal," she says, before rushing off the phone to tend to the masses. She calls back a few hours later, harried but enthusiastic. "We have a lot of new-mother knitters," she says. "A lot of the college kids are knitting. A lot of guys are knitting, too. I think at one time it used to be older, but now it's younger people." Bronstein leads a weekly knitting workshop swamped by Gen Xers. "There's hardly ever anyone over 30," she marvels. "They're all in mid-to-late 20s. It's catching on."

Jessica Marcus, 25, started working in the store after a stint in the dot-com world. She counts herself among the newly initiated knitters, but Marcus believes that she's tapped into "an undercurrent that was already there. The fact that we are in military action now accentuates the need to feel useful and find some sort of fulfillment, whether it's getting together with friends and serving cookies or knitting." Seizing on this rekindled interest in needles and yarn, Vogue magazine has reissued old pattern books such as Vogue Knitting on the Go and Vogue Knitting Vintage Knits (both Butterick Company Inc., 2001), in addition to Vogue Knitting magazine, a staple for fashionable crafters.

On the fashion front as well, colors, cuts, and styles are increasingly reminiscent of grandma's garb. British Vogue, ever a forward-thinking arbiter of across-the-pond fashion, has taken note of the growing fascination with '50s culture. The November issue features a beauty page announcing the return of the "Fabulous '50s." "Fashion's tribute to the glamorous Fifties began last season," it reads. "The Fifties revival occurred virtually overnight and we all longed to evoke the pin-up girls of that decadent era. Hollywood glamour and all its trappings was back with a vengeance. . . . Think Ava Gardner, Brigitte Bardot, and Gina Lollobrigida. What could be more feminine and sexy than their porcelain skin, cupid's-bow lips, and hourglass curves?"

Along with the '50s glamour-girl look celebrated by British Vogue comes the era's flip side: the Iron Curtain look (see photo this page), proclaimed in a 1952 issue of Life. Both the dramatic couture of voluptuous old-Hollywood fantasy (think Catherine Zeta-Jones) and the realistic pragmatism of the severe, Soviet-inspired wardrobe are reappearing on today's racks and catwalks.

But it's not just what people are wearing that sends a shout-out to the good old days. It's also what they're doing when they take off those clothes. Sure enough, fascination with the '50s has also permeated the sexual and relationship realms. Papers across the country have been peeking into American bedrooms, eagerly reporting back that people are changing their sexual ways: Terror sex is in! Divorce is down! Young marriages are up! The sex industry's still firm!

Whatever the sexual trends, the stories also suggest that young people are eagerly slipping on rings. In early November, USA Today reported that "anecdotal evidence across the USA indicates Americans are reaching out to friends and family and seeking connection since September 11." And the informal evidence jibes with First Lady Laura Bush's proclamation that "couples are coming together and staying together. Since September 11, divorce cases have been withdrawn at higher rates, and more people are buying engagement rings and planning weddings." Yet to be determined is whether the surge in shacking up, the slowed-down economy -- necessitating cozy nights at home -- and the reported increase in sexual activity will spark a new baby boom in the months and years to come.

THE TANKING ECONOMY and rising unemployment rate, along with the romanticized notion of homemaking, have also converged in the American kitchen, sparking a revival of '50s-era comfort food. Au revoir, late-'90s towers of ethno-fusion-inspired cuisine. These days, it's all about warm, dense, American grub. In a recent survey conducted by The All New Good Housekeeping Cookbook (Hearst Books, 2001), the editors report that comfort foods are returning to the American dinner table, with women's favorites listed as macaroni and cheese, ice cream, soup, mashed potatoes, candy, meat loaf, and potato chips. Sure enough, instant-mashed-potatoes sales jumped about 13 percent in September, and snack-food sales increased by about 12 percent, the Associated Press reported in early November. In the past month, the Boston Globe has drooled over meat loaf, hearty soup, and baked beans. And cookbook author Joan Schwartz recently published an ode to an old favorite in Macaroni & Cheese: 52 Recipes, from Simple to Sublime (Villard Books, 2001).

Even at upscale eateries around town, diners are forgoing fanciful dishes for hearty staples. Harvard Square's warm and unpretentious Sandrine's is doing a mean business with its meaty grab-bag choucroute. "Five years ago," marvels co-owner Gwen Trost, "no one could believe that we put it on the menu." Another popular item has been onion soup. "Everybody orders that," Trost says.

It all makes sense to Carolyn Wyman, author of Jell-O: A Biography (Harvest Books, 2001). She explains that while Jell-O has actually been around since the turn of the century, "the height of Jell-O consumption -- when it reached its highest expression -- was in the '50s, during a postwar convenience-food cooking craze." Wyman reports that a Jell-O plant in Dover, Delaware, has been operating around the clock recently: "They're flat out selling Jell-O."

Wyman counts the jiggly stuff as comfort food. "It's served in diners, that kind of a place where it's real, real food, not this fancy stuff that you don't understand," she says. "I've heard people talk about how cynicism is out. [Jell-O's] real honest." In fact, Wyman sees Jell-O as the perfect synthesis of '50s throwback and '00s modernity. "It is comforting and nostalgic, but at the same time it's not heavy. So it's like, we can still eat it and live the lifestyles we do now."

IF YOUR GRANDMA is not around to share her housekeeping secrets, meat-loaf recipes, or "how to get a ring -- fast" tips, there's still hope: magazines have stepped up to the plate to dish out the hotly desired guidance. One useful and formerly mid-level seller, Time Inc.'s Real Simple, a lifestyle monthly that focuses on simplifying women's worlds through crafting, cooking, and organizing, has been thriving post-September 11. The September issue was its all-time best seller. It makes sense. What could be a more 1950s, June Cleaver-type cliché than homemade treats and handmade wreathes?

Pass the yarn.

Nina Willdorf can be reached at nwilldorf[a]phx.com..

Issue Date: January 4 - 10, 2002