My cookbook collection is extensive (one of the perks of my job is that I am sent press previews of new titles). I love admiring the photography, layout, and cover art; I know how the sausage is made, so I pay close attention to all the decisions that an author has to make to put one of these out into the world. I read cookbooks in bed like novels, tearing pieces of paper to mark the recipes I plan to revisit, making grocery lists in my mind’s eye as I fall asleep.
Doctors smoke cigarettes outside of hospitals, stylists can’t be bothered to change out of sweatpants, and some of my favorite chefs eat Pop Tarts for breakfast (I’m looking at you, Alex Raij). In my case, I adore cookbooks, I write cookbooks, but have a hell of a time following recipes. Cooking is the closest I come to a mindfulness practice, a wordless flow state that is easily stilted by exactitude and any amount of second guessing. I have to be smitten with an author to willingly override my own culinary intuition in favor of theirs. So when I find a book that withstands the test of time, it becomes an intimate companion in the kitchen. I depend on those authors to pull me out of a creative rut, to hold my hand as I fold new ingredients and techniques into my repertoire. Most of them aren’t shiny and new, but these books have changed the way I cook, and for that, I am forever grateful.
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