In 2009, I accumulated more cookbooks than in any other year. Some of these were presents, one was a hand-me-down and others I purchased myself. Even though I’m no Carol Blymire, cooking my way from beginning to end of cookbooks, I’ve got to say yet again that there are few things I like to do more on dreary day than thumb through my books, Post-It-ing recipes I plan to try. There are also few things more satisfying that cooking one of those recipes and having it come out perfect, but that’s another story.
I love cookbooks, and here’s why: cookbooks are like promises, and like secrets, the kinds you make and keep with your friends on the playground after school before you walk home. When you’re in the midst of one, it’s the most precious thing in the world and you feel an amazing sort of camaraderie with your promise-makers and secret-keepers. That’s how I feel, anyway, as though these chefs and authors and cooks are gifting me with treasured information. It doesn’t matter than hundreds of thousands of people also have copies of these books, by the way. I still feel trusted.