An Opinionated Bite
Several things are true, for me at least, about being past the age where I could get away with saying I was “39 and holding” each birthday.
No matter how old I get and far from my roots as a newspaper reporter and copy editor, deep down, I still identify as a journalist* (though it’s been decades since I could truly claim that) and a food writer/reviewer (though it’s been well pre-Covid since I could claim that) and somehow, despite being the mother of one kid who just finished grad school and another who just finished college, a deeply impatient, hate-authority-but-not-actually-very-rebellious 20-something who has both lots of confidence and ambition and total imposter syndrome.
I’m still feeling that as I return to cookbook reviewing. I’m so excited, and confident as ever (!) in my opinions, but also curious about how much cookbooks, and I, have changed.
I know I’m drawn to the rare cookbooks published now with illustrations but few photos, because I actually want to imagine how the food should look and not feel tied to a specific image. Also, I’m just bored by the Instagram effect that demands rustic wood and long outdoor tables full of impossibly beautiful people untouched by sweat while they grilled the feast—or icky, color-saturated retro photos straight out of the Betty Crocker books. And possibly slightly envious, because I’ve never had the patience to fully absorb even the basics of how to photograph my food well.
I know I’m intensely irritated by cookbooks that, in 2024, don’t list ingredients by both cups and ounces or grams. If you’re interested enough to buy a cookbook or two, you’re probably able to spring for a cheap kitchen scale—and what a difference it makes in being able to produce the recipe as the author intended. Cookbook authors can easily maintain a list of their standard measurements, and with lists such as King Arthur’s, hardly need to start from scratch. I didn’t write recipes that way when I wrote my books—I knew no one who owned a kitchen scale then—but I will never write another that makes readers wonder just how fluffed my cup of flour was.
And I know that I’ll truly never understand why cooks still write “salt and pepper to taste” for raw or half-cooked dishes. Why must it be so tough—apparently—to give a baseline? Sure, add “or to taste” every time, but tell me I should start my meatball mixture with a teaspoon of coarse salt (and tell me which brand you use, so I know what a teaspoon means to you) and a half-teaspoon pepper, and then I’m happy to take it from there.
Also, I award bonus points to books that put the page numbers in the header or footer where they should be, not some odd spot, and go for a font and point size that my pitiful eyes can actually decipher, without looking cartoonishly “large print.” And double points for a well-crafted index—no small feat, it seems, for most books.
Finally (for now! did I mention I have opinions?), I know I’m on the lookout for books that take the ultraprocessed food crisis/obesity crisis/shameful food producers seriously, and try wherever possible to reduce sugar and go for whole grains, “alternative” flours, a reduced use of meat (but I’m definitely an omnivore), and moderation in all things. (I found the title “Sugar, I Love You” alarming—though that would make me the “sugar snob” the author writes about.) Not that I’m great about moderation (hello, strong opinions!) but my 20-something self, and my 39-year-old self, and my [ageless] current self all expect I’ll get there, someday.
*albeit one who, sorry AP Stylebook, loves the Oxford comma. I started out my career a diligent comma-dropper, brainwashed by the style guides, but ah, how the longing grew for the clarity of that serial mark. Also, semicolons rule.
The Spice of Life
Everything is better with Pepper
Pepper has opinions.
