The Joy of Cookbooks

I’m into porn. Cookbook porn. It’s a terrible habit.

I have the basics. Betty, Julia, and Fanny. I have the stuff that’s a little off. Nigella, Bobby, and an obscure Canadian named Laura.

There are the extremes, too. Silver Palate, Babycakes, Death by Chocolate.

It’s a guilty pleasure. I savor each cookbook as I pull it from the shopping bag. Turning the pages slowly, I hover over every recipe’s list of ingredients, ticking off my mental grocery list. Yes, that’s in my pantry already. No, that would be hard to find around here. My eyes wander through the instructions, evaluating the difficulty. Easy? Advanced? Time consuming?

And then, there are the full-page photographs — tight shots of the chef’s handiwork displayed with nary a crumb askew. Food stylists are worth their weight in macaroons: The light tips off the peaks of a meringue topping. The mozzarella luxuriates a margarita pizza (never greasy!). The nuances of double chocolate brownies are presented as indulgences beyond measure.

Oh, my.

I must confess, though, I’m not at my best in the kitchen.

I’ve caught the room on fire twice. In my defense, the fires were small, and I extinguished them efficiently because I’m quick on the draw with the faucet’s hose attachment.

One of the fires wasn’t my fault — not really. Who knew mice like kibble? I’ll bet you didn’t, either. An industrious and quiet mouse hoarded the dog’s food in the drawer at the bottom of my oven. She was surreptitious about it, too, only taking a few pieces each time. The dog may have noticed, but he never expressed any concerns. The mouse amassed a pile of kibble so high that it ignited when I turned on the pilot light.

I don’t think I’m the only person who never considered whether kibble is flammable. Turns out it is.

You may be wondering about my cleaning skills. After all, how much time does a mouse need to amass a drawer full of kibble? And what does that imply about how long it had been since I cleaned the oven?

Fair point.

I approach cleaning in the same way I tackle cooking. What’s the difference between a tbsp and a tsp? Not much, if you ask me. If the cookies are supposed to bake for 20 minutes, and I get distracted by an episode of Midsomer Murders, what’s an extra 30 minutes or so?

Turns out a lot. The devil is truly in the details.

When my husband and I were first married, Jeff insisted on being the family cook. He’s a chemist and enjoys combining various proteins, vegetables, and spices; cooking amounts to conducting science experiments in the kitchen. The same can be said about my efforts, except that I majored in theater.

He hates doing the dishes. I hate doing dishes, too, and we agreed, “Whoever cooks doesn’t clean,” which struck me as fair in the latter days of our engagement. However, as a single woman, I got used to plastic takeout containers. I suppressed the memories of my mother up to her elbows each evening in soapy water while she attacked the pots and pans with a scouring pad.

Jeff and I had been married for about three months when I hatched a plot: I could shirk some of the cleaning chores if we shared cooking responsibilities. I handed him a recipe for Crockpot Lasagna and announced I wanted to make it for dinner.

The genius of Crockpot Lasagna is its dump-and-run instructions. Just throw the ingredients in the slow cooker and dial it up to High. Eight hours later, presto! Spoon out a perfect pasta dish that would bring Jamie Oliver to tears. The illustrations accompanying the recipe showed a traditional ooey-gooey cheesy slab of lasagna nestled beside a garden salad on a simple white china plate. I was confident my version would look the same.

Jeff was dubious. I insisted and set the automatic timer on the coffee pot for an hour earlier than usual.

After slamming the snooze button on my alarm the following morning, it took me a few moments to remember why I wanted to be up at 6:00. The scent of Arabica brewing pulled me into the kitchen as Jeff tugged at the blankets and resumed snoring.

With sleep pulling at my eyelids, I filled the crockpot with ground beef, tomato sauce, onions, and garlic. Next, I broke lasagna noodles and layered them over the meat sauce. I combined mozzarella, parmesan, and cottage cheese in a bowl and spooned half over the noodles. I repeated the layers, placed the glass lid, and turned on the crockpot.

Grinning wickedly, I imagined myself in our La-Z-Boy recliner later in the evening, watching Murdoch Mysteries with a goblet of pinot noir while my husband toiled away at the kitchen sink.

Jeff arrived home from work before me that day. He met me at the door, reiterated his skepticism, and said the crockpot contents didn’t resemble the illustration. My eyes narrowed. I accused him of attempting to avoid dish duty. He hastily announced it was time to walk the dog.

I ladled lasagna into bowls. It certainly didn’t resemble Ina Garten’s. We dug in. Some of the noodles snapped when I bit into them. Others were limp with a purple tint. The sauce was tepid gravy with bits of tomato. The beef was the color of old mushrooms.

Jeff took a second bite and a third.

“This is dreadful.” I put down my fork as he plunged ahead.

“It’s not so bad. Really.” 

God bless him. Jeff was a newly married man. I’d like to say we sent out for pizza that night, but Crockpot Lasagna was so awful that we lost our appetites and dumped it in the garbage.

I stick to my imagination these days: I’m Betty Crocker in a shirtwaist, Julia Child in Paris, Fanny Farmer… with fudge. Anything’s possible. Except Crockpot Lasagna.

Tagged: Essays