I like to read and also read cookbooks.
My favorite non-guilty, yet food related, pleasure is (and always will be) the both in one place:
“My son decided one hour into yesterday’s 90 degree morning yesterday (sic) that he’d had eee-nufff of the heat and of having an Ace bandage on his sprained ankle and no, he would not, could not, stop yelling. I hear you, kid, I really do. And so we decided that only a South American brain freeze would make things better and look, I don’t mean to oversell them, I don’t, but you must believe me when I tell you: this drink solves everything.”
When I venture to a recipe via pinterest or my go-to’s in my subscription dock I don’t usually take the time to read the story with the recipe. Unless it’s seemingly difficult, I scroll till I find the nugget of ingredients and master-plan my way through discovering something new.
It’s a different kind of recipe from Smitten Kitchen or authors like Shauna Niequist, because first it’s a tale. A story to gather around, a little space to agree on the little things and notice that we all bring something different to the table.
I like that about food. And writing.