Essay On Cookbook Junkie

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I am an self-proclaimed cookbook junkie. I am the type of girl who always has a pile of cookbooks next to my bed, I used to pass away time thumbing through exotic cookbooks on the public library shelves always on the hunt for a new flavour or technique to experience. Perhpas a bit strange, but reading all of those cookbooks was like traveling for me, conjuring up the smells, sights and sounds of recipes that could whisk me away to far off countries and cultures.


I still cannot pass by a cookbook display without thumbing through the pages, the whiff of fresh paper tickling my nostrils. The desire to bring it home to my kitchen and stain those pages with love, a splatter of tomato sauce here a smudge of chocolate there. I can't quite pinpoint when my love affair with cooking and cookbooks began, but I do remember my Mom’s well-worn Betty Crocker Cooky book. I would spend hours lying on the living room floor, leafing through the pages and dreaming about all the beautiful cookies and how
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I experimented with DIY ramen noodles, adding vegetables and spices of my own. I remember getting my first apartment with my very own kitchen, outfitting it with mismatched dishes and Goodwill finds. My Mom bought me my first cookbook, The Joy of Cooking by Irma Rombauer, I read it from cover to cover, noting which recipes I would try and planning full meals including a salad, entree and dessert and enjoying the simple pleasure of creating menus and deciding which flavours would pair well with one another.


I also met one of my best friends over food. Ruth and I bonded over a late night conversation and bowl of homemade salsa. Our friendship would always revolve around food, from her Mom’s Peruvian octopus salad to late night fondue and stirring a pot of lucky New Years Day, Zarzuela de Mariscos, to the Mango Bread we made from a library cookbook and are still searching for the lost recipe, it was just so
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