I have been thinking about time. I once bought an old copy of the American Woman’s Cookbook, published in 1937 for a quarter. It’s what would now be considered an old fashioned cookbook, no beautiful pictures, no trendy ingredients, no celebrity chef. Rather, it is a cookbook to feed your family and to create their world. Here’s what I mean. There are sections on how to set a table, how to create a guest list, feed invalids, how to prepare food to insure against hardship, how to shop when you are experiencing hardship, how to dress a possum. In one book, it teaches you how to run your home, support your family, deal with adversity, encourage celebration and rejoicing, nurse your sick, surprise your kids, keep your husband interested in lunch at his desk and make him wonder what will be waiting when he gets home. It teaches you how to love, in a practical, honest way.
When I have a particularly stressful day at work, just before bed, I will curl up on the couch and read this cookbook. I know, clearly cheaper than therapy but perhaps no less necessary. But it takes me somewhere else. It helps me focus on what is important, reminds me to be honest in how I show love. It seems strange but I find it a comfort, this old cookbook whose journey to arrive in my hands is a complete mystery to me. I often wonder who else has flipped through those pages. Who left the smudge of chocolate on the page for brownies? I imagine what smudge I will leave, and who will see it next. It makes me think about what I want my cookbook to be.
