This may be
a first for the Nonfiction Book Club blog, but I’m throwing caution to the compost—and
perhaps tossing humiliation into the cinnamon buns—but I’m doing it. I’m
reviewing a cookbook.
Now, in my
opinion, this particular book is no ordinary cookbook. You know there are books
out there masquerading as cookbooks but really are not. They’re often a forum
for a writer to go beyond the cooking experience; to experiment and surmise
about wider issues. Authors like Michael Pollan, Jen Lin-Liu and Julie Powell are
ones that come to mind, who have looked at the social implications of food,
social history and the psychology of cooking.
Alright, this
book doesn’t fit into those categories, either. What I like about this book is that it makes
me laugh. And it makes me want to eat. And bake and cook. All of those things I
often like to do, but this one also makes me want to invite author Ree Drummond
over to hang out at the same time.
Drummond is
a very funny albeit humble writer. Her book catches you charmingly off-guard
right from the get-go, with her descriptions of favourite ingredients and
cooking apparatuses:
“Butter. I’m
not afraid to use it. It’s flavourful, versatile and a necessary component in
most of my recipes.”
“Iron
Skillet. If properly seasoned an iron skillet will become not only your best
friend in the kitchen but also your uncle, cousin, grandmother and brother.
Iron skillets get nice and hot, perfect for searing a juicy rib-eye steak.”
“Commercial
baking sheets. My family considered an intervention this year because I collect
these 18 X 12-inch babies the way some women collect Marie Osmond dolls.
They’re the perfect size for my Chocolate Sheet Cake and hold more cookies than
your average cookie sheet.”
You want to just
keep reading, which is a wonderful twist on a “collection of recipes,
instructions and information about the preparation and serving of foods.” (Definition
from www.dictionary.reference.com
) Most cookbooks are an essential
reference book, used only when you need it and only for particular items of
interest: I need to find how many cups of sugar to put into strawberry freezer
jam; how do I know when the cream sauce is beyond hope; how
do I tell when the brownie is done? How many cookbooks have you read that you just
want to keep reading for pure enjoyment?
It isn’t just
the entertaining writing style that makes you want to turn the pages. Drummond
photographs each step of the cooking process, so it is visually wonderful, too.
Many of these step-by-steps are punctuated by groupings of witticisms that
could only have been inspired by an accompanying glass of wine:
“2. Place
the hot potatoes on a cutting board and dice them into 1-inch-ish pieces. Inch-ish.
Say that five times fast. Just for kicks. My goal in life is to tack ‘ish’ onto
as many words as possible. Possible-ish.
3. Heat a
skillet over medium low to medium heat. Next put a little vegetable oil in the
pan. A tablespoon is good.
4. Scrape
the pan you used this morning to make bacon. You made all the bacon this morning… right?
5. Then,
because I usually straddle the fence between ridiculousness and utter foolishness,
I add a tablespoon of bacon fat to the skillet. ‘Cause it tastes good, that’s
why.
6. Go ahead
and make peace with yourself then add the onion.”
But it was her
preamble on the cinnamon buns—sorry; rolls--that killed me:
“If you
begin making these for your friends and family for the holidays, I promise you this:
you’ll become famous. And, on a less positive note, people will forget
everything else you’ve ever accomplished in your life. From that moment on, you’ll
be known—and loved—only for your cinnamon rolls. But don’t worry! You’ll get
used to it.”
With the
pressure of doom upon you, how could you not want to try making them, let alone
eating them? Better yet, find some unwitting baker-friend to make them, so you
escape the fate but you enjoy the food!
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