There are lots of big, juicy cookbooks on the shelf (and horizon) this fall: Plenty More, Prune, Flour + Water, Bitter, Heritage. I want to cook from them and write about them and am resuming my cookbook reviews.
I was going to start small. I was going to start yesterday by whipping out a review of a new cookbook sent to me by a publisher. It's a low-profile cookbook that you probably haven’t heard of, but I was intrigued because it used up a lot of an ingredient I was trying to get rid of. I read the book cover to cover (earnest, inconsistent), studied the recipes (some appealing, some appalling) and cooked five dishes (just ok) from its pages over the weekend. I thought this review might take an hour, maybe two, from my morning and then I could move on to another project. I expected to be done by 9 am. I started typing.
At four in the afternoon, I was still typing. I had long ago migrated from the treadmill to the sofa. I kept moving sentences around, struggling to establish the right tone -- friendly and appreciative of the merely adequate dishes I’d made, but also gently baffled by some of the super-weird recipes and several other serious glitches in the book's concept. Shouldn’t be so hard, should it? What was wrong with my brain?
Seriously frustrated, I took a late afternoon break and went to the library, hoping to find Lena Dunham’s book on the “lucky day” shelf. Instead I found Lila, which I had thought I wanted to read, but realized the instant I saw it that I actually didn’t. While wandering through the stacks, it hit me the way things do when you step away from a problem: I had spent the whole day trying to bullshit my way through a post. I had tried to review a cookbook without saying what I actually thought.
It seems like bullshitting would be easy, but it's really, really hard. Once you decide to tell the truth, everything just flows. But I couldn’t tell the truth. The truth was that I thought the book was amiable, confused, misguided, full of outlandish things I’d never want to eat, and, basically, a failure. I’d spent eight hours trying not to say this.
And I was right not to say it. Unfortunately, I couldn't write around it, either. I came home from the library and erased the file. A small book like this one needs to be left in peace. If Prune or Plenty More disappoints, I wouldn’t hold back.
Today I got up and wrote this post. It’s not much, but I had to squeeze something out of my lost Wednesday.
|instead of Lila|