When the chill creeps into the air my kitchen becomes my favorite place to be. I pull out the stained, dog-eared, well-loved family recipes. I scour the library’s shelves and bring home stacks of cookbooks and magazines filled with promising new recipes. And photos taken of recipes found in magazines while waiting for medical appointments finally get printed out. By the way, taking a picture is much better than tearing out the recipe as it leaves the magazine intact for others to enjoy. Recipes selected, I head to the grocery store with shopping list in hand. I’m a woman on a mission.
Back home, the pots and pans come out and the counters
sag under pounds of fresh produce, sacks of flour, and dozens of eggs.
The smells of home cooking start to waft through the air and my dog takes his
place by my side to catch errant bits that may fall to the floor. Batches
of homemade applesauce, and gallons of soups like Lebanese vegetable,
pear-pumpkin and carrot-jalapeno get made to eat, share with others, and if
there is any leftover, freeze. It’s sheer bliss.
But I haven’t always had an appreciation for home-cooked
fare. When I was a young child, I abhorred any food that wasn’t packaged,
processed, or chemically-laden. Twinkies were great, sugar cereal was
better. Growing up I spitefully referred to my mother as a “homemade mom”
because everything my mother cooked was well, just that, homemade. Very
boring. Very uncool. Other kids I knew got to eat boxed macaroni
and cheese. I got noodles in a real cheddar cheese sauce made from
butter, flour, sharp cheddar cheese and whole milk. Other kids got to
order delivery pizza. I had to settle for pizza with a handmade crust,
homemade sauce, and topped with real chunks of onions, pepperoni, and jack
cheese. Why was my mother denying us the simple pleasures of
processed food? Didn’t she love us? Other kids got to enjoy
microwaved frozen pancakes while I learned the finer points of flipping
homemade crepes in a pan while not burning my fingers. The fact that the
crepes were later smothered in butter and cinnamon sugar and downed by me in
three bites did little to take the sting off of being denied frozen pancakes.
Yet somehow, the culinary injustices of my youth have now
become treasured memories. Somewhere along the way, the sweet heady scent
of butter sizzling in a pan, the solid bits slowing browning, now ranks among
my most favorite smells in the world. Now I beg my mother to make her
homemade pizza and my children join me in the pleading because unlike me at
their age, they’re smart enough to recognize good food when they taste it.
I have come to understand and appreciate the value and
pleasure of a home-cooked meal. I know now what my mother knew
then: home-cooked food made with the best ingredients you can afford is a
worthy investment in your family’s health and well-being. And love is
definitely present with every chop of the knife and stir of the spoon.
Maybe my homemade mother actually was pretty cool after all.
Get inspired today. Head to your local library and
ask a reference librarian to help you find great cookbooks and foodie
magazines. Grab a handful or grab an armload. There are literally
thousands of recipes just waiting to be discovered. Smell the
possibilities. Savor the results.
Food. Family. Love. Libraries.
Start your cooking today.
Joanna Bailey
Library Director,
Neill Public Library
12/8-9 Moscow Pullman Daily News
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