I've been working through a couple of food related essays. Which took me far longer than I expected. So I've been holding off on posting. No one really needs me to parrot what I've been reading.
S0 after a break, I'm back to cookbooks, again.
I've heard a number really have a go a cookbooks as porn. The "I'm dieing in front of the audience" scene from the beginning of the No Reservations episode in the land of the long white cloud is probably the best (hint, that's called go watch it. I'm not going to cite it here).
I've always enjoyed the quote. I always enjoy being able to get away with saying porn in polite conversation. My own epiphany on the topic though was very recent. I was browsing through one of the larger book warehouses when I entered the cooking section. Now I'm not suggesting that this was in any way representative of the number of books that are out there. But it was a lot. I was sort of embarrassed by the number of books that were there.
I don't begrudge anyone, if they have the means, to be able to publish their favorite collection of recipes in book format. If they can have marvelous glossy pictures. Tell wondrous and meaningful tales about the history of the dish to them. If they can make some cash out of it even better.
What I do realize is from the old cliche. I have, like apparently mostly everyone else, been picking up cook books and looking at the pretty pictures. Fantasizing about eating that particular dish. Only reading the details of the dish if I can pluck up the courage to ask for a dance.
Well no more. I'm turning over a new leaf. I will take time to read what the author has written about the dish. I will peruse some of the details about the recipe. My new found resolution is already paying dividends. While exercising my reading skills I found the recipe for the apple sauce that is served with the pork belly at Aria. At least all of the flavors are there. I'll find out the next time I roast some pork.
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