If my recipe book told me to jump, I would ask how high.
In my family, there has only been one recipe book. Now, every once in a while, we do, of course, use other recipes, but most delicacies I consume come from the same place. I have never trusted anyone, or anything, so much, but the book, The New Best Recipe by America’s Test Kitchen (2004), has gone through countless trials and tribulations to prove itself worthy of my trust—never once leading me astray.
As a result, the spine is gone, leaving a mesh layer to hold all 1028 pages together through hopes and prayers. Its pages, especially those most used, are constantly falling out, dog eared, ripped, and containing little comments for the next person using the chocolate chip cookie recipe (even though at this point, most of us—I—know it by memory). Bright pink sticky notes contain handwritten measurements for halving, and random accessories stick out from the pages from moments of rushing between recipes, never removed.
When I bake with a friend and, instead of pulling out the most overused, one-foot-in-the-grave, wrecked book I have ever seen, they pull out their phone, a part of me dies inside. What’s wrong with a good old fashioned recipe book? Nothing. But as we all grow closer to technology and further from physical possessions, books, especially recipe books, see less staining, less rips, less love.