I enjoy reading and owning physical cookbooks. I can spend hours in a bookstore running my fingers across glossy photographs of food, thumbing through pages of measurements and ingredients. I also enjoy the small stories that come with them. Sometimes I crave the story more than the food.
Your friends have come to see you — not to critique your cooking skills. I’m asked all the time, “How many hors d’oeuvres do I need to make before dinner?”
“None,” is my answer.
I think of this often. Not only when it comes to cooking but when it comes to life. Sometimes I ask too much of myself. I invent obligations. In sorting through what matters, sometimes I fail to see what doesn’t.