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Elli`s Alley's avatar

I feel it depends on the cookbook.

Some are meant to become stained and well-thumbed.

Some are for traveling to unknown places.

And some are simply to have—to hold a culture, a time, or a version of ourselves we hope to become.

I was chatting with a woman the other day who said something that made me stop:

“I LOVE cookbooks. I have a shelf full of them. But they sit there collecting dust because they feel too complicated for my lifestyle. I’m busy during the week, so I rely on what I know. When I have time, I never think to pick one up. But when I do—I really do love to cook.”

And oh, I’ve felt that.

There’s something intimidating about glossy, “perfect” cookbooks—especially when they’re filled with techniques and ingredients that feel a mile away from the weeknight rhythm of our lives. That’s why, a few years ago, I started a personal project: to make cookbooks feel less sacred and more human. To let them live and breathe in my kitchen.

And somewhere along the way, I realized something:

Most cookbooks aren’t intimidating because we can’t cook.

They’re intimidating because no one ever taught us how to befriend them.

They’re like fascinating strangers at a dinner party—you sense they have stories to tell, but you’re not sure how to start the conversation.

That’s where your idea of “speed dating” a cookbook really resonates. You flip through quickly. You look for something that clicks. A photo. A spice combination. A memory you didn’t know you had. You tag it. Revisit it. Maybe cook it on a quiet Sunday. Maybe never. But the book stops being intimidating—and starts becoming familiar.

And let’s be honest—the best recipes aren’t always printed on thick, glossy paper.

They’re the handwritten ones, stained with oil and love. The crumpled index cards tucked into a plastic sleeve. The scrap of paper with half a lemon cake scribbled in your mother’s handwriting—or a friend’s charoset recipe, folded and refolded like a map to something sacred.

They live in messy binders, between magazine clippings and recipes you meant to try in 2009. And somehow, just when you most need them—they resurface. Smudged, familiar, perfect.

That’s how it is for us creative, chaotic types.

We don’t always file, but we feel.

We don’t organize our recipes—we remember them, in taste and texture and smell.

Because cooking isn’t just an act of precision.

It’s an act of memory.

Warmly,

Elli Benaiah

🕊️ Beyond Babylon: A Jewish Culinary Sojourn

https://beyondbabylon.substack.com

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Melissa Norman's avatar

What a great idea! I don't have many cookbooks due to my specific needs and the ones I do have I don't cook from often enough.Will try this x

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