I’ve turned into my mother. I’ve wondered when that moment might happen. Today, I recognized it at 3:00 pm on a Friday before Easter, while I was browsing books in the library. My mom used to collect cookbooks, or at least it appeared to me that she collected them. I never understood why she bought so many cookbooks and never cooked. I don’t cook at all and cookbooks surely do not help my challenged self.
I had checked out four books about food memoir and food culture. I don’t cook ever, but I enjoy reading about people who do. The discussion about food and the writing is captivating. Food unites people by the memory it evokes. Sometimes I access my fondest memories with meals and the people who shared them with me.