The True Joy of Cooking is to Try and Try Again

I have owned "The Joy of Cooking" three separate times in my short lifespan, and currently own not one. This has to say something about the way I cook. Some might not find this an interesting statistic, especially if one assumes I am an avid cook who gives this book away because it is used so often and I must have the newest revised addition each time it comes out, but one would be wrong. First off, no one can actually go out and buy "The Joy of Cooking." It is one of those books that must be given to you upon moving into a new apartment, engagement, marriage, or otherwise important phase in your life in which people (aka your mother) believes it is necessary you begin learning how to use things in your kitchen. This is exactly how I have acquired this massive anthology of food so many times.

I went to college and got a copy from my mother when I moved 5 states away to begin a new chapter of my life, however that chapter was overshadowed by 7 narcissistic female roommates, one of whom stole it. It didn't matter much to me since dorm room living leaves a lot to be desired as far as a kitchen goes and my mini fridge held all I wanted anyway.

My last year of college I proclaimed I met the man of my dreams and we moved into my first apartment together where there was actually a kitchen to use and my mother gave me the anniversary edition of "The Joy of Cooking." I think I read the introduction and a chapter on how to mince garlic before letting it sit in the corner as the recipes required equipment I did not have out of my Target Kitchen-in-a-Box, and any way my new love pretty much only ate vegetables, cheese, and bread. As predicted, new love fades, we packed up our stuff in separate boxes and went on our separate ways. I do not wish to say he stole the book, it was probably lost in the shuffle (however, if this were a very honest and true memoir and I really have o shame as far as making things seem tactful in print, he totally stole it).

So I moved back home with an English degree, a Social Science degree, and a broken heart with no idea what to do next, my mother (being the Queen of finding any part time job available) went with me to apply to a job at a bookstore, and to make me feel better about my broken heart and sad new job prospects, bought me the newest anniversary edition, sitting prettily on the edge of the shelf in all its glory, and we took it home and baked pie.

Months went by, but my mother's kitchen is still my mother's kitchen and after an inordinately long period of living in her house, not being allowed to use the good pots or pans, and sick and tired of shelving books 10 hours a day, I did what all lost college graduates do and I moved to Europe, Ireland to be exact.

In Ireland, not only did I find a great room in a house near the river with a kitchen, but I also found roommates who knew how to cook. The first was a culinary chef who went to culinary school during the day and worked at a restaurant at night. He knew how to make the most fascinating dishes I had ever seen out of what appeared to be flour and corn mash from the cupboard. Another roommate was studying to be a herbologist which meant he could tell you the properties of every kind of herb, where it grew, and what it was best used in. He brought me to the hydroponic farm and botanical gardens and explained how lavender cross-pollinated, when the best time to cut basil was, and he juggled. My third roommate was getting her Masters in International Affairs and grew up on a farm in Cork. When I was low on money her and her family took me in, let me work for food and rent, and owned chickens! I learned how to plow, that most of what you throw away can be composted either to feed the animals or to put in the garden, and I learned chicken eggs stay warm long after their lain. My last roommate was French. With her came crusty, flaky, beautiful breads and creamy, smelly cheese sauces, which I imagine flowing outside the gates of Heaven. I'm not sure what she was doing in Ireland other than being a lost expatriate like me, but goodness was I glad she was there.

We had a happy home and most every night all of use gathered in a separate corridor to help with the cooking. Shawn brought home leftover meats from the restaurant. Bryan brought with him fresh cut herbs from school (and usually some pretty flowers from the gardens to put around the house). Gail brought home fresh eggs from the farm as well as the most juicy fruits and veggies (the tomatoes in particular were divine, and who knew tomatoes came in so many colors), and Lucy and I waited patiently for our orders. We would go to the shops for the other necessities and I learned the differences between Roquefort and blue cheese (and also learned not to forget it in your backpack for more than a few hours or you will have the memory of that dinner for a lot longer than you want). I watched how to flip pancakes, the proper way to muddle basil, and about a thousand other things. But most of all, I was allowed in the kitchen with the pots and pans. I was allowed near the chopping, cutting, baking, and I learned I loved to cook. I learned the recipe is not a manual but a guidance towards things yet to come. However, I also learned The Republic of Ireland thinks work visas are really important, and after 6 months mine was up. I spent a few more months traveling, then bid adieu to my new friends, however my new found love of the kitchen stayed with me on the long, sad flight back to the States.

And as life does tend to repeat itself, I went back to school, not seeing another option, for another 3 years. It has now been 8 years since my first cookbook endeavor and I have been given a few ever since, but no one forgets their first and my first was "The Joy of Cooking," so as I went to reclaim my time in the kitchen, it turns out the last "Joy of Cooking" did not make the shuffle back and forth from Ireland through grad school. Sigh. But as I stare at my bookshelf I can see all the things standing in the place of where the once behemoth book used to live: My travel journal from Ireland, my tassel from both graduations, the copy of Dr. Suess' Cat and the Hat I read at story time in the bookstore, a picture of my best friend's new baby boy, A vegan cupcake book, the history of wine, my recipe binder filled with the recipes I have collected from friends and magazines over the years, and a map of the East Coast. Looking at it now, all I can think is that my bookshelf doesn't seem to be missing anything important at all. Its filled with memories, love, and good times in kitchen from the very beginning. And I'm sure when I buy house or get married or participate in any other of the milestones of life to come I might get another copy of "The Joy of Cooking," but as for now, the joy of cooking looks to me like I already have it.