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In this latest cold snap, when the world seemed to barricade itself behind the threat of ice, I found a curious deep joy inside myself. I knew my family would stay warm, even if it meant huddling in front of someone else’s fireplace. I knew we would have enough to eat, even if it meant raiding the catering supplies. And even though I knew it would be bad for business (no one in Central Texas drives in the ice), I knew I would have time to bury myself in my shelf of cookbooks and dream.
Maybe I should say shelves of cookbooks. Some folks think I have too many, but anyone who loves cookbooks knows that one can never have too many. They are as much a source of inspiration as any good meal. So somewhere in the midst of soups bubbling on the stove, an ongoing Scrabble game and ventures out into the silvery icicle of a yard with the horde of teenage boys that materialized at the shop searching sustenance and hilarity, I picked up a birthday gift from a friend—a copy of The Village of Wimberley Cookbook—and began leafing through it.
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Two years in the making, the book is a project of the Wimberley Institute of Cultures and contains more than 400 recipes by some of Wimberley’s best cooks. The recipes are an eclectic mix that range from the familiar to the exotic, not unlike our town. Reading through them, I found myself smiling, remembering Pie Socials; remembering people who have passed on, but left us with their recipes; remembering friends. The world is full of community cookbooks, but then, the world is full of communities, and I have yet to discover one that didn’t like to eat. A community cookbook is a signature scrawled lovingly on the world, a paean to a town’s culinary personality. Within its covers lie the makings of past and future feasts. Upon its pages lie secrets revealed. I enjoyed our brief flirtation with winter. I cooked lots of soups and lost at Scrabble to my sweetheart. I played in the ice with my son. And I read cookbooks. Sometimes all I need is an excuse.
January 28, 2007 |
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