File this under things you didn’t necessarily ask for, but when I LOVE something, I want to shout about it from the rooftops—be it a podcast, a beauty product or, in this week’s case, two cookbooks. Welcome to “J’adore” a smidgen of declarations from moi about something I adore. (Like, for example, the fact that “adore” and “adore” mean the same thing in English and French. But no need to devote more than a sentence to that!)
Somewhere between moving to Paris and the pandemic, I became someone who actually cooks—and likes it. There was a time when uttering those words would’ve been comical to me, considering I ate Sad Desk Salads over my keyboard at work, and made the same eggplant stacks and cheese quesadillas on repeat for dinner when I wasn’t attending an opening or event; lurking by the kitchen door to grab a mini crabcake or pig-in-a-blanket before anyone else.
While I did not keep my sweaters in my oven when I lived in NYC, I definitely don’t recall using it very often. Here in Paris, however, the thought of living in an apartment without one (you’d be SHOCKED by how many come sans four) is now non-negotiable. I no longer use cookbooks merely as decoration or to, say, level the microwave on my countertop. I use them to actually cook. And, in fact, there are two in my small collection that are so used; so splattered with oil and filled with crumbs, that the pages open to my favorite recipes without effort. Today, dear friends, I’m not only going to tell you about these two cookbooks, I’m going to share a couple of my favorite recipes from them. On y va!