Not many people can identify the exact moment they became a cook, but I can.
Many people can identify cookbooks that inspired them, that changed them, that showed them new ways to think about the world, and I can, too. (There’s a meme going around right now where people are sharing cookbooks that are important to them.)
There are a small handful of cookbooks that will always have a place on my shelf, even if I don’t use them very much. They’ve earned it.
But actually, the book that deserves the credit is this one: a novel. Diana Abu-Jaber wrote a love story out of cooking, and I’m such a sucker for food as language.
I remember what happened when I finished reading this book, in the hammock in the back yard, summer after my final year of high school. I put the book on my chest, closed my eyes, and let it settle. And then I got up and went into the kitchen with purpose, with determination to MAKE SOMETHING, to teach myself that language.
I ended up making guacamole.
That’s the first thing I ever cooked, not because I wanted to eat, but because something utterly wordless was shouting inside me and would not stop until I’d given it a voice: the pucker of lime, the velvet decadence of avocado, salt.
Of course, I was not yet a GOOD cook, so I also ruined it with too many spices — cumin, black pepper, hot pepper, coriander, chili powder…
