Jo Blogs Books

An array of emotions are reflected back at me as I gaze upon these shelves. Many a story replays in my head as allow my gaze to fall upon each dust jacket, every binding holding so much more than mere lists of ingredients, bullet points instructing me how to create the best blueberry muffin, the ultimate lamb curry, the most superlative sourdough. For this is where it all began.

Beyond the recipes encased within these verses are the memories which I hold dear to my heart. The recipes I have made from their pages for loved ones are only a small part of the magic these shelves bare. The visitor to my home, the casual onlooker would not see beyond a list of culinary titles at first glance but to me, they are conjure up cherished memories of so much more.

The dear memories of the loved ones whom have gifted these tomes to me either knowing how I love to cook, to feed, to share my kitchen creations and just saw this and thought of you, or those whom cooked from special titles themselves and had to share the joy they found within with me. The way certain volumes immediately bring to mind a certain friend whom makes a particular recipe, from a particular book in such a way that it becomes synonymous with them when I see or taste it. How I could never not be reminded of them when I hold the book in my hands. The naughty memories of me buying various copies of the latest gotta have it volumes when I really did not have even a spare £5 to buy them from The Works or similar. A cheeky smile creases my face as I recall just popping in on the off chance an undeniable bargain, too compelling to ignore may be waiting for me, no regard paid to the fact I’d be sacrificing some other necessity to feed my desire to learn more, to discover tastes untasted.

Deeper still we delve into the dust jackets to discover tales of the very young Jo – if we look closely we will see several pamphlet sized editions, nestling in between some of the grander, larger, more encyclopaedic in comparison publications with hard backed spines. One of the very smallest is a later edition of the very first book I ever recall baking from. If I close my eyes, I can smell the creamed butter and sugar which stain its pages; if I run my fingers over it, I can still feel occasional crystals of caster preventing the pages opposing directly, grains of flour marking loved recipes made over and over again.
Smaller still are copies one to two pages thick of recipes I’ve had published in magazines myself – protected by butterscotch brown Manila envelopes, a sense of personal pride and accomplishment as much as any of my academic ones washes over me and a fuzzy warm glow emanates from within as I spy them propped between my favourite authors.
The first book Hungry Hubby ever gave me, when he was merely Fuzzy Fella winks at me too, reminding me of happy days spent pouring over it and other such love-worn titles searching for his favourite foods or flavours, in the hope to recreate at home to demonstrate just how much I cared for him in the one of the most sincere forms I know – on a plate. A crimson flush tints my cheeks as I recall how this often in the early days this did not always go to plan. A further crooked, cheeky smile emerges as I recall how it didn’t matter either way.

Gazing onto the simple oak shelves, lovingly made or assembled by my father, bursting with colour and projecting so many beloved memories a new thought enters my mind. Each word has been read and reread in each cardboard bound miscellany of foodie fare, yet some have never left the page to become a living, breathing creation in and of itself. How the adventures to far flung destinations made possible by a trip to my favourite international food store upon being bitten with the bug for Chinese, Indian, Middle Eastern delights are still to come. How new recipes of my own making, inspired by the technicolour photography and evocative writing within these simple wooden shelves is yet to come. How the narrative of my life can be told by dishes I create, invited by their many leaves of home made inspiration, simply waiting to be cooked into life.