I learned to read by a cookbook, of all things. And not just a cookbook, but THE cookbook, Julia Child, Louisette Bertholle and Simon Beck’s “Mastering the Art of French Cooking,” a pretty daunting task for a four year old who had just graduated preschool. My mother had always been an alright cook, but it was my grandmother who harnessed the skills and powers to make a good meal talk back to you when you ate it. I remember faintly, for some odd reason, sitting on the countertop mesmerized by the fact that butter would melt when it hit a hot surface, and onions would turn brown when sautéed long enough over low heat. I know, very simple and logical things to most common cooks, but to a four year old, who was totally absorbed by the temerity of food, it was the greatest thing since ice cream!
I grew up in an upper middle class family in the cold confines of Alaska. From the earliest figment of my memory my mother was always working, or in school. She had always said that it was to provide a “better way of life for me”, something I shrugged off at that given moment, figuring I would understand at some point in time. While my mom was in school, I was habitually at my grandma and grandpa’s. We would do arts and crafts, piano exercises, and of course, naps. I always liked coloring with my grandma the most, making sure to stay in the lines, and secretly hoping mine would turn out as good as, or better than, hers.
It was when I made my way into the kitchen one afternoon, and opened a door in the china hutch, that I found the books that would lead my way to literacy in several diverse ways. Stacks and stacks of dust laden, age old cookbooks from generations past, met my eyes and oddly enough, my stomach. They all looked the same; thick, tan, black, and layered with some of the most deliciously elite recipes that this world has to offer. But it was a white, moderately broad, but extremely worn book that had had obvious use for a seemingly long time. I reached my little hand into the depths of the hutch and grabbed it, holding it close to my chest. I sat down, and like I would be in a candy store, was absolutely mesmerized. Around this moment, my grandmother found me, and gave me an inquisitive look and picked up the book. “Boy Collin, this is quite the daunting book, would you like to make something with me?” Her voice was soothing to me, and still is today even as I write this. So off to the kitchen I tottered, hoping to get a glimpse of that life changing book.
For the next year or two I slowly began reading page by page of the cookbook. I would take it home, and using my phonics skills that I was learning in school, would apply them to the pronunciation of the words, hoping they came out right. However, most of the time they did not, but grandma was always there to help more aptly pronounce the words in the correct vernacular. You see, my grandmother and grandfather spent three years in Paris, France. The ‘City of Love’ as the local Parisians call it. She spoke French fluently, and I hoped that one day I could sound just like her. However, at the time I was more interested in all the arduous French words such as; Boulejais, Cotes du Rhone, Buorguignonne and L’ Omellete Brouille. And to my ultimate pleasure the French language came to me all the faster.
I began taking French classes early in junior high, which naturally helped me become more literate not only in English, but in the French language as well. In doing so, I became more affluent with the French style of cooking. Most American housewives, cooks, or amateur foodies fear the term ‘French Cooking’ when in all actual reality, it’s a fairly easy and explanatory process. Yes, it may be profound, and yes, the recipes may look a tad daunting, but I was always told by my grandma to look at them in layers, and cook them in your head as you read the recipe completely. You need understanding and confidence in the food that you are about to create, and trust me when I say that it shows in every way once on the plate in front of your critics. Because of this, I enrolled in cooking school at sixteen to further formulate my cooking skills. Honestly, I was dead nervous to be in a kitchen with trained professionals, but I still gave it my all, knowing that what I knew would only further enhance my cooking literacy into something of beauty and fruition.
For six long, tedious months, I slaved away everyday six to eight hours at a time, over a pot with spoon in hand. In all of this, it paid off to earn my Culinary Arts Degree, which in turn made me feel like I had accomplished a lifelong goal that was conceived back at the china hutch in my grandmother’s house. From then on my literacy rate began to improve drastically. I started teaching friends and family members on the beauty and the art of French Cooking, to rave reviews and compliments.
I began working on my first cookbook in the fall of 2007. I thought it would be a great idea to put down some of my very own concoctions on paper to share with the people who had asked countless times for the recipe to the creation I served them. Truth is, when I sat down to actually put measurements and instructions on paper, I was at a loss. Every single one of my dinners, desserts, breads etc, were in my head and not on paper. This was a problem. I couldn’t exactly write “a little bit of this”, and a “little bit of that” on the paper. That just wouldn’t do. So to the drawing board I went. I dragged out some pots and pans and began doing something I had done for the past ten years; cook.
For an excruciatingly long and exacting year I cooked and cooked and cooked some more. In all, I cooked 654 recipes from start to finish, and included only 357 in the actual cookbook, “A Guide to La` French Cuisine.” It was published in October of 2009, and put on shelves around the country shortly thereafter. It’s funny to sit and look at how I learned to read, and then look at what I ended up doing so many years later.
The very essence of what taught me to read, lead me to not only learn a language, but write a book as well. Much like the one that started my journey to literacy, food is just as much a part of this story as is being taught by a simple cookbook under my grandmother’s china hutch.
In the forward of “Mastering the Art of French Cooking,” Julia Child states that the book is made for the “Servantless American Cook.” As I sit and ponder at that, I think of my grandmother, and myself. Both of us middle class citizens, and both without servants, but with the heart and soul of cooking in the center of our lives. So much has gone into my learning process that is taken for granted, but one thing is for sure, literacy is the very food and substance of my soul.
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