Since the beginning, I have been labeled as finicky, picky, a bad eater, the antithesis of a foodie. Although, I love bread and even-more-so butter. With coffee, with dessert, with a vegetable if one must; morning, noon, and night love. Good bread, good butter. I’m of Norwegian ancestry (with a dash of Swede) and Norwegians make the world’s best butter (Setesdalmor Extra Salta) made in the Setesdal Valley where one-half of my people originate. And I grew up on my mom’s homemade, fresh from the oven bread and Land O’Lakes butter back when it still resembled actual butter. I was doomed from the beginning—only ever able to fully acknowledge two worthwhile food categories.

This morning, in my early ruminations about reading and writing, I suddenly realized that I am in the process of completing a listen at the gym to Crying in H Mart (Michelle Zauner); and have just finished reading in bed, The Paris Novel (Ruth Reichl, editor-in-chief of Gourmet and author of Save Me the Plums and Tender at the Bone). And, yesterday, in a quick B&N drop-by on the way to lunch, I acquired Butter (Asako Yuzuki), offering “the transgressive pleasures of food in Japan” with a tasty helping of murder.

My present reads, H Mart and Paris, are chock-full of mouthwatering descriptions of Korean and French food, however no recipes. The first has me to begging my California grandchildren to take me to Korean restaurants anytime they’re available serve as my guides. The second…well there’s that trip Tom, Celia, and I talk about: Paris, September 2026. And me, this time with a happier stomach.

Enthusiastic about this morning’s discovery of a one of those unexpected caches of common themes in my life, I puzzled about why some of my favorite books have been about food. At the absolute top of that list is Mastering the Art of Soviet Cooking: A Memoir of Food and Longing (Anya Von Bremzen). It’s been awhile since I read it but, in my memory, it’s the best of all kind of book: history, geography, culture, and a life focused on the everyday (in this case, food) amidst all of those big topics. Additionally, there are recipes, in fact a most complicated borscht recipe that I talked my son into making a few years ago. It was delicious and our hands and counter tops remained a vibrant red for days to come. I understand that including recipes does raise the question of whether a book is a proper novel or memoir… or a cookbook. Soviet Cooking manages to be all those things to readers like me.

Another set of books, most enjoyably within the cozy mysteries’ genre (and made into a television series), are the Tannie Maria mysteries (Sally Andrew) from South Africa. I own two: Recipes for Love and Murder and, Tannie Maria & the Satanic Mechanic. Of course, I would enjoy this series; there’s a bit of history, a lot of geography, enough murder, and, to me, fascinating discussions of food and recipes. The food descriptions and the recipes are less formidable than Korean and French—South Africa not known for its amazing cuisine (it’s a little more like Scandinavian/Minnesota food perhaps… simpler, not scary!

And Then There’s…

NOMA: Time and Place in Nordic Cuisine. If you are interested in food and the world’s northlands, this book is a beauty. Food photography as art. Northlands culture and its geography. Recipes that people have paid hundreds (thousands!) of dollars to taste. NOMA, voted best restaurant in the world a few times. And, point of pride: I have actually stood in front of it on a Copenhagen street, gazing in awe at the front of a non-descript building, Rene Redzepi lurking somewhere inside…before my companions and I adjourned to an ordinary restaurant a street or few over. Son Scott and I actually discussed, half-seriously, making a NOMA reservation and flying specifically to Denmark to eat there! Me, for the book and interesting author and fantastic geography, and Scott, who is much more of a foodie (although I’m not sure oldish people can be appropriately called ‘foodies.’ Michelle Zauner in H Mart says they cannot!) actually wanted to eat the food. However as, according to our bank accounts, such a trip wasn’t practical, we never made it to NOMA. Now, it’s become a sort of experimental kitchen. Too late for another possible adventure.

Last but obviously certainly definitively, not least. Kitchen Confidential by the ever-amazing Mr. Anthony Bourdain. I have not read it for years. So many books, TV shows, public appearances, food/places/travel by the much-loved Tony since. And then death. I, like many of Bourdain’s fans, have not quite forgiven him. Selfish of us. Childish. But, Bourdain’s food never ever came without context and humanity…from Kitchen Confidential on. That and his caustic, but still somehow compassionate, persona is why he is still missed. My copy of Kitchen Confidential is long loaned and lost. It’s one of those books I’ll replace from Thriftbooks for a few dollars; not really because I’m going to read it again…but just because….

I also have a fine meatball cookbook, several cake recipe tomes (remember, I am Scandinavian), and of course the famous Sundays at the Moosewood Restaurant (which I think everyone with even a toe in hippydom was required to possess). I’m including a photo of the latter because it represents the phase in my life when I believed in cruelty-free food, free love, and honest politicians.

Now for my tomato sandwich lunch. Heavy white bread (Costco Rustic Italian better than most bakeries); a big fat very ripe vine-ripened tomato, medium-sliced; butter (European or New Zealand brand); and regular grocery store mayo, not-freed of any bad ingredients. Toast bread semi-darkly, spread with a whole bunch of butter (sitting out on counter, not brick hard from the frig), blob on some mayo, top with fat-enough tomato slice sprinkled with quite a lot of salt and pepper. A fine lunch it was but I ate it before I remembered to take a picture.