I don’t use cookbooks often. I stick to a few recipes that take less than 7 minutes to prepare, and about the same time to clean up.
However, this weekend we had some friends coming over for dinner, so I pulled out a cookbook to try some new dishes.
Our kitchen is small, so the book was jostling for countertop space from the beginning. A bad start. I was halfway through attempting a Blackberry Pistachio Cake (sheesh, how bougie does that sound?) when I spilt icing sugar and egg on the cookbook. I reacted with an “Oh no!” like I would if I had dirtied any other book. But Maru reminded me, “It’s a cookbook. It’s supposed to get dirty.”
A cookbook without a blemish has lived a lonely life. The bumps, rips, and spots are signs it has filled bellies and brought people together.
It’s blemishes mean something.
The empty pen has told many stories.
The scratched guitar has played a thousand melodies.
And the splitting shoe hints at miles of adventure.
Welcome the blemish.