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I started reading this after challenging myself to read a genre I haven't really read much of. In this case, it was cooking, and it was absolutely delightful.
Finishing this book was realizing that, yes, there's obviously magic in cooking, but there's also a magic in de Sounin's writing. I felt immersed, like I was sitting in her kitchen with a nightcap snifter of brandy being told stories (which, in a way, I was). The things I learned about herbing vegetables feels like ancient arcane knowledge that should not be shared with regular folk, but somehow I've stumbled upon the old cookbook of a fairy? The parallels between her reading her great-grandmother's diary and the audience soaking in the rest of the work are strong, tied to each other with sunbeam baked memories of a childhood kitchen and elders who taught little Leonie that a kitchen comes alive, that it is a living, breathing creature. Here is an excerpt from page 25:
"It was like a whole world, this kitchen -- sunbeams streaming through long, high windows that made all the copper kettles from the biggest to the tiniest on the long wall gleam as if there were life and blood in metal."
Highly recommend to anyone who'd like to feel a twinge of sadness but an appreciation for what cooking and passing down recipes means to families. It feels like a folktale, a call to action, and a memoir of a woman spun into one expertly woven thread.