read the cookbook

A few years ago, I watched a clip of Alton Brown saying something that stuck with me.

He said that when you get a cookbook, you should read it like a regular book. Cover to cover. Don't just open it to page 73 because you're hungry and want to make chicken. Read the introduction. Read the stories. Read the author's notes. Learn what they were trying to say.

I've never forgotten that advice.

Now, do I always follow it? Absolutely not.

Alton Brown is a serious professional. A teacher. One of those people who can explain not only how something works, but why it works. Meanwhile, I still draw a paycheck from an entirely different industry. My day job pays the bills. It finances my hopes of one day spending more time doing food professionally. Cooking, writing, teaching, telling stories.

But his point resonates with me.

Cookbooks aren't just collections of recipes. They're collections of ideas.

They're travel journals.

They're family histories.

They're technical manuals.

Sometimes they're love letters.

And every now and then they're all of those things at once.

If you've spent any time around me, you've probably figured out that I collect books almost as quickly as I collect kitchen equipment. I don't consider myself an authority on what belongs on your shelf, and I'm certainly not endorsing anything here. These are simply some of the books I reach for when I need inspiration.

The first mention has to go to Mirciny Moliviatis of Guatemala.

To me, she embodies the phrase Chef. Storyteller. Gastronome.

Mirciny trained professionally and could have pursued many different paths, but instead chose to shine a spotlight on Guatemalan cuisine and culture. Through her restaurants, television work, and books, she has helped introduce Guatemalan food to audiences who may never have encountered it otherwise. As someone who grew up in Guatemala, I appreciate seeing our food represented with pride and seriousness.

Another favorite is Good Fucking Dough by Señor Kane.

If memory serves me correctly from his social media posts, he recently announced that he has a bun in the oven—and yes, I intended that pun.

His book is straightforward, approachable, and easy to follow. I've made several recipes from it and always find myself coming back to it. No unnecessary complications. Just good food explained clearly.

I also pull ideas from Josh Weissman's Texture Over Taste. Whether you agree with every opinion or not, the book forces you to think differently about food. Sometimes the thing that makes a dish memorable isn't the flavor at all—it's the crunch, the chew, the contrast, the way it feels.

Then there are the books that help me break out of my normal routines.

Ottolenghi Simple.

Eric Ripert's vegetable-focused work.

José Andrés.

Whenever I feel myself cooking the same things over and over, those books remind me there are other roads to travel. Different ingredients. Different combinations. Different perspectives.

So why write a blog post about books that you may never own, never read, and frankly may not care about?

I honestly don't know.

Maybe because I want people to know where my ideas come from.

Maybe because in an era where every answer seems to live on the internet, books still matter.

Or maybe because I enjoy being reminded that before there were search engines, there were shelves.

And there still are.

That brings me to one final thought.

Regardless of whether you gather your ideas from books, websites, index cards, notebooks, or napkins, be organized.

That's easy advice to give and much harder advice to follow.

The other day I wanted to make pancakes for my family. Fluffy pancakes. The kind that disappear from the plate before the coffee gets cold.

The problem is that I can never remember the exact recipe.

So I did what most people do.

I pulled out my phone.

I searched for a recipe.

I read it.

I convinced myself I would remember it.

I didn't.

A few minutes later I looked it up again.

Then again.

And probably again after that.

At some point it would have been easier to grab a scrap of paper and chicken-scratch the recipe down like generations of cooks before me.

But no.

Old habits die hard.

Maybe Alton was right.

Maybe we should spend a little more time reading the book.