My parents were 23 when they married in Winnipeg, Manitoba. They had been next-door neighbors in Lithuania before moving. It was 1906. There were no barbecue chickens at the market or frozen foods or take-out. A wife was expected to produce three meals a day, plus the baking. My mother somehow acquired a Jewish cookbook and relied heavily on it for the gefilte fish, pierogen, strudel and other good stuff my father wanted to eat. While he knew about the book, no one else did, and my mother kept it hidden in back of a cupboard.
One night my parents were at a party and the conversation turned to food. My father began to brag about his wife’s cooking and baking. “Why, Rose has this wonderful cookbook!” There was silence from everyone. My mother was horrified and embarrassed to have her secret exposed. Now everyone would know she was not the natural cooking talent a proper Jewish wife should be. From what I’ve been told, my mother did not speak to my father all the way home!
Today, I have many friends with extensive cookbook collections. In one house, an entire wall is stacked with cookbooks from all over the world.
Not only that, people are quick to tell you which book a favorite recipe came from. And every time I’m in the company of a proud cookbook collector, I can’t help but think of my mother with her forbidden cookbook hidden in back of the kitchen cupboard.