Lately my most favorite thing to do is buy groceries. I mean... I like buying groceries because I want to cook more often and, let's face it, it's just so satisfying to open a fridge full of food. No wonder I'm getting so big these days. I get so excited shopping for "pantry staples," which, in my case, translates to hoarding all the main ingredients needed for a pasta sauce. Thus, I wanted to buy myself a real cookbook and start cooking other stuff for a change. I began browsing Amazon and came upon this cookbook. It's not actually a cookbook but I was intrigued because it appears to be one of those magazine/books (mooks) that combine food essays, food photography, and recipes. I was determined to purchase it right before I read this review, and then I realized am I big phony? It struck a chord in me because I'm not really a food person but the sight of rustic food served in beautiful china on a warm Sunday afternoon in a country-side barn (you see where I'm going with this?) is like a dream come true. I want to be the Barefoot Contessa basically. It's kind of a dream life. But it made me question my aspirations. Is it really a good thing to aspire all these? Am I pretentious? Somehow I feel like such a superficial human being for aspiring this "Southern-France dinner scenario" like hunger does not exist. Reading this review made me stop and think about what our society has become nowadays. I don't think it's a bad thing to like beautiful things but I think there's a need to draw the line if I start buying things beyond my means just to keep up, show-off, or pretend in any way or form.
Here are the great (eloquent) quotations from said review:
It's rare that a cookbook would evoke such vitriol, but after I received The Kinfolk Table: Recipes for Small Gatherings, I was livid. I realized that this wasn't a celebration of food and gathering and the magic those two ignite, this was the sound of one hand clapping, a coffee-table book devoted to the very "cool" artists and Web celebrities from across the country. The narrative principally centers on the people, not the food, which would be fine if that were the intention. Without a clear narrative and culinary journey, we're left to merely weave in and out of kitchens like a spool of thread, but we're not invited to linger. Rarely do we see the fruits of the contributors' labor and the gatherings they so fastidiously rhapsodize. The Kinfolkers drive miles for mussels and set a formidable table in their outdoor barns. Theirs is a life of a cultivated beauty that serves up the illusion of simplicity. In reality, the Tao of Kinfolk is nothing more than understated affluence and luxury. Theirs are gatherings where meals are photographed with a thousand-dollar camera; where everyone has clean skin, shiny hair, and ebullient optimism; where kids play around the paddock. Theirs is a world that exists for few.
All of this raises a question: Were the recipes in this cookbook tested in a real kitchen so we, as consumers, may be certain the chemistry is on point? Was the cookbook proofed by professionals (of the editorial and culinary varieties)? After thumbing through three-hundred-plus pages, it occurs to me that the Kinfolk cookbook is a variation on a single theme: the creation of a life lived in an Anthropologie catalog. It's the reason why we get lost in blogs and the lives of strangers. We want to be happy, always. We want a life free of storms and sorrow. We want our linens, and bowls, and kitchens with reclaimed wood -- and in this way, Kinfolk succeeds, for its America is rarefied and specific, rife with denizens who are preened to dishabille perfection and apply pretty filters to their photos. I recall a similar charade: GOOP. While escapism looks lovely on paper, in practice it's difficult and expensive. You don't need a book to tell you how to gather, you don't need a formula to cultivate simplicity. Find the people you love, a space to lay down plates, and a meal that binds the two.
