by Sophie Rubin

Every now and then, I have the urge to explore my past. Usually, this just entails looking at old photo albums for the millionth time, reminiscing about when I was a baby or when my parents were babies. But I was bored with this, seeing as I have been doing it since I was, in fact, a baby. According to my mom, the reason our photo albums are a mess today is because I used to pull out all of the photographs and leave them in shambles, spread out on my Bubbe’s red oriental rugs in the living room.

I wanted more than just photographs: I wanted some history. I was expecting something like personal journals or newspapers, but what I found were cookbooks – the 1952 edition of Irma Rombauer’s The Joy of Cooking, to be exact.

I was overjoyed to have found this gem: one, we didn’t even have a modern copy of the renowned cookbook; and two, because I could tell that the book had been used and that it was truly something passed down from generations.

I could envision my grandfather reading the recipes and saying what was wrong with them and then just doing whatever he wanted. As a baker and connoisseur of Jewish cooking, he knew what was what, but this still did not prevent him from owning the cookbook.

Mesmerized by the yellowed pages and the enchanting old-book smell, I had to cook something. But what ingredients would I have on hand with such short notice? I don’t just have various cuts of beef laying around in my fridge waiting to be handled. So I flipped to the dessert section knowing that I could find some arrangement of flour, sugar and butter that I’d be in the mood for. I didn’t want to make a cake; it would be too much of a mess.

Sophie Rubin can be contacted at [email protected]