Reclaiming my kitchen

I have a confession: I love to cook.

It's not something I usually share because I have family and friends who are much better cooks. I'm not Julia Child, but I can hold my own in a kitchen.

I got my love of cooking from my grandmother, Bessie Lowery, and she could cook, especially her chicken and rice. I've never been able to replicate that recipe. I think the secret ingredient was love.

As a child, I wore the pages thin on a beat-up copy of Joy of Cooking. I didn't just cook from it—I read it cover to cover like a novel. Honestly, like a Stephen King novel, except no scares but lots of butter. I imagined myself throwing elaborate dinner parties for family and friends. Somewhere along the way, I decided I would someday write my own cookbook. I even started a handwritten recipe collection for that future version of myself.

In high school, I took every culinary class that was offered. In one class, we worked in groups. I was the only girl, paired with four football players who were more than content to let me be Martha Stewart while they waited to eat. I loved every minute of it.

Detour

Then life, as it often does, took a sharp turn. An eating disorder didn't just pause my dreams of becoming a chef—it destroyed my relationship with food and cooking. I used my love of cookbooks as a substitute for eating, convincing myself that reading recipes and collecting dishes was enough. Eventually, I realized something had to give.

One evening, I burned my collection of handwritten recipes and cookbooks. Cooking, once joyful and creative, had become complicated, emotional, and painful. I stepped away from that version of myself.

Years later, after finding my calling as a journalist and getting help, the love of food has quietly returned.

I started collecting cookbooks again, cautiously. It began when a friend gifted me another copy of Joy of Cooking. One cookbook became five. Five became 20. Now, 171 cookbooks later, they have their own dedicated space. What was once a built-in curio cabinet now serves as my personal culinary library.

The collection is eclectic—some from the Food Network, the Barefoot Contessa, and soulful Southern storytelling from Vivian Howard. Of course, there's the queen herself, Julia Child. I also have stacks of church and community cookbooks. You know the ones with recipes that begin with, "Everyone always asks me for this."

For years, I've collected them the way some people collect beautiful clothes that are admired and rarely worn. But one of my goals for 2026 is simple: I'm going to start using them.

Traveling by palate

I want to travel, not by plane, but by palate. I own The Complete Vietnamese Cookbook, and this year I plan to finally open it and see what's inside. I own three slow cookers and several slow-cooker cookbooks, yet somehow, I always default to my trusty white chicken chili. That's going to change.

No cookbook collection is complete without Martha Stewart, Rachael Ray, and at least one well-worn edition of Southern Living. They're all here, waiting patiently.

A long time ago, I stopped setting goals for how many books I would read in a year. I realized it made reading feel like a chore instead of a joy. Cooking, I've learned, works the same way. For the last few days, I've been flipping through The All-American Rotisserie Chicken Dinner. I've marked five recipes I want to try. I may cook one. I may cook all five.

Someday has arrived. The pages are ready to be splattered with recipes tested and tasted. In 2026, I'm finally ready to travel down a culinary road I once thought was closed.

What about you? Do you have cookbooks gathering dust on your shelves? What's stopping you from cracking them open? Let me know in the comments.