A Cookbook for Poor Poets and Others, or I Wish I Could Eat Blini Everyday, But...

Approximately a zillion years ago, when the old (now closed) Yale Co-op had an estate books section, I found a copy of a cookbook called A Cookbook for Poor Poets and Others. Priced at one dollar, this little paperback which I bought on a whim turned out to be one of the smartest book acquisitions I ever made. Years later, when in a proper used-and-rare bookshop I found a hardcover copy (with a handsome dust jacket on it), I snapped it up. Ten dollars, it cost me: money well spent.

Only one book of food writing (to speak broadly in terms of not just cookbooks but food literature) that I can think of cites or refers to this little book, which is a small masterpiece, but John Thorne -- who else would it be, but John Thorne? -- knows what's what, and he refers to it in his recent work of genius, Mouth Wide Open. He's exactly the sort of person who would have found this little book by Ann Rogers and said, "Ah-fucking-HA!"

Rogers' book is, unpretentiously, realistically, and charmingly, about maintaining culinary morale when it might not be so easy to come by. It's reminiscent of MFK Fisher's How to Cook a Wolf in that regard, but Rogers isn't inspired by things like food shortages in wartime (though she could be read with that in mind, easily). She's talking about frugality. How do you eat well, really well, with real food, when you're really looking to spend incredibly small amounts of money on each meal. Her book was written before microwaves had penny-pinching students nuking up bowls of ramen, so it shows its age in that regard. Strangely, though, reading the book today, so much of it is practically posh and sophisticated by today's standards, because it is, at heart, about eating simple food made with fresh ingredients. It's about buying groceries carefully and preparing them carefully and making them last long and well.

I've owned at least one copy of this book for something like twenty years, and I thumb through it periodically because the prose is just as enjoyable as the food. But I was moved to pick it up again this week because -- like so many people -- Miss Edith is looking to feed herself and Notarius on a slightly sterner budget than before. We are fine, don't worry; I just want to see if I can discipline myself a little more. There is a genre of cookbook which is meant to inspire the home cook to work with inexpensive ingredients and be all humble, but I gotta say, I think most of them are bullshit. Either the author's concept of "humble" and "inexpensive" bears no relationship to my own feelings on the subject, or -- more frequently, and scarier to me -- the author's concept of what is food is just fucked. I am not interested in saving money by using Campbell's soup instead of a white sauce. I can make the white sauce out of things I already have in my kitchen, thank you very much; why should I buy an inferior product to make something I essentially already have? Well, true, it might save time. But time, I have. And white sauce can be made while you're mincing your veggies or doing some other prep work (yes, you do have to pay SOME attention to it, but it's not like you have to be a slave to your white sauce). So I'll pass by the canned soup section, thanks, and save myself money that way. Ann Rogers would nod in agreement, I think. A reasonable woman, Ann Rogers.

I recently had occasion to describe my beloved Laurie Colwin -- another food writer who understood kitchen frugality extraordinarily well, though she seldom wrote about it per se -- as a pragmatic but serious home cook. This is how I would describe Rogers, and the kind of person for whom A Cookbook for Poor Poets will be a great comfort in these nerve-wracking times.

The book was originally published by Scribner's and is sadly out of print (though if Simon and Schuster has the rights, I'd urge them to rush a new edition into print). (If they don't have the rights -- David Godine, this is a perfect project for you.) However, used copies can be found online, and I urge you, savvy and hungry reader, to go hunt one down.

Nothing Says Loving Like Not Really Following the Instructions and Making a Huge Mess

Yesterday Miss Edith had a guest come visit for lunch; very delightful company, a young woman of exceptionally high quality. Smart, vivacious, and she has one important leg up on Miss Edith, which is that she knows how to dance. (Miss Edith is better known for sort of sauntering, which doesn't require actual physical skill.) Our guest enjoys a good cup of hot chocolate, and since it was a grey cold day, I felt moved to produce some for her.

I used a product I'd never tried before, some Nestle Abuelita. These are chunky tablets of cocoa and cinnamon which you melt with hot milk in a blender. What could be easier? (Well, lots of things, but this promised to be better than the easier things. Let's move on.)

I heated the milk and poured it over the tablet in the blender and pressed "puree" or some such button and instantly bespeckled my lovely orange-and-blue-and-green-on-an-ivory-background embroidered tablecloth -- oh yes -- with light brown splotches of hot Abuelita. Hot chocolate on the credit card bills on the kitchen table. Hot chocolate on the estimates we'd gotten for having our beloved cat's teeth cleaned. Hot chocolate on Miss Edith's pink oxford cloth shirt that had the cuffs turned up just so. Hot chocolate on the floor by the water bowl for aforementioned beloved cat. You've never seen hot chocolate in so many interesting places.

"Shit," I said eloquently.

I pressed the blender lid down more tightly and reached for a dishtowel to cover it with while I pressed a less aggressive button. No further disaster ensued, and I poured the frothy mix into mugs, which we enjoyed thoroughly. '

Later, as I began to clean up the blender and hot milk pot and put things away, I noticed a line in the Abuelita instructions which I'd neglected to note before:

"Cover blender lid with towel when blending and only blend on low speed."

Ah.