A Recipe for a Life
Which ten cookbooks would tell your story? Here’s how I’m choosing the ten that tell Estella’s.
What if you had to pick 10 cookbooks or recipes to tell your life story?
Where would you start?
Would it be the stained ones? The showy ones? The weird ones you never cook from but can’t let go of?
That’s the exact challenge I’m facing as I tell Estella’s story. Which cookbooks best represent her life? Her archive includes over 200 advertising cookbooks—211, to be exact—as well as magazine clippings, handwritten recipes, and newspaper stories. Many of her handwritten recipes were scrawled directly onto the pages of these booklets, or tucked inside their covers like fragile, edible time capsules.
Right now, my dining room table is covered in a quilt of her cookbooks. Usually, they live in neatly labeled archival boxes, organized by year. But for the past few days, I’ve been sorting through them using the detailed database I created in 2014. The goal? To select the volumes that best illuminate who Estella was.
And while I dream of telling the story of every booklet and recipe, for now I’ve had to create some criteria to help me choose examples that best define Estella. Here’s what I’m using to guide me:
1. Most Used
This was the first clue I looked for when I began cataloging Estella’s collection. And luckily, she left a road map. Certain cookbooks, like Cake Secrets (1921) and Sun-Maid Raisins (1921), are inscribed with her name and stained from repeated use. Inside others, like a well-loved Jell-O booklet, the pages surrounding her lemon pie recipe are splattered and worn, suggesting it was a favorite. I love finding Estella’s little penciled check marks next to recipes. These marks of use are quiet testaments to a life lived in the kitchen.
2. Emotional Resonance
Some books feel intimate and personal. Two stand out immediately: The F.W. McNess’ Cookbook (1925) and The Blue Ball Book (1941). Both include handwritten recipes attributed to neighbors and sisters-in-law. How do I know? Through hours of sleuthing—cross-referencing names found in Estella’s social column mentions, historic plat maps, and genealogy sites like Ancestry. These books feel like community. Like connection. I’ve already marked several of these recipes for testing and adaptation.
3. Visual Showstoppers
Some covers simply demand to be seen: bold graphics, charming illustrations, saturated colors, odd typography. A few even feature works by notable artists. Books like Recipes Made with Real Nesbitt Soda (1940) or So You’re Canning (1949) belong in a frame—or at least a moment in the spotlight. They’re artful, joyful, and impossible to ignore.
4. Historical or Cultural Relevance
Some of the cookbooks anchor us in a particular era or region—like wartime rationing during WWII, Idaho’s agricultural economy, California’s citrus boom, or the polished domesticity of the 1950s. These volumes help ground Estella’s life in a broader cultural context. They tell us not only what she cooked, but what was happening around her when she did.
5. Best Recipes (Then and Now)
Some recipes simply hold up. Whether they’re truly tasty or just wonderfully weird, these are the ones that surprise me in the kitchen. I’m currently loving several salads from The Heinz Salad Book and desserts from Royal Desserts—they feel modern, adaptable, and full of potential for new life.
6. Legacy Factor
This brings me full circle: what cookbooks would Estella herself choose to represent her life?
I can’t know for sure. But I can make educated guesses based on what feels like her:
Estella loved color. Her kitchen shelves were stacked with bright Bauer and Fiesta dishes. It seems only right to include the most colorful, spirited booklets from her collection.
Estella loved to entertain. From 1910 to 1962, her name appears frequently in the social columns—hosting teas, garden club meetings, church socials. So yes, I’ll be pulling books that center hospitality and gathering.
Estella was a farm girl at heart. She grew up on a farm, taught in rural schools, and worked the land with her husband. I’ll include titles that speak to her roots and the crops she likely harvested herself: peas, lentils, wheat, fruit.
So far, I’ve narrowed down her collection from 211 books and countless clippings to 53 contenders. I’m still listening, still reading the stains and scribbles, still wondering what mattered most to her.
As I sort, flip pages, and flag recipes, I’m reminded of how cookbooks are more than just culinary tools. They are stories. They are time machines. They are lives tucked into margins, scrawled in cursive, stained with cake batter and memory.
So… what 10 cookbooks would you choose to tell your story?
I’d love to hear your ideas!
This is one challenging question to answer...
On another note, I was recently gifted a small homemade cookbook put together by my husband’s hospital coworkers over 30 years ago. It instantly made me think of you and your current cookbook journey—such a sweet reminder of how meaningful these personal collections can be.
Gosh, what a challenge!