I’ve always been a pen-and-paper kind of person.

Which is funny when you think about it because most of my work happens on a computer these days. I type recipes, write blog posts, answer emails, and spend more hours than I care to admit staring at a screen.

And yet, given the choice, I will almost always reach for something I can hold in my hands.

A notebook.

A handwritten recipe card.

A favorite cookbook.

Maybe that’s why I have been collecting cookbooks for as long as I can remember.

There is something magical about them that a screen can never quite replicate.

A cookbook isn’t just a collection of recipes. It’s a snapshot of a moment in time. A glimpse into someone’s kitchen. A reflection of what they loved enough to write down and share.

Some of my favorite cookbooks aren’t the pristine ones sitting on a shelf looking beautiful. They are the well-loved copies that have lived a life.

The ones with stains on the pages.

The ones with flour tucked into the binding.

The ones with splatters of vanilla and sugar that tell you a recipe wasn’t just read—it was made over and over again.

Recently, I was lucky enough to receive a cookbook that belonged to my Grandma June.

If you’re a cookbook lover, then you know exactly what a treasure that is.

Her handwritten notes fill the margins. Tiny reminders written in her own handwriting. Adjustments she made. Thoughts she wanted to remember. Little clues about the recipes she loved enough to make again.

As I flipped through the pages, I found myself studying her notes almost as much as the recipes.

I wasn’t just reading a cookbook.

I was spending time with her.

That is the gift of a well-loved cookbook.

It becomes part recipe collection and part family history.

I love reading cookbooks the same way some people read magazines.

I curl up in a chair and flip through the pages.

I look at the photos.

I dog-ear recipes I want to try.

I imagine serving them to family and friends.

Sometimes I don’t make a single recipe. I just enjoy the experience of getting lost in someone else’s kitchen for a while.

The first cookbook I ever owned was the classic red-and-white checked Better Homes and Gardens cookbook.

If you know, you know.

It had a little bit of everything.

Cookies.

Cakes.

Roasts.

Casseroles.

Pies.

It became my kitchen companion during those early years of marriage and motherhood.

Whenever I needed to know how to make something, it was there waiting for me on the shelf.

I reached for it so often that I could practically find recipes without looking at the index.

Looking back, I think that cookbook gave me confidence.

It reminded me that I didn’t have to know everything. I just had to be willing to learn.

Maybe that’s one of the reasons writing a cookbook landed on my bucket list.

For years, I admired the cookbooks on my shelves and wondered what it would feel like to create one of my own.

In 2024, that dream became a reality.

Even now, it feels a little surreal to say those words.

Somewhere out there, my cookbook is sitting on kitchen counters.

It’s tucked onto bookshelves.

Maybe it’s already stained with butter and sugar.

Pages are getting folded.

Recipes are being highlighted.

Notes are being written in the margins.

And if I’m lucky, maybe years from now someone will pull a well-loved copy off a shelf and remember making cookies with their kids or baking bars for a school fundraiser.

Maybe they’ll see the flour stains and smile.

Because that’s the thing about cookbooks.

The best ones aren’t meant to stay perfect.

They’re meant to be used.

They’re meant to be loved.

They’re meant to become part of a family’s story.

And maybe that’s why I still dream of writing more.

Not because I need another project.

Not because I need another title.

But because there is something deeply meaningful about creating something that might live in someone’s kitchen for years.

Something they can hold in their hands.

Something they can pass down.

Something that becomes a little worn around the edges because it was loved so much.

In a world that seems to become more digital every day, I think that kind of magic is worth holding onto.

Because someday, long after the last cookie has been baked and the kitchen has been cleaned, someone might open a cookbook and find a little piece of us waiting inside.

Just like I found my grandma.

Sweet wishes,

June

“Do you have a cookbook that holds a special place in your heart? I’d love to hear about it.”

Come Gather With Me

If this story felt familiar, I’d love to have you join me. Gathered is my Sunday note about food, family, memories, and finding something meaningful in the ordinary moments of life.

Pull up a chair. There’s a place for you here. 🤍