When we read a recipe, or look at the pictures in a cookbook, we’re often seeking information: a technique, a new flavor pairing, a beloved dish reimagined, or how to plate and garnish.
How about if we look at cookbooks as art books? Can we expand our understanding of food by thinking about cooking as an art form? That way, we can view recipes and their accompanying pictures as merely guidelines for what our kitchen creativity produces.
To understand our modern way of writing and reading recipes, it’s helpful to look to the past. Until the 19th century, recipes appeared as a paragraph, with measurements and steps written as a narrative (and with critical steps or ingredients sometimes left out).
That changed in 1896, with the publication of Fannie Farmer’s “The Boston Cooking School Cookbook.” Meant to help novice cooks learn new skills, Farmer’s book introduced a recipe format featuring ingredient lists and numbered steps, which would become the norm for Western cookbooks thereafter. With this new format, recipes became more like scientific formulas, to be followed exactly in order to replicate a desired result.
Perhaps it’s time for our idea of the recipe to evolve again.
Our current standard recipe format is fantastic for learning new dishes and skills, as well as building kitchen confidence. But, considering the recipe as an artistic suggestion, rather than purely as science, helps us find joy, and gives us a deeper appreciation for food, by creating flexible and personalized cooking practices.
I love recipes that encourage home cooks to follow their senses. A good example is The New York Times’ No-Recipe Recipes, which invite readers to improvise, rather than stick to a script.
Flexible recipes unleash my kitchen creativity, and, as a visual artist, as well as a writer, I started to notice similarities between creativity in the kitchen and on the page. Once I did, that had a big impact on my daily meals.
We often use recipes as a set of exact instructions, just as we often use recipe photos as a visual guide to what the finished dish should look like. But, when we remove the expectation that our results should be exactly the same as these words and images, something magical happens: We free ourselves from perfection in the kitchen. We can begin to recognize that mistakes are rarely (if ever!) the end of the world, and that they sometimes lead to discovering something delicious.
Thinking of the artists behind the creations helps — not only to acknowledge the incredible amount of work that goes into testing and documenting recipes, but also as an inspiration for our own creative practices. Each recipe you read, or culinary image you see, was created with an intention. Someone chose what would be included, or removed, to achieve the result they wanted. When we recognize that the writers and photographers (or illustrators) made intentional choices, it makes it easier for us to do the same thing when we re-create their work.
Being mindful of the ingredients and how they come together, as we cook — rather than cooking by rote — empowers us to make changes to recipes, and, most of all, to be engaged fully.
When we are engaged fully in the process, we have more fun, feel more confident, and we are more likely to create dishes of which we’re proud.
Credit: Julia Skinner
Credit: Julia Skinner
As I write and illustrate my work, I often think about how the images I choose might add to (or detract from) the message I hope to convey. For my Root Kitchens newsletter, I’ve used stock photos, styled and shot my own photos, and, ultimately, chose to create my own illustrations — for the same reason I encourage people to cook to their own tastes, rather than mine.
The images help me understand my own cooking practices better, too. In my newsletter issue on holiday dining, I was excited to share a personal favorite recipe: wafer cookies, scented with rosewater and cinnamon, from a 400-year-old cookbook. As I thought about the illustration, I kept coming back to the roses, which, to me, are the most interesting and important part of the recipe. The illustration tells you what to expect (floral notes), but leaves plating and pairing to the imagination. It lets readers take the recipe and use it in their own artistic culinary creations.
Folks who tried the wafer recipe did everything from rolling the warm wafers up as Pirouline-style cookies, to topping them with ice cream. I didn’t mention any of this in the recipe, but, because those readers were aware of what kitchen experiments they found most compelling, they started with my recipe and raised it to new heights.
Perhaps, understanding yourself as a creator is the secret to making great art in the kitchen. When we’re stressed, short on time, or short on energy, cooking and eating can feel mechanical. When we see ourselves as artists, rather than as machines, it’s easier to rediscover the joy in cooking.
Even the simplest dish still is an act of creation, and, thus, creativity. Your cookie recipe might not be the first or the best, but it is yours, and each time you make and share it, you leave your creative mark.
Julia Skinner is a food writer and founder of Root, an Atlanta-based fermentation and food history company that offers classes and creative consulting. Find her on social media at @rootkitchens or @bookishjulia and at rootkitchens.substack.com.
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