Cookbooks are my vice. I have to hold back to keep myself from buying them, and when I do it grates at me. But it's not the expense that bothers me, rather, the little time I have to devote to this new jewel. I always buy it thinking that if I can make three delicious recipes, it will have been worth it.
I could walk right past a pastry shop -- I can promise you that I would not even turn around to look at the window. Or I could be sitting next to someone enjoying some delicious pastry and it doesn't tempt me at all. The same thing happens to me with a lot of things, even shoes -- which women supposedly have a decided weakness for. But I can't go to a bookstore and leave without a cookbook. I have my limits!
I adore cookbooks. I am fascinated by the combinations of flavors, the styling of each dish, the photography. I read them as if they were novels, from start to finish. I love to see whom the book is dedicated to, who inspired the author to cook, why they started to cook and when they decided to publish the book.
Yes, I have quite a few, but I'd love to have even more. My list of books to get just grows and grows, like my need to eat and cook. My favorite part about the books is when I find a recipe that I remember enjoying when I was young.
A lot of the Mexican cookbooks I have feature some version of garbanzos (chickpeas) with chard, spinach or some leafy green. Some recipes have pasta, others tacos, with chiles or without, etc. And of course this particular recipe was on my mom's weekly menu. This is my version, a soup, one of my family's favorites; nobody tires of it, just like when I was a kid.