The first recipe I published was a fail. I was writing a weekly column for the Chicago Tribune Sunday magazine — not a food column, more of a ruminative ramble — and, after the World Trade Center crumbled, I tacked on a recipe for calm: chocolate-chip cookies. I made cookies regularly, ritually, obsessively, so I set down the steps in a snap.
In those anxious days, the newsroom was alert to letters laced with anthrax. No toxic dust dropped from mine, but a few were scorched with scorn. The cookies — 2 tablespoons short on flour — baked up flat. My editor clicked her sharp heels to my desk and asked if I’d submitted the recipe for testing. I gave her a dumbfounded stare.
Since then I’ve learned about recipe testing, recipe development and writing a food column, which became my job in 2004. I’ve learned to rely on a timer and a measuring tape. I’ve learned to keep notes. I’ve learned that no one wants to track down membrillo or churn ice cream.
I took the job — terrified. I’d read about a recipe in another magazine that had combusted “like Napalm.” Most writing, I realized, is captured by the eyes and settles in the mind; food writing slides down the throat and settles in the stomach. Best if it doesn’t explode. I opened a fresh document and titled it “A Year of Sundays.” Now 116 pages, it details 15 years of Sundays — first-dance dumplings, summer-camp shrimp, empty-nest noodles.