Okay, so let me start with this: I’ve been burned by cookbooks before. Many times. You know the ones—they look like a Vogue photoshoot in book form. The cover is moody and artsy, there’s a photo of, like, a hand casually sprinkling Maldon salt over a perfectly charred octopus tentacle, and you’re like, “Wow, this is gonna change my life.”
And then… you open it, and it’s basically food theoretical physics. Ingredients you’ve never heard of, directions that assume you have a copper-lined Parisian oven, and no clear idea if what you made looks even remotely like the photo. That’s the problem with a lot of beautiful cookbooks. They’re basically the Instagram filter version of cooking.
But some cookbooks? Ohhh, some are gorgeous and actually usable. Like—you can put them on your coffee table to make yourself look like the kind of person who owns linen aprons, and you can actually cook dinner from them without ending up in tears eating Ritz crackers at midnight. Those are the most beautiful cookbooks that also deliver.
And I’ve got thoughts. Too many thoughts. Grab a snack (or a glass of wine, honestly).
The Problem With Pretty Cookbooks
You ever buy a cookbook just for the photos? Yeah. Me too. I once bought a $50 cookbook just because the cover had this vibey beige thing going on with hand-drawn figs. I thought it would look good on my kitchen counter.
Spoiler: I cooked from it exactly zero times. It had a whole recipe for “salted clouds.” Like. Excuse me??? I don’t want to ferment air, I want dinner.
That’s when I realized: a good cookbook has to live in that magical overlap of:
- Pretty enough to flip through on a rainy Sunday and sigh like you’re in a Nancy Meyers movie.
- Practical enough to actually, y’know, help you make food.
So let me rave (and maybe rant a little) about the ones that nail it.
Cookbooks That Actually Earn Their Spot
1. Salt Fat Acid Heat by Samin Nosrat
This one’s obvious but, like, duh. If you’ve seen the Netflix show, you know Samin is basically cooking joy in human form. The book itself? Gorgeous, yes. But not in that intimidating, “I need to own antique pottery to even attempt this recipe” way.
It’s full of these watercolor illustrations (kind of looks like your artsy cousin’s sketchbook), but also? It teaches you stuff. I swear, after reading it, I could suddenly look at a sad pile of broccoli and think, “I know how to fix you.”
It’s not just pretty. It delivers.
2. Jerusalem by Yotam Ottolenghi and Sami Tamimi
Okay, confession: I once made Ottolenghi’s caramelized garlic tart for a dinner party, and it took so long I missed most of the actual party. But people still talk about it years later.
That’s the vibe of Jerusalem. It’s stunning—like, seriously, you could rip out the pages and frame them—but it’s also deeply soulful. Recipes that work. Recipes that make you feel like you just unlocked a secret.
Yeah, it’s ingredient-heavy sometimes (sumac will become your new best friend), but worth it.
3. Cook This Book by Molly Baz
Molly’s like that friend who says “just wing it” but then secretly makes spreadsheets. The book is neon, fun, almost meme-y in design (QR codes for videos, bright fonts), and the food? Totally doable.
I made her Cae Sal (yes, Caesar salad but cooler), and it was so good I started side-eyeing restaurant salads like, “you’ll never measure up.”
Also, it looks cute just sitting there. Big win.
4. Black Food by Bryant Terry
This one is… wow. Just wow. It’s not just a cookbook, it’s art. The design, the photography, the poetry—it feels like holding a cultural archive. But the recipes? They actually work. I made the jerk chicken, and my whole apartment smelled like heaven for two days.
It’s the rare one where the beauty adds to the cooking, not distracts.
5. Dessert Person by Claire Saffitz
Look. I don’t bake. Like, at all. I am the person who burns slice-and-bake cookies. But Claire? She makes you believe. The book is pastel, chic, very “Instagrammable”—and somehow, she explains things so clearly you’re like, “Wait. Did I just make a galette that looks professional??”
(Yes. Yes, I did. My mom cried.)
When Cookbooks Feel Like Therapy
This might sound dramatic, but sometimes flipping through a beautiful cookbook feels like self-care. Like you don’t even have to cook from it—you can just scroll (but with paper).
I’ll be honest, half the time I’m not cooking from any of these. I’m just sitting on the couch, flipping through, imagining that someday I’ll throw a dinner party with handmade pasta and candlelight and not just frozen Trader Joe’s dumplings.
But the ones that also deliver recipes? That’s like finding out your crush is also good with kids and owns a dog. Jackpot.
Side Tangent: My Weird Cookbook Ritual
Every time I get a new cookbook, I have this thing I do—I sit on the kitchen floor (yes, the floor), pour a glass of wine, and sticky-tab all the recipes I think I’ll make.
Spoiler: I usually make, like, three of them total. But the sticky tabs make me feel ambitious. And honestly? Sometimes I just like seeing the neon tabs sticking out like, “Look at me, I’m a person who cooks!”
The Messy Truth About Cookbooks
Here’s the thing: cookbooks are part kitchen tool, part fantasy. Some of them live on the counter, spattered with oil and flour fingerprints, pages sticking together. Those are the ones that deliver.
Others? They’re just coffee table accessories, sitting there like “yes, I am cultured.” And that’s okay too.
But the real unicorns—the most beautiful cookbooks that also deliver—are the ones that make you want to cook, that trick you into believing you can pull off a feast, and then don’t betray you when you try.
Final Thoughts (if you can call them that)
If you want one to start with? Grab Salt Fat Acid Heat. It’s the one I recommend to literally everyone—my college roommate who used to eat ramen daily, my mom who bakes like it’s her job, even my cousin who once set rice on fire in the microwave (don’t ask).
But honestly, get the ones that make you feel excited just flipping through. Because cooking isn’t just about food—it’s about the little fantasies you build around it.
And if you ever make that Ottolenghi tart, block off your calendar. Trust me.
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