There's something about a cookbook...
Twelve years ago, approximately, I had a much bigger library of cookbooks, including Julia Child, The New York Times Cookbook, and a series from the 1960s called Favorite Recipes of America: Desserts, Salads, Meats, Vegetables and Casseroles. In the first of our pointless, ill-advised interstate moves, we discovered that all of our stuff wouldn't fit into the moving truck, so we left some items behind. One of them was the cookbook library and the bookcase where it was kept.
I have mixed feelings about all of this. In some primal way, I have gotten caught up in the fantasy that having a cookbook both enhances my culinary ability, and, even more magically, causes prepared food to appear on a plate in front of me. Obviously, it does neither. I used to feel that way about aprons that came from wineries and kitchen-supply stores: They would identify me as a Serious Cook.
I am nothing of the kind, though I am apparently much more of a "foodie" than I ever realized before limited funds curtailed most of my culinary adventures.