Although I write a blog, I can’t say I believe in them. I don’t surf the internet regularly anymore. I do email, Facebook and Twitter on my phone. The only time I get on a computer is to check a few things on my mom’s cranky dial-up or assemble blog posts. Technology alternately makes me marvel and grit my teeth in frustration.

I believe in books. My mom is a retired school librarian. When I was a teen, I’d go to her school and help out during the summers. There was the children’s side and the adult side. The children’s side was sunnier and more open. The adult side was darker and more ominous. I loved the musty smells, the dust, and the dog-eared pages. I loved the books which were never checked out. I loved the ratty magazines of current events long passed by.

I don’t believe in much on the internet in general. Information is regurgitated or opinionated. Anyone can say anything they want and believe they’re important. Even the ones who feign modesty. To do a blog requires a certain level of narcissism. Love me, love my blog.

A book is different. A book is a work of art. Considerable thought and effort went into it. The author went through ego-busting trial-and-tribulation to get the end result. It’s a palpable thing you hold in your hands which you can carry anywhere and delve into. I doubt you can get a wireless signal on your laptop in the middle of nowhere. If a book is rained on, you dry it out and it’s still readable. If a computer is rained on? Let’s hope you have AppleCare.

I was rooting around in the basement a few days ago. My mother has a book room where all the books she ever bought are resting. She bought most of them in hopes of reselling them. Well, they are still resting.

I went in with the purpose of finding cookbooks. I’ve written blog posts based on vintage cookbooks in the past, and I wanted to find more. A cookbook is a window on taste in history. A general cookbook, like Betty Crocker, signifies a general taste. A specific cookbook, like vegetarian or Italian, signifies a specific taste. Combine either of these with at least 20 years of age, and I’m hooked.

I came up for air with two cookbooks. A Hershey’s cookbook from the 1930’s and a volume from one of those encyclopedic cookbook sets.

I attempted chocolate cream pie from the Hershey’s.

Hahahaha, that was a failure. It never thickened. I now have a relationship with cornstarch that I used to have with yeast. Its part is called refusal to work. My part is called lack of patience. Heh. It was pie soup. Oh well. Another time, another obstacle to tackle.

I was fascinated with the second book. The subjects are alphabetical. I had the H-K section. Ham! Herring! Hickory! Huckleberry! Ice Cream! Jellied! Kabob! Kid!

I flipped to the hamburger section. I was particularly taken with French-Fried Hamburger Sandwiches. Such gluttonous glory. Nope, I don’t have the wire basket. I also balk at deep sizzling fat.

Maybe I’m dense, but I discovered something here. You can mix stuff IN with your hamburger. The burger elements need not be separate from the meat. I’ve probably read it a million times before, but it finally clicked in this moment. Huh.

So that’s what I did. I made a chopped relish of onions, radishes, and jarred jalapenos.

For my dad, I added olives. I added cheddar to his and gorgonzola to mine.

Well, the universe kicked me in the teeth again. Just a little. When cooked on the grill, the cheese melts and comes out somewhat. Duh. My cheese held up better in its solidity. Dad’s cheese didn’t in its shredded fragility.

But that didn’t matter. Who cares what it looks like. What did it taste like? Nom nom nom.