A Collector of Echos

Memories at Discount Prices

I love old books.

I friggin' LOVE old books.

They're like a window into the past for me. The weathered, yellowed pages, that musky smell that comes from a forgotten grimoire that's been sitting in someone's basement for six generations, the cracked spine, the binding crumbling away. It's truly like holding history in your hands. Every used bookseller within a 40 mile radius of downtown Seattle knows me by sight, if not by name.

I'm especially attracted to old books that have inscriptions in them. It's the inscription that gets me, even if it's simply someone's name, and a date. It's a strange pull I always feel to buy them, even if it's something I have no interest in reading. I have dozens of such, in every category in my library; martial arts, sci-fi, horror, science, occult, critical thinking, religion...and of course, cooking.

Of all these, cookbooks seem to generate the most love. I truly believe that's because food is a universal language, and people are at their worst when they're hungry. I've witnessed simple meal, cooked with love, calm Manticores.

I found this first edition of "The Playboy Gourmet" several years ago, and at first, I grabbed it because of the cultural time travel it promised. And I was not disappointed.

Filled with such haute cuisine classics as "Snails in Almond Butter", "Sherried Ham Steaks", "Creamed Halibut with Cognac and Apricots", and an entire chapter on the inevitable stuffed onion, The Playboy Gourmet is a veritable hedonist's guide to the swingin' 70's. There's also a special section regarding the proper menu for something called a "Sword and Fire Party", but the nuances are probably intended for one of Hef's more "grotto" parties, for anyone who's watched the Playboy channel. Or the reality series. Or just heard the name Hugh Hefner in the past 200 years.

But the inscription on the opening page hooked me immediately.

"Sweetie -

Looking forward to the delicious dishes that you prepare from this book!

Maybe we can combine our efforts - some fantastic recipes within!

My love,

Jamie

Christmas 1973"

1973. I was four years old. Roe v. Wade had overturned state bans on abortions. Skylab was still a thing (I remember when it started to fall back to Earth...in bits and pieces). The American war in Vietnam was still two years away from ending with the fall of Saigon. Bruce Lee had died. I was three years away from being put in an orphanage. The summer of love was over, and the winter of the OPEC gas shortage was in full swing.

And in the middle of all that, these two people shared a love of cooking and each other.

For a long time, I thought "Jamie" was a woman, but given the era and the thinking of the times - especially the source material - it could be a man, speaking to his SO, and offering to help out a bit, in the "manly" aspects. Men in the kitchen in the early 70's wasn't a household standard in America in those days, and microwave ovens weren't commonplace at the time. Swanson's TV dinners were the working bachelor's feast. Ate a few of those myself as a wee lad, and thought they were a treat.

So many questions run through my mind, reading this. Who WERE these people? Are they still together? What did they go through in life, and did it make them stronger as a couple, or did they eventually drift apart, and probably don't even remember this book?

Are they even still alive?

Books with inscriptions like this make my mind go on journeys I can't really control. On top of that, there's usually little notes - there are in this one - next to the occasional recipe that looks like it caught their attention. "Excellent for guests!" "Not bad" "Awful, save for family gatherings". At least half of my library is peppered with inscribed books like these, in every direction.

Whenever I read something like this, I feel like I'm looking at a small Polaroid snapshot of someone else's life from long ago, faded and slightly out of focus. Like a marker flag on a lonely mountain crest, showing someone, once, had been here. This had meant something to them, years ago. Maybe there are abundant relics of a happy family, if I knew who they were, children and grandchildren, generations strong.

Maybe the only token of that relationship is what I'm holding in my hands now, and there's nothing else to show they had even existed. Maybe it's been so long, they've even forgotten each other.

I used to think of myself as a caretaker of other people's memories, but really,

...I am a collector of echos.