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My mother gave me my first cookbook. It was 1962, and I began my New York life with her gift of "The Gourmet Cookbook" (Volume I) and several sets of sheets and pillowcases (white, with scallops). "The Gourmet Cookbook" was enormous, a tome, with a gloomy reddish-brown binding. It had been assembled by the editors of Gourmet and was punctuated by the splendid, reverent, slightly lugubrious photographs of food that the magazine was famous for. Simply owning it had changed my mother's life. Until the book appeared, in the fifties, she had been content to keep as far from the kitchen as possible. We had a wonderful Southern cook named Evelyn Hall, who cooked American ...