"I don't think I viscerally understood the importance of a Christmas tree, or a Hanukkah menorah, or a St. Lucia's crown until I moved into an apartment with lots of windows: the night is long and dark out there this time of year, in this part of the world, and adding a little extra light goes an awfully long way toward brightening the mood."
"It makes sense that the cold months are when we, warm-bodied animals, want to come together, to be celebratory, to affirm and reinvigorate our affections. And what better way than with the exchange of useful, lovely, or absurd objects? Here, for the food-focussed and the culinarily inclined, are some of my favorite things that solve no real or urgent problems but might, in small and surprising ways, make life more enjoyable to live."
"Drop an e-mail to the good folks at a culinary-specific bookstore, such as Kitchen Arts & Letters, in New York, or Now Serving, in L.A., where the obscenely well-informed staff can recommend an ideal gift based on the recipient's interests and aspirations. Or, if your giftee's cookbook stack already teeters too high, try exploring the adjacent category of culinary-art booksrecent favorites of mine include the portrait photographer Melanie Dunea's witty, provocative Amuse-Bouche ($295), featuring lithe bodies adorned in radicchio undergarments and octopus-tentacle necklaces,"
Windows in a dark winter apartment reveal how symbolic lights — a Christmas tree, Hanukkah menorah, or St. Lucia's crown — materially improve mood by adding small, warm illumination. Cold months prompt people to gather, celebrate, and renew emotional bonds, often through exchanging thoughtful objects. Cookbooks make reliable gifts for food lovers, and specialized bookstore staff can tailor recommendations to a recipient's interests. If cookbook stacks overflow, culinary-art books provide alternative, visually rich options. Examples include Melanie Dunea's Amuse-Bouche and Demetria Glace's Leaked Recipes, which blend aesthetic provocation with cultural and archival curiosity.
Read at www.newyorker.com
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