Uh-oh, it looks like your Internet Explorer is out of date.

For a better shopping experience, please upgrade now.

A Homemade Life: Stories and Recipes from My Kitchen Table
  • Alternative view 1 of A Homemade Life: Stories and Recipes from My Kitchen Table
  • Alternative view 2 of A Homemade Life: Stories and Recipes from My Kitchen Table

A Homemade Life: Stories and Recipes from My Kitchen Table

4.1 75
by Molly Wizenberg

See All Formats & Editions

When Molly Wizenberg's father died of cancer, everyone told her to go easy on herself, to hold off on making any major decisions for a while. But when she tried going back to her apartment in Seattle and returning to graduate school, she knew it wasn't possible to resume life as though nothing had happened. So she went to Paris, a city that held vivid memories of a


When Molly Wizenberg's father died of cancer, everyone told her to go easy on herself, to hold off on making any major decisions for a while. But when she tried going back to her apartment in Seattle and returning to graduate school, she knew it wasn't possible to resume life as though nothing had happened. So she went to Paris, a city that held vivid memories of a childhood trip with her father, of early morning walks on the cobbled streets of the Latin Quarter and the taste of her first pain au chocolat. She was supposed to be doing research for her dissertation, but more often, she found herself peering through the windows of chocolate shops, trekking across town to try a new pâtisserie, or tasting cheeses at outdoor markets, until one evening when she sat in the Luxembourg Gardens reading cookbooks until it was too dark to see, she realized that her heart was not in her studies but in the kitchen.

At first, it wasn't clear where this epiphany might lead. Like her long letters home describing the details of every meal and market, Molly's blog Orangette started out merely as a pleasant pastime. But it wasn't long before her writing and recipes developed an international following. Every week, devoted readers logged on to find out what Molly was cooking, eating, reading, and thinking, and it seemed she had finally found her passion. But the story wasn't over: one reader in particular, a curly-haired, food-loving composer from New York, found himself enchanted by the redhead in Seattle, and their email correspondence blossomed into a long-distance romance.

In A Homemade Life: Stories and Recipes from My Kitchen Table, Molly Wizenberg recounts a life with thekitchen at its center. From her mother's pound cake, a staple of summer picnics during her childhood in Oklahoma, to the eggs she cooked for her father during the weeks before his death, food and memories are intimately entwined. You won't be able to decide whether to curl up and sink into the story or to head straight to the market to fill your basket with ingredients for Cider-Glazed Salmon and Pistachio Cake with Honeyed Apricots.

Editorial Reviews

Barnes & Noble Discover Great New Writers
Cotton candy at the state fair. S'mores around the campfire. Hot dogs at a baseball game. Some foods are inextricably linked to events or places. Wizenberg has noted similar associations between food and her own life, and she shares them in this delightful treat of a book. Part recipe book, part memoir, Wizenberg takes us through the moments of her life and the memorable foods that helped mark those occasions. Time-tested and good tasting, her recipes range from the simple to the complex, the healthful to the decadent. Some are original and some are borrowed, but each one marks an event -- important or mundane -- with equal significance.

She candidly shares the heartbreak of losing her father (accompanied by a multitude of dishes dropped off by caring neighbors and friends), recalled in the memory of a comforting pie. And she recounts the memory of her young French love, Guillaume, in the description of a steamy dessert: "Dolloped with crème fraiche, tarte tatin doesn't dally with small talk. It reaches for your leg under the table."

Wizenberg has a wonderful way with words -- as well as food -- and whether you cook or not, you'll find your mouth watering as you turn the pages of this wholly satisfying read. (Summer 2009 Selection)
Nora Krug
…a book that combines memoir—vignettes about her childhood in 1970s Oklahoma City, her love life and trips to Paris—with anecdote-inspired recipes…This format is itself a tried-and-true recipe. Still, Wizenberg's take is fresh, and the book is especially touching when she writes about her father…
—The Washington Post
Publishers Weekly

Wizenberg's debut shares the same basic format as her "Orangette" blog-favorite recipes interspersed with personal reflection-but constructed around a much tighter family narrative. Memories of her father, for example, begin with his cherished formula for potato salad and an attempt to recreate his French toast, but also include a variation on scrambled eggs that spurred a comforting moment as he was dying of cancer. The second half of the memoir focuses on her blossoming relationship with Brandon, who started out as a fan of the blog, became a long-distance boyfriend and eventually moved to Seattle and married her-of course, she shares the recipes for the pickled carrots they served at the wedding as well as the chocolate cake she baked for dessert. Though there is an emphasis on desserts, the recipes cover a variety of meals, none beyond the range of an ordinary cook, and Wizenberg's directions are laced with a charming voice that strikes a neat balance with the reflective passages. Her strong personality stands out among her generation's culinary voices. (Mar.)

Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.
Library Journal

Freelance food writer Wizenberg's delightful first book will undoubtedly be gobbled up like a tin of Christmas cookies. Sometimes touching, sometimes humorous, often both, this collection of essays is as much about growing up and family as it is about food. Wizenberg skillfully combines a complex mixture of mood, story, and tone to achieve a wonderful balance in each essay. The tantalizing recipes interspersed throughout cover all bases (sides, entrées, desserts, and even several breakfast items); they should be interesting for more experienced cooks but not overwhelming for others, given the author's clear and extensive notes. Those seeking more from Wizenberg should peruse her monthly column in Bon Appétit or her award-winning blog, Orangette (orangette.blogspot.com). Recommended for all public libraries.
—Courtney Greene

Library Journal - BookSmack!
Family and the connection of food are at the heart of Senate's book; Wizenberg explores both themes in her tender and reflective memoir, which grew from her blog, Orangette. Tracing family memories, Wizenberg first explores her father's influence and his legacy of potato salad and French toast. She then turns to her own food journey, including the long-distance romance that eventually led to a wedding and a new life. Wizenberg's voice is inherently more personal than the fictional character of Holly or Claire, but she explores the same issues of finding one's way and exploring an unexpected but entirely welcome path. Wizenberg's easy grace and comforting tone should please Senate's readers as they explore this recipe-rich real-life story of how cooking can change everything. — Neal Wyatt, "RA Crossroads," Booksmack! 2/3/11

Product Details

Simon & Schuster
Publication date:
Product dimensions:
6.30(w) x 9.20(h) x 1.20(d)

Read an Excerpt


It started when I was a freshman in high school. We'd be sitting at the kitchen table, the three of us, eating dinner, when my father would lift his head from his plate and say it: "You know, we eat better at home than most people do in restaurants." Sometimes, for good measure, he'd slap the table and let loose a long ooooh of contentment. It didn't seem to matter what we were eating. It could have been some sliced tomatoes, or a bowl of mashed potatoes, or some fish that he'd fried in a pat of butter. At least every couple of weeks, he said it. To me, it sounded like tacky bragging, the kind of proud exaggeration that fathers specialize in. It's the suburban man's equivalent of ripping open his shirt and beating his chest with his fists. I would shrink into my chair, blushing hotly, the moment it crossed the threshold of his lips. I was mortified by the weird pleasure he took in our family meal. After a while, I could even sense it coming. I'd mouth the words before he could say them: You know, we eat better at home than most people do in restaurants!

But now I'm old enough to admit that he was right. It's not that we knew how to cook especially well, or that we always ate food that was particularly good. There were hot dogs sometimes, and cans of baked beans. Our garlic came in a jar, minced and ready, and our butter was known to go rancid. What was so satisfying, I think, was something else. It was the steady rhythm of meeting in the kitchen every night, sitting down at the table, and sharing a meal. Dinner didn't come through a swinging door, balanced on the arm of an anonymous waiter: it was something that we made together. We built our family that way -- in the kitchen, seven nights a week. We built a life for ourselves, together around that table. And although I couldn't admit it then, my father was showing me, in his pleasure and in his pride, how to live it: wholly, hungrily, loudly.

When I walk into my kitchen today, I am not alone. Whether we know it or not, none of us is. We bring fathers and mothers and kitchen tables, and every meal we have ever eaten. Food is never just food. It's also a way of getting at something else: who we are, who we have been, and who we want to be. When my father sat down at the dinner table, he saw more than what was on his plate. He saw his childhood as the son of two Polish immigrants; his youth in a working-class neighborhood in 1930s Toronto; his immigration to the U.S. after medical school; his troubled first marriage; his first three children; the beautiful woman in a brown faux-fur mini-dress who danced with him at a Christmas party; their move to Oklahoma; his successful private practice; his big house in the suburbs; and me, his fourth child, born when he was just shy of fifty. No wonder he was proud. He made a good life for himself. He might as well have won the lottery, for all his glee over those tomatoes or potatoes or fried fish.

When I walk into my kitchen today, I bring all of this with me.

Like most people who love to cook, I like the tangible things. I like the way the knife claps when it meets the cutting board. I like the haze of sweet air that hovers over a hot cake as it sits, cooling, on the counter. I like the way a strip of orange peel looks on an empty plate. But what I like even more are the intangible things: the familiar voices that fall out of the folds of an old cookbook, or the scenes that replay like a film reel across my kitchen wall. When we fall in love with a certain dish, I think that's what we're often responding to: that something else behind the fork or the spoon, the familiar story that food tells.

I grew up in the kitchen. When I was a baby, my mother would put me on a blanket on the kitchen floor, where I would bang around with pots and pans and spoons. I crashed my first dinner party at the age of three, and I still remember it -- mainly because my grand entrance consisted of falling, half asleep and holding a unicorn hand puppet, into a family friend's swimming pool. When I was old enough to reach the kitchen counter, my mother let me make what I called "mixtures": weird, what-would-this-taste-like concoctions made from such winning combinations as Diet Coke and cake flour, or sugar, garlic salt, and food coloring. As a kid, I loved to play the card game Old Maid, but I didn't call it by that name: I called it Homemade, a word that made much more sense to me. Everything interesting, everything good, seemed to happen when food was around.

My family believes in cooking. It's what we do, where we put our money and our free time. I may have grown up in landlocked Oklahoma, but I ate my first lobster at age six, when my father came home from an East Coast business trip with a cooler full of them. He upended it on the kitchen floor, spilling them onto the linoleum like giant spiders, and while they clattered around on their spindly legs, I stood on a chair and screamed. Then, of course, I had a taste of their sweet meat. That shut me right up.

This is my family. My sister Lisa keeps a plot in a community garden, where she grows her own asparagus, lettuce, and snap peas. She also makes a near-perfect scone and, for a while, wanted to open a chocolate shop. My brother Adam can whip up a terrific impromptu tomato sauce and, with only the slightest prompting, will tell you where to find the finest gelato from Italy to the Eastern Seaboard. My brother David has a degree from the Culinary Institute of America and owns a handful of restaurants in Washington, D.C. He can also roast a mean piece of beef. A recent Christmas in our clan consisted of forty-eight hours in the kitchen, a twenty-five-pound turkey, five quarts of soup, four dozen scones, three gallons of boozed-up eggnog, two dozen biscuits, and a bushel of spinach, creamed.

I learned to cook because it was a given. But I didn't learn in any sweet, at-the-apronstrings way. Neither of my grandmothers ever stood me on a chair and showed me how to make biscuits or beef stew. To tell you the truth, I hardly remember my grandmothers' cooking. My father's mother, Dora, used to send us Jewish holiday cookies from her kitchen in Toronto, but she packed them in a cardboard shoebox, so by the time they arrived, they were only crumbs.

I learned to cook because the kitchen was where things happened. No one told me to, but I hung around, and I was comfortable there. I learned how to handle a knife. I learned how to cook a string bean by eye, until its color turned bright green. It was no big deal. I hardly even thought about it. By a sort of osmosis, I picked up a sense of comfort in the kitchen, and a hunger that lasted long past breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

For a long time, I thought that this meant that I should be a chef. Interests came and interests went, but at the end of the day, I always wound up at the stove. It was the only place I really wanted to be. It seemed only natural, then, to try to make something of it. I can cook, I thought, and I like to cook, so maybe I should be a cook. I should try working in a restaurant kitchen, I decided.

So one summer, the summer after my sophomore year of college, a friend set me up with an internship at a well-known vegetarian restaurant in San Francisco. I was a vegetarian at the time; it was one of those interests that came and went. I was assigned to the pantry station, prepping salads and plating desserts. I got to eat a lot of day-old ginger cake, which was pretty fun, and with the exception of the time the chef handed me an onion and asked me breezily, as though it were as obvious as brushing my teeth, to slice it "as fine as an angel's eyelash," it went all right. But I didn't love it. I wasn't even sure I liked it. I never saw the faces of the people who ate what I had prepared. I never saw anything but my corner of the counter, actually. I didn't like the discontinuity between the kitchen and the dining room, between the procedure of cooking and the pleasure of eating.

I didn't last long. I didn't leave college for cooking school. I got a degree in human biology and another in French, and then another in anthropology. If I had stayed my course, I'd probably be standing in front of a class somewhere, talking about the concept of solidarité and social security in France. But then, you wouldn't be reading this.

All along, something kept calling me back to the table. Every time I opened my mouth, a story about food came out. In July of 2004, I decided that I had to listen. I left my PhD program with a master's degree instead. In an effort to make something of my madness, I started a blog called Orangette, a space where I could store all my recipes and the long-winded tales that spun from them. I named it for one of my favorite chocolate confections -- a strip of candied orange peel dipped in dark chocolate -- and started to fill it with my favorite people, places, and meals.

I wanted a space to write about food. That's all, really. But what I got was something much better. I got an excuse for long afternoons at the stove, and for tearing through bags of flour and sugar faster than should be allowed by state law. I got a place to tell my stories and a crowd of people who, much to my surprise, seemed eager to listen and share. What started as a lonely endeavor came to feel like a conversation: a place where like-minded people could swap recipes and dinner plans, a kind of trading post where cakes and chickpeas are perfectly valid currency. I'm not the only one, I learned, who believes that the kitchen, and the food that comes from it, is where everything begins. What started as a simple love for food grew to have a life of its own -- and a life that, in turn, has changed mine.

Now, of course, all this is not to say that my kitchen is full of sunshine and puppies and sweet-smelling flowers that never wilt. When I cook, there's often a lot of cursing. I've made soups that tasted like absolutely nothing, as though the flavors had miraculously united to form a perfect zero sum. I once charred a pork loin so thoroughly that it looked like a tree stump after a forest fire. I have eaten my fair share of peanut butter and jelly and two-dollar beans and rice from the taqueria down the street. But I still believe in paying attention to those meals, no matter how fast or frustrating. I believe in what they can show me about the place where I live, about the people around me, and about who I want to be. That, to me, is the "meat" of food. That's what feeds me -- why I cook and why I write.

That's why this book is called A Homemade Life. Because, in a sense, that's what we're building -- you, me, all of us who like to stir and whisk -- in the kitchen and at the table. In the simple acts of cooking and eating, we are creating and continuing the stories that are our lives.

Copyright © 2009 by Molly Wizenberg

Meet the Author

Molly Wizenberg, winner of the 2015 James Beard Foundation Award, is the voice behind Orangette, named the best food blog in the world by the London Times. Her first book, A Homemade Life: Stories and Recipes from My Kitchen Table, was a New York Times bestseller, and her work has appeared in Bon Appétit, The Washington Post, The Art of Eating, and The Guardian, and on Saveur.com and Gourmet.com. She also cohosts the hit podcast Spilled Milk. She lives in Seattle with her husband Brandon Pettit, their daughter June, and two dogs named Jack and Alice. She and Brandon own and run the restaurants Delancey and Essex.

Customer Reviews

Average Review:

Post to your social network


Most Helpful Customer Reviews

See all customer reviews

Homemade Life: Stories and Recipes from My Kitchen Table 4.1 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 75 reviews.
kanellio65 More than 1 year ago
A HOMEMADE LIFE, a personal memoir, comes from Molly Wizenberg as she writes about her family and how food was always the center their lives seemed to revolve around. In each chapter, as she recounts her life, she tells stories about her family and herself and they all seem to wind up somehow back to some kind of food. Whether it is about a family gathering and what food they served, or a place they visited and something they ate while there, food shows up as a character in her memoir. With each story and chapter, comes a recipe or two described in a way that even I can follow. I found myself wishing I had all the ingredients on hand so many times so I could rush into my kitchen and try it right away. Her father's French toast, which I did make, is my favorite, so far. Of course, A HOMEMADE LIFE isn't one of the best books I have enjoyed in a long time JUST because of the food. It is a beautifully written, touching story of Molly's life and her special relationship with her family and her father in particular. The recipes she gives the reader are integral parts of the stories she tells. Whether growing up and learning to cook, or meeting and marrying her husband, or traveling to her beloved Paris, recipes and food play an integral part of making this book so personal and memorable. Whatever You Love, You Are. Molly Wizenberg's ex-boyfriend was in a band and they recorded an album by that title. In her book, Molly writes about what that title meant to her mainly in reference to her father's death. Her father, Burg as he was known, died after a short battle with cancer and A HOMEMADE LIFE is dedicated to him. Molly explains how more than anyone else she knows, her father "was what he loved. .He did what he did and was what he was." When you come right down to it, don't we all hope we can be that way as well? Molly loves to cook with such a passion and so much of that comes from her father. She says, "I am so my father's daughter. Whatever you love, oh yes, you are." I think this speaks volumes and to me is the reason I loved this book so very much.
Christine_Emming More than 1 year ago
As a longtime fan of Orangette, Molly Wizenberg's blog, I was one of a food-loving, dorksome crowd who raced to buy this book immediately. I savoured it for weeks - okay, A week -, allowing myself to read small bits at a time, hoping to eke out the snuggly feelings as long as possible. Wizenberg writes easily, sweetly, about food and family, wrapping flavors tightly together with memory. It's a soothing way to read about recipe development, one story at a time, meals building up like steps. Molly is relatable - writing about simple, comforting food without judgement or attitude. Readers will find her approach honest, honeyed and inspiring. Overall, the recipes here are cozy bits of Wizenberg history, splashed together sometimes haphazardly. Salad recipes abound, for which my vegetarian leanings are grateful, and desserts are hearty, flavorsome staples. Molly flipflops between clever tweaks on classic dishes and presenting the classic dish pared down to its basic essence. But either way, most are recipes you'll appreciate for their fuss-free directions and ingredient lists. Wizenberg's book is a charmer, stories and recipes alike.
Frisbeesage More than 1 year ago
Molly Wizenberg has written a beautiful tribute to her family, her father in particular, and to the soothing, comforting, exciting power of food. She starts by introducing us to her family, and before long you feel like one of them, in the kitchen late at night stirring, tasting, and baking Fresh Ginger Cake with Caramelized Pears. She takes us to Paris and Seattle and we meet all her friends along the way. Molly gently leads us through Christmas with Espresso-Walnut Toffee, her father's battle with cancer with Italian Grotto Eggs, and to the French Style Yogurt Cake with Lemon that changed everything. Her stories are simple, like her food, but comforting and filling too. Molly Wizenberg is absolutely one of the best food writers I have read. She has a way of drawing you in, making you feel a part of the story, and she makes me itch to get in the kitchen and try her recipes! This is a book I will use often, mostly when I have the urge to cook, but can't decide what. I'll give this book to friends and family and hope they get the same feelings of contentment and joy from this book as I did.
MarianneJ More than 1 year ago
I picked this book for my bookclub and we all really enjoyed it. I prepared 7 recipes from the book and we had a gourmet dinner the evening of our meeting. It really helped us discuss the book. Everyone loved the food and I am still receiving comments about the dinner and the book.The wine wasn't bad either. We also enjoyed port with her Winning hearts and minds cake. The cake was so good we all swooned!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
What a great book
Luckygranadma More than 1 year ago
I liked it, lots of good information, presented in a nice, relaxed and entertaining style.
slsMO More than 1 year ago
I haven't even finished the book yet, but came on the site to order two copies for friends. This isn't a book you pass on, it is one you keep on your shelf - in the kitchen! I was not familiar with the author before I stumbled upon this book but I couldn't be more pleased. A Homemade Life is entertaining, easy to read, and full of great recipes put into context of the author's life (in a way that you can see them being a part of your own).
Sales_Girl More than 1 year ago
It was one of those books that you just don't want to put down but rather stay under covers until you have finished every single chapter. It also makes me wanna cook as I feel I can be part of each Molly's adventure...
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
AT_STL More than 1 year ago
This is an easy read, interesting, heartfelt and with the added bonus of good recipes!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
An ok read and good recipes.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
I learned of this book from my daughter-in-law and have since gifted it on to my niece. Not only is it well written and generally a good read...the recipes!!! The instructions are simple to follow and taste as delicious as they are described. I love that the types of recipes evolve with the story line. It is one of my favorite cookbooks now, stained with balsamic, flour, and parmegianno regianno.
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Charged77 More than 1 year ago
I got this book as a gift because I started to bake and a blog. I could not put this book down. The recipes were amazing and very simple to do. I felt like I was with Molly in her adventures and travels. I HIGHLY recommend it!!
Anonymous More than 1 year ago
Anonymous More than 1 year ago