The Yellow Farmhouse Cookbook

My husband and I like to read before nodding off to sleep. Last night he was reading about Zombies while I was reading The Yellow Farmhouse cookbook by Christopher Kimball. Very rarely do I start crying while reading a cookbook, but last night the tears started flowing as Chris reminisced about his childhood memories of the original yellow farmhouse. And for a moment I was right there with him visiting with all of the people. The story that Chris relates from his childhood of growing up on a farm is only the beginning of what is an awesome cookbook. In my opinion he is the Julia Child of country cooking. I have had this book for many years and love referring back to it. It is such a great value with many proven recipes. One of the great things about Chris is that he will give you the blueprint on purchasing items for your kitchen; listing the best value on items that are truly essential.


Here is a photo of my cookbook pantry that my husband built for me. This little nook is one step away from the stove.  It is where I like to keep my favorite recipe books.

Here is a snippet from The Yellow Farmhouse Cookbook. The cause of my tears. Enjoy!

”The Parlor seems smaller today than it did back in the 1950s. The faded green sofa where old Floyd used to hunker down with a cigarette hanging from his lower lip is gone, as is the sink with the hand pump and the dining table covered with the red and white checkered oilcloth, which was in use all day either for eating bread, or preparing dinner. It was a busy room, never empty of visitors at any hour, really the town center for many decades. It is quiet now although I remember the stories told in the small parlor, tales that filled the room with a special cadence, a flash of wit, and a drawn-out adjective that spoke to the uncertainties of country living. Perhaps most fondly I remember the smell of that parlor, the ripe scent of yeast, molasses, fresh bread, green wood, maple syrup, wood smoke and the pickled meats, a heady perfume that seeped into the wallpaper and floorboards and that remains today. It was a dark, still room, even in summer, since the closed windows were often steamed from the simmering water on the stove. It was a world submersed in half-light, visitors appearing suddenly from the outside without warning, the sun at their backs, their approach having gone unnoticed. Marie Briggs was a short woman but sturdy, a good Vermont stock. With graying hair always turned in a bun, thick black framed glasses and sturdy black shoes. Like a well-conditioned athlete, she kept a steady pace all day, taking only two breaks, one for noon dinner and the other at four o’clock for tea, served with warm slabs of just baked country bread spread with a thick layer of rich yellow butter”.