I was having a rant to a friend earlier today about the state of modern cookbooks. Then I recalled I owned a blog, that being the traditional forum in which to air one’s unimportant, sardonic views for no-one to ever read. Hence the following temporary diversion from the usual thrifty ravings.

My state of cookbook disquiet resulted from a leisurely browse of said department in Waterstone’s. Apart from anything, the sheer quantity of volumes overwhelms from the off. I mean, don’t the publishers notice that there are already 185 tomes on the theme of ‘easy meals for the modern, discerning yet ultimately too busy/tired to cook family ‘, or something to that effect. Worse still are the number of self-styled ‘entrepreneurs’ serving up their own version of trendy food blogger-journalism in book form, despite having zero credibility or actual culinary skill or knowledge. In fact, maybe only an evening course in photography and a mid-life crisis. (I could name and shame, but it would just be bad manners.)

For this reason, I do choose my cookbooks thoughtfully, and always with knowledge of the author and their particular genre. I treat a new cookbook like a novel, sitting down over tea to read the introduction (I know, who does that?), so I can get to grips with the vision behind the instruction. In fact, if there is no vision, no ‘meta-narrative’ shall we say, then I contend its a cookbook not worth having. For example, I find Jamie Oliver’s earlier cookbooks so much weaker than his recent ones for this reason. Regardless of one’s thoughts on his corporate debasement and ubiquity, I do think his recent books are quite fabulous, and constitute my ‘go-to’ books for many weekday meals.

Similarly, Yotam Ottolenghi, my ultimate food hero, introduced me to the world of middle-eastern, mostly vegetarian, cooking several years ago. I already had a penchant, even a jar of Zataar thanks to Nigella, but with the purchase of his first book in 2008 (yes, I am claiming an early adoption credit here), my fling with Sumac developed into a fully formed affair with pomegranate molasses, freekeh, labneh, burnt aubergine, and the rest. It is from the pages of Plenty (and during my youth, the table of the wonderful Elizabeth Harty) that I affirmed my love of all things salad.

When it comes to salad, a perhaps lesser known but equally commanding food writer is the wonderful Diana Henry. Her most recent book, and the outcome of my earlier Waterstone’s foray, is ‘A Change in Appetite’. This book reads like an anti-diet manifesto, with scattered pages of myth-busting betwixt stunning scandi-eastern-british recipes. The focus is on the currently accepted wisdom for ‘healthy’ eating – vegetables, oily fish, low GI, some fat, low sugar, a splash of wine, zero processed. Dishes are of the following ilk: citrus marinaded salmon with fennel and apple salad (our dinner tonight), goats cheese and cherry salad with almond and basil gremolata, even a chapter called ‘You can never have too many salads’. And for dessert, light and quirky things like these gin and blueberry jellies. Its food heaven folks. If you have the time and headspace to think about edibles on this level, that is. Which, granted, many do not.

To complete the salad party, Leon (the earlier books; I don’t really get their latest three) is a must. The Superfood Salads were ahead of the curve in their day, and the low GI approach using simple adaptions (eg basmati to wholegrain basmati) were instructive. And all delivered up fast and furiously to the London masses. I was a bit taken aback when i first got the chance to eat at Leon. Its like McDonalds meets The Forrest Cafe.

From here we go to the cookery establishment, the giants of the trade. Every kitchen needs a bible of sorts, the ones you go to when in need of a reliable recipe for, say, Yorkshire puddings. Delia, and Darina Allen, are mine. And on that note, Avoca salads stand the test of time too. I still return regularly to the rather unusual but quintessentially Avoca salad of broccoli, feta, tomato and hazelnuts.

Though I may well be accused of over-purchase in the cook book department (for the record, I currently have 67, but I do make regular trips to the charity shop), I use them all, and often. Ok, so maybe the vintage copy of Julia Child’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking Volume One doesn’t see much action, but in my defence I cook meals from recipes most nights of the week. Because I love to create food, and luckily, my husband loves to eat it.