Making Connections through Community Cookbooks

My mother drops bread dough into the deep fryer, and the sound of sizzling fills my ears. Warm scents of honey and anise rise from our finished cookies as I lean over the open cookbook, my fingers sticky with powdered sugar against the page. This scene, to me, embodies the holiday season—just as cooking does for many people around the world. However, when we prepare food, it is not only the act itself that has meaning. Our cookbooks and recipes become part of the process, linking us to others and shaping the food traditions that define our lives.

When I first learned about The Huntington’s Anne Cranston American Regional and Charitable Cookbook Collection, I was interested in its many community cookbooks. As a new California resident, I wanted to see how the Californian cookbooks compared to the ones I grew up with.

The cookbook my mother consistently used during the holidays—one she still relies on today—is a yellowing volume titled A Taste of Memories from “Columbus Park”: recipes, memories & photographs of the old Westside neighborhood, Kenosha, Wisconsin. This is not a book you can simply pick up at the nearest bookstore. Written and compiled by Catherine Tripalin Murray, A Taste of Memories belongs to a category known as community cookbooks—volumes created by and for a small community.

In this volume, my mother recognizes the names of contributors, spots a photograph of her grandfather’s grocery store, and finds her favorite childhood dishes. Many recipes are designed to feed large gatherings, with ingredients measured in bulk—from 10 cups of flour to four dozen eggs—and yielding hundreds of cookies or a dozen plates of pasta. The implicit understanding is that cooking is not just for individuals but for sharing with a community. Years after my mother moved away from Kenosha, this cookbook remains a tangible connection to her Italian American roots, allowing her to feel a bond with the people and traditions she loves.

However, you don’t need a specific ethnic heritage to create a communal cookbook. The only required ingredients are a group of connected people and their shared love of food.

The Californian community cookbooks in the Cranston collection share familiar traits with other community cookbooks: plastic comb bindings, black-and-white text and photos, and the names of recipe contributors. But the food itself is distinctly Californian. The prevalence of citrus and warm-weather fruits like pineapple and avocado stands out. Seafood appears frequently, and almonds are added to dishes ranging from tuna casserole to chicken soup. Influences from Mexican and Chinese cuisines come into the mix, resulting in fusion recipes and entirely new dishes. The inclusion of an orange bread recipe, such as the one found in the Balboa bounty cookbook, seems like a necessity.

Despite these regional differences, a common thread of community ties these cookbooks to the ones my family, hundreds of miles away, holds dear.

When cooking from a community cookbook, you’re not preparing a stranger’s pineapple salad; you’re making your cousin’s favorite pineapple salad or the pineapple salad of your neighbor down the street. These cookbooks convey a sense of trust and intimacy, offering a personal connection to the food being shared. In the American Association of University Women cookbook from San Luis Obispo, for example, each recipe is handwritten by a contributor, emphasizing that the women are passing their own knowledge on to the reader. Through something as simple as a cookbook, we can be connected to a specific time, place, and community—creating a deep sense of belonging.

Researching cookbooks in The Huntington’s collection can teach us about broad academic topics and their impact on the food we eat—from globalization and economics to the flow of information and societal trends. However, there is something more profound to consider when it comes to how we circulate recipes—something personal and meaningful tied to memory, tradition, and relationships. By cooking and eating together, we receive more than just nourishment. We create a sense of belonging and significance, sharing the experience of being human.

Alanna Davey is a curatorial assistant at The Huntington.