The two newest cookbooks in my collection, Sunday Suppers at Lucques by Suzanne Goin and The Cheese Board Collective Works, have something in common besides a shared shelf: a foreword by Alice Waters, the venerable and legendary chef-owner of what is probably my favorite restaurant, Chez Panisse. This wouldn’t mean very much to me if it weren’t for the fact that in the past 2 days, I have seen or heard promotions for two other books featuring forewords by Waters as well. My curiosity piqued, I did a quick Google search, which revealed over 20 books currently available online with an Alice Waters introduction.

Now, considering how long Waters has been sitting at the head of the Bay Area foodie table, this isn’t surprising in itself, although her Google results for forewords run rings around those of Julia Child, Jacques Pepin, or anyone else I could think of. What’s interesting about the Waters phenomenon is how the stamp of approval that she lends with a few words at the beginning of a work can lend such implied authority to its text. When a book has a foreword by Waters, you can bet that the foreword’s going to be featured in any press and it’ll be mentioned up front in any description you can find online. And this is a chef who’s never had her own TV show, who’s appeared on TV very infrequently, and who probably carries one hundredth of the entourage that Bobby Flay does.

Her support seems to suggest that the author of the associated book has passed through a rigorous set of standards for the proper methods to procure, prepare, or enjoy food, and has been allowed to impart their knowledge to the masses by Those Who Matter. Maybe Waters didn’t invent these standards, but she might be their current gatekeeper. Her esteem in the eyes of food mavens comes from a place that very few other chefs have accessed – from an idea of purity and idealism in the way we eat that will probably never be achieved in the real world. Sometimes I wonder if that kind of power comes more out of guilt that we don’t live according to those rules, and that we’ll never live by those rules, but that we like to surround ourselves with the trappings of those rules to fool ourselves and others into thinking that we will one day eat no produce except that found locally, eat no meat but that raised on humane, organic farms, and create healthy, beautiful, and seasonally-appropriate meals for our families. Is it something to strive toward? Sure. But for how many people is this really a viable potential future?

Regardless, one should make no mistake about it: the Waters backing is a serious boon for a select group of food experts in this country. Twenty forewords! That’s a lot.

I was killing time in Barnes and Noble today, waiting for a group of friends to arrive so we could head over to Azeen’s Afghani Restaurant (verdict: not bad, but a little overpriced), so I decided to check out the cookbook section. I was in one of those browsing moods where you aren’t really inclined to buy anything, but if you see something that you really want, you’ll probably end up getting it. For me, the particular brass ring on this particular day was Cooking by Hand by Paul Bertolli. I’ve read enough raves about this book and its approach to labor-intensive, meticulous cooking that I’m ready to buy it the minute I see it. But tonight…I don’t see it. Which is fine; I wasn’t really expecting to see it here. It’s a little too specialized to be seen at your average B&N.

But I keep browsing…and the funniest thing happens. I can’t find an interesting cookbook in this entire store! Anything by Alice Waters? Nope. Thomas Keller? Nope. Suzanne Goin, Judy Rodgers, Marcella Hazan? Nope, nope, nope. Instead, it’s a armada of Rachael Ray bookbooks – each with an identical photo featuring a maniacally grinning R. Ray – supported by a flotilla of Paula Deen, a battalion of Sandra Lee, and a brigade of Martha Stewart (who actually is not that bad at some things). Okay, so there are some books here that I am interested in. The Cafe Boulud cookbook looks interesting, the Babbo Cookbook is intriguing, and I’d like to get my hands on one of the smattering of Lidia Bastianich books I can find here. But for the most part, it was the Unholy Trinity of Ray, Deen, and Lee, all three of which are currently dominating programming schedule at the Food Network, that ruled the roost.

I spent a little time flipping through some of these cookbooks on the shelves. On first impression, it seems as if the vast majority of these books are designed for those who cook, yet intend to devote as little time as possible to cooking. The underlying perception here seems to be that cooking is something that is as palatable as doing your taxes; its value is gauged by the celerity of its completion. I guess I can’t get mad at anybody for feeling that way. There’s no moral imperative that dictates that people need to learn how to make their own red wine vinegar or Italian sausage. People have busy lives; there aren’t many folks who have the time or inclination to spend 2+ hours in the kitchen each day carefully constructing the base elements of, say, tagliatelle in brodo. On the other hand, cooking isn’t like playing an instrument. While just sounding capable on a violin can take years of practice, a month’s worth of concentrated effort in the kitchen can produce some pretty amazing results. The fundamental tools for many basic items – flour, sugar, salt, produce – are cheap and readily available. Cooking is a great democratic process through which you can either push yourself to make things that you consider beyond your reach, or be pulled by recipes that you enjoy perfecting through your own methods. Personally, I find great joy in carefully constructing a recipe from nothing more than a few staples. Beyond the power of quality control, there is a meditative aspect to it that appeals to me. It’s rewarding to watch something slowly come into existence for no other reason than your own hard work, be it bread, ice cream, or boudin blanc.

Which is why the preponderance of do-it-quick books at B&N makes me a little sad. One of the Sandra Lee cookbooks proclaims, “Nothing made from scratch!” Ouch. But hey, would these really be so popular if they weren’t good? It’s hard to believe that the recipes in these texts produce bad food. In cookbooks that sell their practicality, that would seem to be a lethal shortcoming. And it’s not often that I have the time to make anything even halfway elaborate from my Zuni or Sunday Suppers at Lucques books.

With this in mind, and in order to knock my culinary high horse down a peg or two, I’m going to try to cook at least a couple dinners from the pages of the Ray, Deen, and Lee playbooks over the next month or so. We’ll see how these recpies stack up in time, effort, cost, nutrition, and taste to my usual repertoire, culled from my own cookbook collection and years of internet recipe browsing. Stay tuned.