Rachel: Alright, Justine. I'm going to say the name of a food, and you have to tell me, on a scale of 1 to 10, how 'comforting' it is. Ready? Cold baked beans from a can... on untoasted white bread. Justine: That's a negative 5. That's not comfort food; that's a cry for help. What is that, a punishment? Rachel: And that exact reaction is why we have to talk about Ina Garten's book, Modern Comfort Food. Because for a British film crew she was working with, that was their ultimate childhood comfort food. Justine: No way. Seriously? I refuse to believe that. Rachel: Seriously. And it gets to the heart of what she was exploring. What's fascinating is that she wrote this book, her twelfth one, right in the thick of 2020. Think pandemic, political stress... she felt it was her mission to provide comfort, and the book was a massive hit, even winning a major reader's choice award that year. Justine: That makes sense. 2020 was the year of sourdough starters and banana bread. We were all desperate for comfort. But cold beans? I still can't get over it. Rachel: Well, let's get into it, because that story unlocks the first big idea of the book.

Justine: Okay, so how can something that sounds so objectively unappetizing be comforting to anyone? What’s the logic? Rachel: The logic is that comfort food has almost nothing to do with objective taste and everything to do with memory and culture. Ina tells this hilarious story where she offers her British film crew what she considers a classic kids' lunch: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Justine: A solid choice. A respectable 8 on the comfort scale. Rachel: They recoiled in horror. They were completely grossed out. And in return, they offered to make their childhood favorite: white bread, cold baked beans from a can, with a slice of Kraft American cheese on top. Justine: My brain just short-circuited. It’s a cultural divide in the form of a terrible sandwich. Rachel: Exactly. And that's her first point: comfort food is deeply personal. It’s what we were given as children when we needed to feel safe, loved, or cared for. It’s not about Michelin stars; it's about emotion. The book has this beautiful little story about a girl named Sarah who has a bad cold and her Grandma Betty makes her chicken soup. Justine: Ah, the classic. Chicken soup is universally comforting, right? Rachel: Well, the soup itself was simple—chicken, carrots, celery. But the magic wasn't just in the ingredients. It was the aroma filling the house, the warmth of her grandma's hug, the family sharing stories around the table. The soup became a symbol of love and connection. The food was the vehicle for the feeling. Justine: I can see that. For me, it was my mom's mac and cheese, the kind from the blue box with the bright orange powder. If someone makes me a fancy gourmet version with like, Gruyère and breadcrumbs, it's nice, but it doesn't hit that same spot. It doesn't taste like being six years old and home sick from school. Rachel: You just nailed it. That's what Ina calls a "remembered flavor." And she argues that we seek these flavors most intensely during times of stress. She brings up two powerful examples. After 9/11, one of the most sought-after recipes people were searching for was her "Outrageous Brownies." Justine: Wow. In a moment of national crisis, people wanted to bake brownies. Rachel: Yes. Because the act of measuring, mixing, the smell of chocolate filling the house—it's a small act of creation and normalcy in the face of chaos. Similarly, during the 2008 financial crisis, while fine dining restaurants struggled, fast-food places prospered. People wanted a simple, inexpensive hamburger and fries. It was predictable and satisfying when everything else felt uncertain. Justine: So when the world feels out of control, we reach for something that feels simple and within our control. Like a grilled cheese. During the pandemic, a friend of Ina's apparently said, "My fridge is full of healthy food, but all I want is a grilled cheese sandwich." Rachel: That quote is in the book! It perfectly captures the psychology. Comfort food is an emotional security blanket. It’s not about nutrition; it’s about psychic survival. It’s the cookie you eat that makes you feel good while you're eating it, even if you feel bad before and after. Justine: I feel very seen by that cookie comment. But here’s my question. Ina Garten is the Barefoot Contessa. She's known for being... well, fancy. Using 'good' vanilla, as she says. How does that sophisticated approach square with a box of mac and cheese or a simple brownie? Isn't modernizing comfort food kind of a contradiction? Rachel: That is the perfect question, and it leads us right into the second, and I think most brilliant, part of the book.

Rachel: You’re right to be skeptical. The whole point of comfort food seems to be its unchanging nature. But Ina's argument is that you can honor the memory while dramatically improving the experience. You can keep the soul of the dish but give it a better body. Justine: Okay, but how? If you change it too much, doesn't it become something else entirely? You risk losing the magic. Rachel: You do, if you're not careful. Her approach is about enhancement, not replacement. And the best way to understand it is through her epic, multi-year quest to perfect the Boston Cream Pie. Justine: A quest for a cake? I'm listening. Rachel: So, she loved the idea of a Boston Cream Pie, but found most versions disappointing. Too sweet, a bit bland. She decided to elevate it. First, she added orange zest to the cake and a splash of Grand Marnier and Cognac to the pastry cream to give it a sophisticated orange note. Justine: That sounds delicious. Problem solved, right? Rachel: Wrong. When she put it all together, the chocolate glaze completely overpowered the delicate orange flavor. The pastry cream was too loose and oozed out the sides. It was a disaster. She spent a whole week baking different versions and was getting nowhere. Justine: I’ve been there. The baking project that just breaks your spirit. Rachel: Totally. Then, a breakthrough came from an unexpected place. She was interviewing Christina Tosi, the genius behind Milk Bar, and was venting her frustration. She said, "I've got the cake right, the cream right, the glaze right. But together, it doesn't work!" And Christina Tosi casually says, "Oh, you just need a soak." Justine: A soak? What's a soak? Rachel: It's a simple sugar syrup that you brush onto the cake layers. It adds moisture and, crucially, another layer of flavor. A lightbulb went off for Ina. She went home, made a syrup with orange juice and Grand Marnier, brushed it on the cake layers, and… voilà! It was perfect. The soak amplified the orange flavor just enough to stand up to the chocolate. The cake was moist, the flavors were balanced. It was still recognizably a Boston Cream Pie, but it was the best version of itself. Justine: Wow. So the lesson is that modernizing isn't about throwing out the old recipe, but about finding that one clever technique or ingredient that makes everything click. Rachel: Precisely. It’s about being a thoughtful editor. She does the same with a classic beef stew. Instead of bland beef chuck, she uses flavorful boneless short ribs. Instead of just water, she adds red wine and a splash of Cognac. She makes it taste like the beef stew you wish your grandma had made. Justine: Okay, but who has Cognac just lying around? I know some readers and critics find her recipes a bit inaccessible sometimes, with expensive or hard-to-find ingredients. Does that undercut the 'comfort' idea? Rachel: That's a fair point, and something that comes up with her work. But she addresses this in the book in a section on "Good Ingredients." Her point is that 'good' doesn't have to mean 'expensive.' It means 'flavorful' and 'thoughtfully chosen.' She talks about salt, for example. She specifies Diamond Crystal kosher salt because it's less salty by volume than Morton's. If you use the wrong one, your dish will be ruined. It's not about being a snob; it's about precision to get the best result. Justine: So it's about paying attention to the details that actually make a difference, not just buying fancy for the sake of it. Rachel: Exactly. The goal is to create something so delicious and satisfying that it makes the people you're feeding feel truly happy and cared for. And that brings us to the real heart of the book.

Justine: So, at the end of the day, is this book just about making tastier food, or is there something bigger here? Because it feels like there's a deeper message. Rachel: There is. And it's the most profound part of the whole book. Towards the end, Ina tells a story that has nothing to do with recipes. It's about a geriatric physician, Dr. Jack Rowe, who taught at Columbia. He would give his medical students an assignment: interview older patients and predict their longevity. Justine: I'm guessing the students looked at things like diet, exercise, medical history... Rachel: That's what they thought they should do. But Dr. Rowe told them to ignore all that. Instead, he had them ask just two questions. First: How many people have you had a meaningful interaction with this week—friends, family, the mailman? And second: What do you do? Do you have hobbies, play cards, volunteer, have a pet? Justine: He was measuring their social engagement. Rachel: Exactly. And what he found, consistently, was that the level of social connection and engagement was a more powerful predictor of longevity than diet or exercise. He said that loneliness is an epidemic and may be a more critical factor in our health than what we eat. Justine: Wow. That puts a whole new spin on cooking dinner. Rachel: It changes everything. Suddenly, this book isn't just a collection of recipes. It's a manual for fighting loneliness. The act of cooking and sharing this food—this modern, delicious, soul-satisfying comfort food—becomes one of the most powerful ways to build and maintain the very connections that keep us healthy and happy. Justine: It reframes the entire act of hospitality. You're not just feeding people; you're literally extending their lives. And your own. Rachel: That’s the ultimate takeaway. Making that updated beef stew or the perfected Boston Cream Pie isn't just about showing off your cooking skills. It's a profound act of love. It’s how we nourish our relationships and enrich our lives. The comfort in Modern Comfort Food isn't just in the eating; it's in the sharing. Justine: That's such a beautiful way to think about it. It makes me want to know what everyone's weirdest comfort food is. Let us know what you think—is it cold beans on toast, or something else entirely? We'd love to hear your stories. Rachel: I would too. Because every one of those dishes tells a story about love, family, and where we come from. Justine: This is Aibrary, signing off.