I had turned in the final draft of my manuscript and was about to board a plane to Paris when my editor called informing me that the next step before my book could be published was acquiring blurbs. I felt sick to my stomach. Blurbs. I had heard from other first-time authors about how a line or two of praise from a famous author could make or break how a bookseller perceives you or if a reviewer will even take a second look at your advance copy among the hundreds she receives each week.

Most of my Paris trip was spent retesting recipes for the book by day and tossing at night trying to figure out who to ask and how to approach them. I didn’t know anyone famous enough to help me as a first-time author. My French writer friends didn’t understand the emphasis placed on a quote from another writer. “Doesn’t the book speak for itself?” they would ask while pouring me another glass of wine. How could I explain that in Amérique, we were obsessed with what others thought and that an advance copy without substantial blurbs was the sign of a book with a very short shelf life? I left Paris convinced that no one would blurb me.

A few days later, I went to Key West on assignment and, over drinks with the French chef, discovered that he had spent time in Michigan and Wisconsin. Jim Harrison’s name came up. I read Jim Harrison’s work, mainly his poetry, as a 15 year-old writing student in New Orleans. After ten years living and eating in France, and now that I was a food editor, I had come to also love Harrison’s The Raw and The Cooked: Adventures of a Roving Gourmand. It is one of those books I carry with me and give to people I hope will become lifelong friends. Offering up the book is a way of gauging how close we can really be. If someone truly doesn’t appreciate Harrison’s love of chicken thighs or isn’t struck by the last lines of “Heart Food in L.A.,” then I know it may be a rocky road ahead for our friendship.

From the time she was able to sit her little body upright, my daughter held tight to a book. I can still picture her in that baby carrier pretending to read her first board book, Teddy’s Garden. As a family educator, I’d been telling parents for years that a love of reading can and should be nurtured. While I still believe this to be true, for my daughter, the passion for books is as innate as the color of her eyes.

In the beginning, I’d capitalize on her interest in books by placing her in a stroller at naptime, thinking whether she slept or didn’t, I’d be able to buy some bookstore or library time. I could poke around collecting titles for my to-be-read list. Invariably she’d resist sleep, instead intent on “reading” her own book—turning the pages delicately, always with the care of a librarian—giving me all the time I needed to make my selections.

In her early childhood, late in the afternoon, I’d act as if my number one priority were good role modeling, when in fact I was merely in need of a break from the rigors of parenting a little one. I’d tell her it was time to collect a stack of books and meet me on the living room couch for some quiet time. In minutes, she’d be as engrossed in her picture or chapter books as I was in the latest hardcover novel I’d purchased.

Until she was a self-sufficient reader, my husband and I would read countless books to her; always before bed, on long car rides, or during dinners that involved foods she didn’t care for. Reading provided an almost magical distraction. We became fans of library visits, books on tape, and book swaps with family and friends.

Like every good parent, I couldn’t wait for the day when she would display her talent for independent reading. Though as she gained skill—always holed up in her room, or parked under a tree, even walking through the house lost in a book—I feared I was losing something. Lovingly crafted, ours was a relationship made closer because hard working authors carefully chose the words placed on those pages. I wasn’t ready to relinquish our special bond made possible through reading together.