Christopher Kimball and the editors of Cook's are obsessive about testing, fine-tuning and re-testing every recipe until they have achieved exactly what they are looking for. "Would you test 23 chicken noodle soups, 40 corn chowders, and 54 beef burgundies to find the absolute best method for making more than 200 soups and stews?" asks the jacket.

"Not me, man!" screamed my inner Bart Simpson, "but I'd be happy to follow your hard-won formulas and use them to improve my own reputation as a cook."

Within a couple of seconds, I realized it wasn't going to be all that easy. Had the editors deliberately made the book as homely and uninviting as possible? Most cookbooks these days are glamorous things with sharp type that leaps off glossy pages, and most have at least a handful of seductive photos. Here was a book packed with rows of tiny text in a dull sort of ink that seemed to sink right into the paper — and past the jacket, nary a color photo was in sight.

Then there were the head notes. Other modern cookbooks promoting celebrity chefs and single subjects like cookies or pot pies are laid out so that each recipe begins at the top of a page with a short, pithy header like: "The colorful name of this dish comes from the old tradition of pairing goose and apples . . ." But this book had long, long introductions to every recipe, paragraphs and paragraphs about ingredients, temperatures, timing and techniques, and the recipes were jammed cheek by jowl with the text.

With a sigh, I settled down in a comfortable chair and decided to read a few dozen of the long recipe introductions. An hour later, I didn't care about how the book looked. It was terrific. Just like the magazine from which the recipes and long introductions were drawn, the book explains exactly how the recipes were developed. And it does this in a way that makes you feel as if you, too, had discovered the best way to make a nut-brown roux for shrimp gumbo and how to avoid a bitter taste in your lobster bisque.

Serves 6 to 8 Homemade chicken stock gives this soup the best flavor and body, but in a pinch you can use low-sodium canned broth.
2 quarts chicken broth 1/2 cup long-grain white rice 1 bay leaf 4 green cardamom pods Grated zest from 1 1/2 lemons 1 1/2 teaspoons salt 2 large eggs, plus 2 yolks 1/4 cup lemon juice 1 large scallion, sliced thin, and/or 3 tablespoons chopped fresh mint leaves 1. In a large saucepan over high heat, bring the stock to a boil. Add the rice, bay leaf, cardamom pods, lemon zest and salt. Reduce heat to medium and simmer 16 to 20 minutes or until the rice is tender. With a slotted spoon, remove the bay leaf and cardamom pods. 2. In a medium mixing bowl, whisk eggs, egg yolks and lemon juice until well-combined. Still whisking, slowly ladle about 2 cups hot stock into the egg mixture and keep whisking until the eggs and stock are well-combined. Pour the mixture back into the saucepan and cook, stirring constantly over low heat, for 4 to 5 minutes or until the soup is slightly thickened. 3. Ladle the hot soup into bowls and garnish each serving with a pinch of chopped scallions and, if desired, fresh mint. Serve immediately. — Adapted from "The Best Recipe, Soups and Stews" Print friendly version.

By taking every road less traveled, the editors explore each possible shortcut, and they make a ton of pretty amusing mistakes. I loved it when lobster juices on their way to becoming bisque came spewing over the sides of the food processor — partly because I didn't have to clean up the mess and partly because I've been there. I was tickled, too, when the dish full of roux they tried to microwave exploded when they put it down on an unfortunately wet counter. Still, I'm glad no one was hurt.

From the first inkling of what the cook had in mind when she approached the stove to the final directive to "serve immediately," these recipes lead us step-by-step, helping us avoid every possible pitfall and achieve perfect results. In short, they do everything a recipe is supposed to do, and they do it very, very thoroughly.

Is it too thorough? Well, no. A cook in a hurry can skip over the long intro and launch right into the recipe. Then, while the sauce is simmering or the cake is baking, we can go back and read about what's happening, or put the book away and set the table. Best of all, if we're approaching a day in the kitchen as a leisure activity, as an adventure, here is the ultimate guidebook. Especially if you're planning to make a dish you've never made before, a recipe from the folks at Cook's will take you by the hand and lead you through the process. Words of advice and explanations of what's happening will sound like the comments of an experienced friend or relative at your side.

Before I got the book, I thought I was pretty good at making soup. After all, I am a chef. I make soup almost every day at the restaurant, and even on my days off I often make soup for my family. I like the slow simmering of a stockpot on the back burner or the sizzle of caramelizing onions on the front burner when I'm putting together a puréed pumpkin soup, a hearty split-pea soup or a simple chicken soup with rice. But after reading this book — and I did end up reading it from cover to cover — I think I'll be better at making soup. I'm going to try oven-roasting my canned tomatoes before I make tomato soup, and already I've whipped up a Thai curry better than anything I've ever eaten at a Thai restaurant.

Now, my inner Bart is humbled. I wonder if I'll ever make any soup quite the same way again. How can I ever buy a whole ham now that I know about the smaller, cheaper picnic shoulder for making split-pea soup? And how can I make borscht without feeling the editors at Cook's looking over my shoulder with their superior knowledge of what makes a good beet soup great? And finally, how could I ever make that simplest and most comforting of winter soups, Avgolemono, without that touch of lemon zest and cardamom?

I won't.

Greg Atkinson, Canlis executive chef, is the author of "The Northwest Essentials Cookbook" (Sasquatch Books, 1999). Benjamin Benschneider is a Pacific Northwest magazine staff photographer.