Think about the opening chapters. We are introduced to the Bennet family, and specifically to Mrs. Bennet’s "poor nerves." But look closer. The family lives in a state of perpetual, polite dread. They have five daughters and an estate that is "entailed away from the female line." In modern terms, they are a car crash away from poverty.

You can almost taste the stifling formality. Imagine a table groaning under the weight of French-inspired centerpieces. Soups, removes, fish, and fricassees. Everything is symmetrical. Everything is cold, both in temperature and spirit. Lady Catherine dictates the conversation the way she dictates the menu—with an iron fist. Eating here isn't pleasure; it is a performance of class. You would need a whole chapter in the cookbook on "How to Carve a Joint While Being Verbally Dismantled by a Patroness."

And remember—as you burn the toast or under-salt the soup—that happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. But happiness in the kitchen? That requires a good recipe.