Cookbooks are porn for women. Forget about Channing Tatum flexing his pecs in Magic Mike; to me, he can’t compete with a coconut cake, three layers high, mounded with clouds of fluffy three-minute frosting and oozing toasted coconut. Now that’s eye candy. Early cookbooks had no pictures, they were like military manuals with unappetizing names like “Fanny Farmer.” How can Fanny compare with even something so simple as a platter of baked cauliflower, with its crunchy-browned edges, or a jug of country lemonade, with paper-thin slices of lemons glowing translucently among the ice cubes. Or the most triple-X of all, a thick-cut steak, charred on the outside, pink on the inside, fresh from the grill, oozing juices onto a smooth wooden board. I like to look at these pictures of food. Now that I have downloaded my favorite recipes onto my iPad, they almost leap onto my plate in hi-def. It’s such a turn-on to devour these pictures with my eyes. And, because I know there are no dishes to wash or kitchen to clean up, they taste even better than the real thing. Kind of makes you want to lick the page.