In the summer of 1948, a young American, a Bennington College graduate visiting Paris, lost her purse in the Jardin des Tuileries. Inside it were her passport and ticket home. Many travelers in her situation would panic. She decided it was a sign that she wasn’t meant to leave France. She quit her job at Doubleday, then the biggest publisher in New York, and moved into a friend’s aunt’s apartment, where she launched a clandestine supper club to support herself. Perhaps she’d “open a small restaurant,” she wrote to her horrified parents. In another letter, she reassured her father that although she knew she’d made a risky choice, “one has to take chances and there are many advantages to be had. Anyway, I am an adventurous girl.”

That girl was Judith Jones, one of the most important editors in American history. She pulled The Diary of Anne Frank out of a slush pile during her second stint at Doubleday—in Paris this time, in 1949—a discovery for which her male boss took credit. Eight years later, she moved to Knopf, where she worked until 2013, publishing authors such as John Hersey, Sharon Olds, Sylvia Plath, Anne Tyler, and John Updike. She was an avid cook—that supper club of hers was a hit—and, as an editor, single-handedly elevated the cookbook to its contemporary status, working with all-time greats including Julia Child, Marcella Hazan, Madhur Jaffrey, Edna Lewis, Irene Kuo, Claudia Roden, and many, many more.

According to The Editor, a new biography of Judith Jones by the oral historian Sara B. Franklin, Judith was also an avid worker, a visionary editor devoted to her job. (Franklin, who interviewed her at length, calls her Judith, which creates a compelling sense of intimacy on the page; I’m going to follow suit.) The Editor focuses primarily on Judith’s cookbooks, for which she is best remembered now, but more important, it draws out the connections among the varied projects Judith chose. Many of her authors, such as Plath and Olds, wrote about what Franklin calls “the frictions between women’s private and public lives,” digging into the tensions between who women were supposed to be publicly and who they were. Judith’s own life illuminates these same tensions. The Editor presents her as both a case study and an agent of change in American conceptions of femininity inside and outside the home. But it also reads, more often than not, like a love story: a great, sweeping seven-decade romance between a woman and her work.

I never met Judith, but my interest in her is personal: My step-grandmother, Abby Mandel, was one of her authors. Around the time Julia Child got famous, Abby was a divorced Jewish mother in greater Chicago. She’d been cooking for her family—siblings first, then children—since age 8, and after recruiting Child to star at a fundraiser she was hosting for her alma mater, Smith College, she grew fascinated by the idea of cooking professionally and moved to Paris for culinary school. After training at La Varenne and in kitchens across Belgium, France, and Switzerland, she returned to Chicago and began writing features and food columns for, among other outlets, the Chicago Tribune and Bon Appetit. Soon enough, those columns turned into cookbooks, edited by Child’s editor at Knopf: Judith.

Abby died 16 years ago this August, having not just written six cookbooks—including a series of Cuisinart books that taught home chefs how to use the new gadget and caused James Beard to call her the Queen of Machine Cuisine—but also founded Chicago’s pioneering Green City Market, which Alice Waters once called the “best sustainable market in the country.” Abby had, in every sense, impeccable taste. She was devoted to her projects. She was demanding, charming, generous, diligent, and rigorous about every single thing. I miss her more with every year. I, like Abby, love to work. I feel a true passion for my job, which might seem like a surprising statement in a social moment of work creep: Remote jobs, smartphones, and side hustles mean your work can follow you everywhere you go. Women in straight relationships, meanwhile, still tend to work a “second shift” at home, cleaning and cooking and caring more than their male partners. I don’t want endless labor, and yet I think of the French doors connecting Abby’s office and kitchen, remember her developing recipes with 6-year-old me perched on the counter, and wonder what advice she would have given me about braiding my work into my life.

Judith, by Franklin’s account, was constantly blending the two. She befriended her authors, tested their recipes in her own kitchen, managed their egos with the same strategy of delicate persuasion she used on her husband, Dick Jones, a writer she met while living in Paris. Judith saw no reason not to use her feminine wiles at work.

Like many powerful women of her generation, she did not describe herself as a feminist. She thought the movement encouraged women to “adopt stereotypically masculine traits in a ‘strident or angry way,’” which she considered counterproductive. She also bristled at the critique that Betty Friedan, the author of The Feminine Mystique, leveled at her first star, Julia Child: that cooking is fundamentally grunt work, and that by making it fun, Child was really just helping to keep women at home, working without pay.

[Read: The key to Julia Child’s success hid in plain sight]

Judith saw things quite differently. In her childhood home, a “woman of standing” was not meant to “dirty her hands” with chores, cooking included. But once she got into the kitchen, she was enamored of the “sensual richness” of even dull or challenging prep tasks; after she and Dick, also a home chef, married, cooking together became “the anchor of their domestic life.” (It also led to  domestic equality: Along with cooking, Dick did more chores than Judith did.) Franklin consistently links the physical pleasures of the kitchen to both adventurousness and adulthood; the word sensual crops up constantly (Olds, a poet famous for her writing about sex, told Franklin she was thrilled to discover, in Judith, an editor who was a “fellow sensualist”). Judith plainly felt that a grown woman should know how to enjoy getting dirty and exerting herself.

Of course, it’s a function of Judith’s whiteness and upper-class background that she got to opt into cooking. Historically, women rarely get to choose their own relationship to domestic labor, a fact Franklin draws out in more ways than one. She describes the Black southern chef Edna Lewis, one of the most talented authors on Judith’s list, fighting to make this point in The Taste of Country Cooking, which juxtaposes recipes with stories of her enslaved grandmother, who had to lay bricks all day while her children waited in their cribs. (Lewis herself, though venerated as a chef, had to hire herself out as a private cook and domestic worker well into her 60s because magazine editors and restaurant owners so habitually underpaid her.) Franklin also writes about the great suppression of women’s labor after World War II, when working women were “ousted en masse from paid jobs” so men who’d been at the front could take those roles back.

Judith came of age precisely at that moment. She had to fight to hang on to jobs in publishing; the fact that she managed to do so suggests the gap between her experience and that of working-class women her age. It also reflects her grit, her talent, and her devotion to her job. She was her household’s primary earner nearly her whole marriage; she pushed through years at Knopf when she got treated like—and referred to as—a secretary, even though she was editing Updike; she not only remained in publishing until her late 80s, but also took on the role of author, writing a handful of books at the end of her career. Franklin describes Judith’s 2009 cookbook, The Pleasures of Cooking for One, as a display of the skills—and the philosophy—Judith learned as a cookbook editor. It was a “manual for living as much as cooking.” At its core was the joy Judith took in food, which she saw as both a way toward a happily physical, unconventional, grounded life and a “worthy purpose in and of itself.”

Judith’s passion for cooking has helped countless Americans cook for fun, exploration, and connection. At the start of her career, this would have seemed highly unlikely. In the 1950s, major manufacturers pushed convenience foods using ads that cast cooking skills as “old-fashioned and obsolete” and promised to wrap everything up so the “‘poor little woman’ wouldn’t soil herself” with dinner prep. Judith decided to use her editorial power to resist—and maybe even counteract—this trend. She wasn’t against practicalities; she did, after all, work with Abby, the Queen of Machine Cuisine. But she hated the thought of cooking getting dismissed as a tired mess or what Franklin calls a “gendered trap.” Although she would not have used this language, she seems to have espoused a different kind of feminism from Friedan’s, one that embraces possibility rather than condemning anything traditionally considered women’s work. An interesting parallel with romantic love is hiding here: Although some feminists have tried to reject men, others have argued that straight relationships can be potential opportunities for radical repair and progress. For Judith, the kitchen was a place where radical progress could happen. She wanted to share her passion for food, which meant getting the American public on board with the idea of cooking as a “gateway to the wider world and a richer, more autonomous life.”

[Read: Eight cookbooks worth reading cover to cover]

Julia Child was Judith’s first companion in this project, and her most influential one. Gradually, though, Judith created a whole community of kindred spirits in her cookbook authors, nearly all of whom were women—and not “little housewives,” as Judith said to Franklin. They were a group of curious, courageous thinkers who, with Judith’s guidance, turned food into an intellectual project, writing books that, far from denigrating cooking as drudgery, presented it as a daily necessity that also, per Judith, “empowered you, that stimulated you.”

My own romance with food, which began when I was a college student with my first dorm kitchen, owes a lot to Abby—and everything to Judith. I make the biscuits from The Taste of Country Cooking all summer, every summer. My copy of Marcella Hazan’s The Classic Italian Cookbook is held together with painters’ tape. Claudia Roden’s The Book of Jewish Food has gotten me through the holidays I’ve spent away from home. And the rest of my cookbook collection, contemporary titles that cross the country and globe, is clearly in Judith’s lineage: books that teach me cultural history along with culinary technique, that deepen my understanding of the United States and of the many diasporic communities that influence American cooking.

My daily life, too, is in a debt of sorts to Judith, something I saw plainly as I read The Editor. For me, as for Judith, food and books are routes to exploration. I garden because I cook; I walk to the farmer’s market in the D.C. summer heat because I cook; I learn about sustainable agriculture because I cook. In a way, yes, this is work on top of the work I do at my desk all day, but it’s pleasure and education, too. Just like writing, it opens my brain up. It makes me an adventurous girl, and for that, I have Judith Jones to thank.