34 | EDIBLE SF SPRING 2026 The 22-year-old Prelinger Library in San Francisco’s SoMa District takes what other institutions shed—the cultural exfoliation of collections that can’t be kept. “We’re not out to rescue print,” said Megan Prelinger. “We’re out to stage an intervention into historical amnesia.” She and her partner Rick Prelinger, the library’s co-founders and selfdescribed independent scholars, recently coordinated a large donation from the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency— around three carloads of materials—after the federal organization lost about half the space for their library due to funding cuts. “They are getting rid of some unique things,” Megan Prelinger said, “and those materials are going to be discoverable here but probably closed to researchers.” Of particular interest to Edible SF readers would be the library’s sponsored cookbook collection. These are recipe books for brands or products—ways to cook with Karo Syrup, Gebhardt’s chili powder, or French’s mustard. Karo has recipes for candied bananas, a spiced ham slice, and “Two-Tone Divinity” with its signature corn syrup. “Gebhardt’s Mexican Meals for American Homes” includes a recipe for deviled eggs in aspic (it calls for ¼ teaspoon of Gebhardt’s chili powder). The slim tomes reveal the historical proclivities of their time; a cocktail book doubles as a day planner and is filled with misogynist toasts, such as “Here’s to a man: he can afford anything he can get; Here’s to a woman: she can afford anything she can get a man to get her.” One can find booklets with recipes both for promoting cooking with electric (in 1960) and gas (in 1967). “The sponsored cookbook collection expresses an intersection between commerce, industry, and food,” Megan Prelinger said. While they’re not consulted often, she said, the researchers who do so are particularly enthusiastic. The compact food section of the library includes titles like the 1944 Men in Aprons and bound volumes of the trade journal The Ice Cream Review. Old library seals or collections stamps indicate the provenance of an item on the shelves: a browser might spy “Seattle Public Library” embossed on a tome or a “University of San Francisco Documents Collection” stamp. But not every donation is accepted. “We say no much more than we say yes,” Megan Prelinger said. Materials can’t be checked out, but many have been digitized and are accessible as downloads. The sloughing off is not only in terms of material collection; an intellectual molting also occurs within the Prelinger Library walls. Researchers come in with one idea of their project and then, after experiencing the unique collection within the walls at 301 8th St., their assumptions are challenged. Transformation ensues. It happened with Severine von Tscharner Fleming, who credits the library with inspiring her to imagine a new version of the traditional Farmer’s Almanac. It also happened to Jenny Odell, the local writer and artist, who reoriented her relationship to time thanks to the collection. The library’s Stacks Explorer—created by an “artisanal computer programmer,” as Megan Prelinger described it—allows for serendipitous encounters, and the experience of being there—where everyone is offered sparkling water or hot tea upon arrival—encourages browsing and surprise discoveries, revelations not possible through screen-based research. “It’s about shedding the previously held assumption about what a roomful of books is,” Megan Prelinger said. “This is the library as a space of production.” To that end, Rick and Megan Prelinger selectively accept orphan materials with a curatorial leaning towards those that can become raw material for future work. This inclination, perhaps, comes from the pair’s experience in the stock footage trade, the income from which allowed the Prelingers to set up the organization. Rick Prelinger, who specializes in archival film footage, is the brain behind the Lost Landscapes series—an event in which curated film stock is projected silently, with a live audience calling out locations and filling in the gaps. It’s wildly popular. The Jan. 30 event sold out tickets in 15 hours; a second date was added. The Prelinger Library, in turn, has shed its early identity. No longer simply a side project or quirky ephemera collection, it’s a financially stable repository for federally defunded organizations and a safe space for queer and trans youth during a time of increased fear. The library, lean from the beginning, has been able not only to survive but thrive—even in the current landscape, when so many small cultural organizations are closing. The Prelinger Library’s SoMa home feels apt, even if the location was originally selected because the rent was cheaper than storage. Housed across from San Francisco’s pole dancing studio where physical clothes are shed, all kinds of transformation stand side-by-side, ready for revolution between sips of herbal tea and a throbbing beat. CULTURAL SHEDDING A 22-year-old institution fights against “historical amnesia” and aims to turn raw materials into future work Writer—Julie Zigoris Photography—Tri Nguyen Art Direction—Melody Saradpon
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