I have a three-ring binder in my kitchen full of tried-and-true recipes, family favorites that go back a couple of generations, newly acquired recipes from friends. It’s a fabulous book complete with comments (the Pork Vindaloo is “wonderfully aromatic!”, the Hamburger/Bean/Bacon hotdish is “a great dish for parties!”, the Broccoli Bacon Salad bears notes regarding the potentially, shall we say, gassy aspects of the eating thereof and an estimation on how long one has until being in small and enclosed areas with other people will not be considered polite). There are stains on the pages, notes on suggested side dishes, and smart-ass comments embedded in recipes received from my father (“add 12 peas and a mouthful of water”).
My son’s thoughtful comment to me the other day?
“When you die, can I have the cookbook?”
Why sure, honey.
The sentimentality of an only son. Isn’t it sweet?
11 hours ago