One of my most prized possessions is a 10-cent spiral notebook from the early 1960’s. Not just any old notebook, this beauty contains recipes that my mother collected and prepared as she grew in her cooking prowess. The grease stained pages with faded handwriting transport me to a place of wonder. Cue Glen Campbell’s “Dreams of the Everyday Housewife” here. That’s exactly how I imagine the scene: Mom skimming through newspapers and ladies’ magazines in search of the perfect recipe, clipping carefully and then stapling them into this notebook. I picture her stashing the notebook in a special place. Many of the recipes appear to be from the epic Chicago Tribune food section. Yes, I was the kid who grabbed the food section over the comics any given Sunday.
Over the years, Mom and I bonded over exploring and editing recipes, cooking, and our shared love of all things food. Most of the pleasant memories I have of my mother include food or the preparation thereof. Mom’s collection of recipes grew from that wonky spiral notebook into a vast library of cookbooks. In her later years, she was especially fond of church or ladies group cookbooks. We’d grab them up at antique stores or local merchants. How many jello delights and hot dishes can one really make, though? Then Mom died. Here I am, left with that notebook and many of her cookbooks which I claimed during the sibling “let’s divide Mom’s stuff” grab.
Now I ask myself, “Why am I holding onto these cookbooks?” Grief is like that. Why can’t I just Marie Kondo thank them and summarily move them right outta my house? I’ve certainly moved them about a gazillion times. Heavy box alert! And I’ve cracked the bindings on them how many times in the last 5 years? 10 years? 15 years? 20 years? Although, there was that one time when I didn’t know how to properly filet that beef surprise package from the butcher.
My mother taught me how to cook. So did the food section. So did Julia Child on Saturday afternoons. So did my home economics teacher. So did Mr. Food on the 5 o’clock news. So did Alton Brown, Emeril and dare I say Rachel Ray. But experience taught me the most: Read. Dream. Gather. Attempt. Succeed. Fail? Note. Adjust. Try again. Have fun and learn in the process. I’m not finished learning. I’m certainly not finished cooking. Thanks, pandemic. With each attempt, success or failure, my need for these books diminished. I’m actually a pretty good cook now. And we do have the internet…
So what’s cooking here, God? Is it time to ditch the books and rely on the gifts that make up the recipe you continually and abundantly share and reshape? Not one of those one-minute internet magic cooking videos. The soul-piercing, knowing the recipe by heart variety, trusting the inner master-chef to create something gloriously delightful. Have nostalgia, fear, and scarcity taken a stronghold here, grease-stained pages and all? Enough, already! Enough cookbooks. Enough ingredients. Enough gifts. Enough grace. Set the cookbook aside. You won’t find the miracle meal that breaks the monotony of endless chicken dinners in there anyways. Dream. The ingredients are coming together exactly as they should. Thanks be to God!