The word tablespoon is worn off my Mother's measuring spoons, this is another indicator of how much my Mother cooks... her worn and tattered cookbook is filled with tried and true recipes, stuffed with sweet mementos, marriage announcements, prayer cards, thank you notes, valentines, and newspaper clipping of this or that about the family.
The cookbook dairy, the recipes of our lives...there mixed in between the pages whips up memories of what we have done and what we ate.
Opening the cookbook I can smell the aroma of childhood birthday cakes and fried chicken picnics by the creek, I can see the hand that turned sorrow into joy, and taste the events that have marked our days.
We have the ingredients to make a feast with our lives, and the choice to substitute spice for that which is bitter. I grew up, on second helpings of home cooking, believing every bite was good.
photo: My Mother's 1950s cookbook...every year she puts the Valentine poem that she has written for my Father in this book.