Yesterday, I spent a good while looking through old cookbooks - the Betty Crocker, of course, but also the little binder style book my mother-in-law gave me, complete with several of her family recipes and into which I've put decades - generations! - worth of my own grandma's recipe cards, old magazine recipes, a couple sheets of paper with my dad's handwriting; the bread I used to make, but haven't since he died.
Fourteen years goes by ... well. Not fast.
And yet ... there he is. Right there; my dad, his egg salad. His handwriting. His mother's gingerbread; like velvet.
Cookbooks like this, or recipe boxes, are in their way perhaps even more evocative than photo albums. The memory of food is so strong, so meaningful. The fading handwriting. The stains, and the little notes about special tricks with this icing or that casserole.
Wishing you and yours the sweet - and savory - memories of the season. May we all be blessed, and enjoy a time of peace ...