I’ve come into possession of my grandmother’s recipe box.
Besides being the cutest thing I’ve ever seen, it’s packed full of the good stuff: recipes. Handwritten recipes, typewritten recipes, recipes clipped and saved. Some are of the “Jell-o and/or cream of mushroom soup as primary ingredient” school of 1950s cooking, but many are Southern specialties: country captain, cheese straws, and plenty of different theories on barbecue sauce. I can’t wait to try this wild rice method:
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I love the colloquial voice and the sense of history in these recipes.
Sooner or later I’ll have to start maintaining my own recipe box to store all of the recipes I pry out of people. I’ve got my eye on this recipe box by Rifle, but then again we have a woodshop in the basement. Who knows? And clearly this blog is becoming my virtual recipe box in some ways.
Sometimes I worry that I talk and think about food too much. And then I remind myself that no matter who you are, if you’re human you have to eat food to remain alive, and that really it’s one of the most fundamental constants in life, and what’s so bad about dwelling on that? Everything we eat is a culmination of millenia of trial and error in method, cultivation, trade, and technology. There’s a history lesson in every meal, if you want it. Cooking for people is one of the easiest ways to show that you care about them, and eating tasty food is one of the simplest pleasures in life. And family recipes are flavored with memories as well as spices. And then I stop worrying.