Mom's Recipe Box

It's Christmas time again, to no one's surprise. Along with all the carols, tree-trimming, and visiting relatives that you pretend to like comes a few very important holiday traditions… one of which is – in my case – dusting off Mom's old recipe box.

Every time I open up that little cedar chest, a world of possibilities opens as well. Each yellowed bit of cardstock and crinkled magazine cut-out brings back a different memory. The mix of neatly printed recipes and delicate, swooping cursive represents decades of skill and love, honing each ingredient until it's exactly right. I run my fingers through them reverently, swept up for a moment by a wave of nostalgia. It's a wonderful yet bittersweet feeling, like bumping into a friend from your childhood that has three kids and an ex-husband now, and is a lot less fun than you remember.

The hand-written recipes are penned on a plethora of things: the back of an envelope bearing the name and address of a long-passed loved one; a glossy, round bit of cardstock that I think used to be a gift tag; scraps of stationery pilfered from many a motel room back in the day. Most – by my mother's account – were transcribed straight from the mouths of the beautiful, talented women who invented them, while others have been clipped from newspapers and painstakingly glued onto index cards. Each has been carefully preserved, some better than others based on their rumpled edges, tiny stains, and fading ink.

Sometimes I come across a recipe in different handwriting from my mother's. These ones are quite old, to the point where some of the thin, spidery cursive is faded and difficult to read. Other recipes are ones my mom collected over the years, intending to make some day but she just never got around to it. Some recipes are instantly recognizable: my mom's cranberry Jell-O salad, a frustratingly obscure blondie recipe from my great-grandmother, lemon bars originally crafted by my grandmother's good friend and neighbor. Others have strange names, and seem to be long-forgotten remnants of the eras in which they were invented, making one ask, “what is a teatime lassie anyway?”.

Some of the cards packed into this little box have no names at all… just a list of ingredients, and the vaguest instructions on how to put them together. Reading through these nameless recipes intrigues me greatly. I'm tempted to pick one at random, just to see what it makes. Maybe another day, when I have the time.

That's the frustrating thing, I realize, about looking through this box. There are easily a hundred recipes stuffed in it, most of which seem fairly easy and even fun to make. I could spend several months trying them all out, but sadly I don't have the time. Looking over these cards, especially the ones that bear my grandmother's, aunts’, or beloved family friends' names that are no longer with us, I am immediately and deeply saddened. I'm reminded of how fleeting life truly is, and the precious, fragile nature of time.

Looking over the box again – as I do every year – I realize I've forgotten which recipe I was even looking for in the first place. There isn't much of an organization to the contents anyway, but that's okay. There's something comfortable about how messy it is. I could neaten it up, but then I wouldn't get the chance to look over these recipes again next year. With a sigh, I close the box and put it away. Perhaps what I'm looking for is in one of her other recipe boxes?