The other night I was in a bad mood and didn't know what to do with myself. It was a cold night and extra dark. The Boy was playing a computer game and I was still on my slow post-Thanksgiving decline, so I didn't feel like doing much of anything even though I wanted to be doing something. I ended up collecting all of my recipes from the random places I stuff them and compiling them in a book.
No, I didn't draw the chicken -- it's a sticker from a local coffee shop that I was waiting for juuuuust the right thing to stick it to. This was it!
Most of my recipes are hand-written, typed on a typewriter, photocopies, or printouts from my mom's emails. She's sent me countless recipes over the years and I never thought to put them into something cohesive ("Oh, I'll just fold this in half and stuff it in this cookbook. In three months I'll totally remember where it is"). Drawn on, written on, stained, crumpled, torn, folded, and, most importantly, all very loved.
And not without my own contributions, of course. Hellooo, Eggin!
But Mom's contributions are the best part, which is why I could never re-type all of these and make them look the same. Always decorated with tiny drawings . . .
And, of course, commentary.
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