 |
During one visit to
my in-laws I stumbled across a copy of Betty Crocker’s Cookbook in my
mother-in-law’s cupboard, wedged between to the dinged enamel pot containing flour, the bent sifter and extra utensils. A very old copy.
You too have one
of these! I exclaimed.
Oh, yes! It’s by far my favorite. I’ve had it ever since
we were married. First edition. Got it as a wedding gift from my mother… Of course, she was such a
marvelous cook, she could have written it herself. I still use it all the time.
First edition… a wedding gift… my mother… great cook…
Her words ring
inside my ears like fire alarm bells… I can’t help but recognize the
similarities in our cooking trajectory, at least at the launch pad of life. And
yet, there is such a vast difference between us - or rather, an unbridgeable gap. For, like
her own mother, my mother-in-law herself
is an amazing cook. I know that from
personal experience as do countless family members, friends and neighbors. I, on the other hand, am nothing like my mom.
Enough said.
I pick up the
ancient cookbook and begin to gently flip through its sections. It’s still in a
very good condition considering the age, but I can’t help but notice the
evidence of frequent use on just about every yellowed page. Specks of oil. Splatters
of dried up batter. Asterisks and notes in my mother-in-law’s neat handwriting.
Many a wonderful family meal has been carefully guided by the words written by the famous pro.
In the Cakes and Pies section, I come across the
peach pie recipe page, and a bitter memory of crumbling fiasco upon crumbling fiasco
bubbles up inside me.
Unfortunately, I don’t do cookbooks. I slam the cookbook shut and start putting
it away. I tried and it just doesn’t
work for me. And as if to permanently punctuate it, I add, And I know it
never will.
No comments:
Post a Comment