The other day I was rifling through my recipe box, looking for a particular recipe and, as I fingered through cards of various ages and wear, I was reminded I'm never alone in the kitchen. The room is crowded with the memories and spirits of friends and family - many of them gone now - through recipes, dishes and utensils they've left behind.
(Note to younger readers: recipe boxes, either metal or wood [mine is wood, a gift from a family member] are antiquated items found in the kitchens of older women. In bygone years it was customary to exchange favorite recipes on 3X5 cards, often hand-written, occasionally typed. They were especially helpful to daughters and sons off to college or their own lives. Magazines and soup can labels even had recipes printed in cut-&-paste size to fit on such cards and in such boxes.)
I rarely, if ever, use some of the hand-written recipes anymore. Many have ingredients that don't fit with our diet preferences today. Still, it seems a sacrilege to throw them away.
Some are from my grandmother and her friends, from an era when few women worked outside the home but were amazingly industrious and creative, forming organizations that made their communities stronger (had libraries and sidewalks built, organized regular garbage pick-up service, created scholarships, educated themselves through guest lecturers and hosted political candidate forums). In news articles from that era a woman was identified as Mrs. "John Doe" - always by her husband's full name, never even her own first name. It's painful to read such news items tucked away in drawers and scrapbooks. Even in church or community cookbooks they were listed that way, unless, of course, they were unmarried.
It was the same with my mother-in-law and her friends, gifted in so many talents but always introduced with their husbands' names, not their own. They were a little younger than my grandmother, but more religious and followed the church's dictum that "man is the head of the household just as God is the head of mankind."
Today, thankfully, women are identified by their own names in the newspaper. The reader doesn't know if they're married unless the subject comes up in the article and is pertinent to the topic. When I was in high school, girls would sometimes write their names as Mrs. (fill in current boyfriend's name). Today, if you identified me only by my husband's name, I'd correct you. It's not that I don't respect him or value his considerable talents, but we are very different people and my social and community commitments are ones I choose and in which I represent myself and my own opinions. He sometimes jokes he should introduce himself as "Mr. Chris Peterson" since more people know me than him. But, Chris is a male name as well, so it wouldn't have much punch. In fact, often when strangers hear or read my name they assume I'm male. But, that's a discussion for another time.
Back to the kitchen. I can open any drawer or cupboard and find something given to me by a family member or friend. In recent years, many were items left behind when older friends downsized dramatically and moved away. Usually they were favorite items they couldn't face putting in a garage sale and wanted someone they knew would appreciate it to keep and use it. What will happen to those items when I do the same? The aura of memories won't imbue them for others. They'll just be ordinary utensils or dishes. I often wonder about the stories behind such items in thrift shops or at garage and estate sales.
Thus, most of us have unused things we just can't part with. Not yet, anyway. Plain as they are, maybe even worn or ratty, the mere sight of them holds the face, voice and often powerful memories of the person who gave it to us. They hold stories that still warm us, make us feel connected or remind us of lessons learned about what matters most in life. They're tangible evidence that we have known true friendship and interesting people. And, oh the stories... Someday I'll share some of the ones left to me. Perhaps you'll share yours too.
In the meantime, I wonder what will make our younger friends and family members remember the special people in their lives if recipes and photos are stored on computers or phones - technologies that change rapidly and can "crash," obliterating everything (as happened to this very blog, this very week). How quickly we're losing the imprint of a loved-one's handwriting - and all the memories the unique shape of a letter can hold.
For now, some of mine are safe, in a box, on my kitchen counter, just waiting to be opened.
Postscript: I've received some lovely e-mails from friends about special recipes in their boxes, especially from parents. Please feel free to share yours here too!
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