Among all my cookbooks there is an old notebook which I will never part with. It contains my Mom’s recipes which she wrote by hand, in alphabetical order, over many years. The notebook was not alphabetical but she made it so by carefully cropping a few pages for each letter.
I love that recipe notebook with its dark blue vinyl covers, the occasional oily page and the chocolate stain here and there. I can almost hear my Mom’s voice and smell the flavours of each recipe. There are no photos, but the handwriting tells stories. Some recipes were written in a hurry, with words bumping into each other; others were carefully written, with words luxuriously lining up one after another.