It’s not how worn and tattered some of this paper is. It’s as if she grabbed anything close to her to write down a recipe...including folded paper plates and sales receipts from when my dad was selling potato chips. There is no rhyme or reason to it. No Organization.
It’s not that.
It’s not the oil spots that make most of the recipes see-through. Spots that make me understand how frequently she used most of these formulas...stains on pieces of paper that have recipes our home frequently devoured and memories of her hands creating some of these masterpieces.
It’s not that either.
It’s her handwriting.
Her very familiar style of writing that makes me feel she’s just written me a letter.
That she’s alive and breathing...sharing these stories of creativity with me still.
Her handwriting that brings me back to school notes when I was absent in elementary, permission slips for field trips, birthday cards, thank you notes, journal entries......and recipes.
How totally awesome it is to see her write.
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