My mom always kept her recipes in a little flowered binder that she stored above the sink. It was wedged between random cookbooks and other recipes, but I knew the recipes in that binder were special.
That’s where she kept the recipe for the red velvet cake she made for her sister’s wedding, and the secrets for making perfect gingersnap cookies like we made dozens of times for my dad. It holds classic cookie recipes and twists on traditional favorites like the spaghetti my grandma used to make that my mom apparently hated. It’s packed with meals and desserts I grew up eating, and so many that I can’t wait to make.
The book has been used so many times that the pages are practically translucent from splattered butter and oil, sprinkles of sugar and flour, and other ingredients that fly around when baking in the kitchen.
This recipe book is vintage in the best form—it’s a collection of my past, my mom’s past, my grandma and grandpa’s past, and even my great grandmas’ past. When my grandma gave the recipe book to my mom she made little comments about each recipe, which, I think, is priceless.
When I was home over the holidays I asked my mom if I could take the book and make copies of all the recipes. I knew she’d never give up the actual flowered binder, so borrowing it and making copies seemed like the next best option.
Seven months after taking her binder, I finally made the copies, and now I have them in my own little binder. My pages are brand new and spotless, but they hold a history very close to my heart…and stomach. I’m beyond anxious to make the recipes in there and share them with my husband, and I’m even more excited to eventually pass them down to my children someday.