Recipes are like love notes. I once cried from reading a book of recipes written by a mother to a son. At the time she wrote out the recipes for his favorite foods, she knew she was dying of cancer. There wasn’t time anymore for her to cook. The untimely tragedy of losing her was heightened by the persistence of her constant acts of love.
Though it had been years since her son and I had spent summers eating her famous macaroni salad, as I paged through the book I could simply picture her telling me why it was important to use one green and one red pepper, because they tasted different.