I wouldn’t say my mother was a natural cook, but she was willing to try anything that struck her fancy. While building her repertoire, she used an old typewriter to commit her favorites to index cards that she stored in a hinged wooden recipe box.
Over the years, I sifted through her recipe box countless times, looking for her instructions for sour cream cookies or nisu bread or the family’s traditional spaghetti sauce.
After she died—a year ago today—my brother and I sifted through her belongings, finding homes for all the things she left behind.
Naturally, I went through that recipe box, intent on preserving everything I wanted before passing it on to other family members.
At the back of the box, hidden behind everything else, was another unremarkable index card, yellowed with age li »more