I went to a baby shower this morning. One of my best friends from grade school is pregnant with her first child. A son. Her mom hosted a brunch with peach bellinis and nearly a dozen kinds of quiche. My youngest toddled around the backyard and flirted with everyone. The same backyard I used to play in as a child.
After the shower we visited my parent's new condo. They're moving their belongings over to the new place, one carload at a time. I rescued my mom's old Betty Crocker cookbook from the trash can.
"I got it as a wedding gift in 1976," she said. "It's practically obsolete."
"That's exactly why you shouldn't throw it away!"
She'd pasted her own recipes to the pages over the years, and wrote reviews in the margins: "Molasses cookies: 2.5, OK to good."
I remember standing over the kitchen counter as a kid, marveling at the perfection of those two gingerbread people.
"You can use it for collage," Mom said.