Burning the Bag
9 pounds of recipes & 20 yellow convertibles
From Karyl’s Cook & Tell Newsletter (February 1985)
The time was right: a Sunday afternoon in midwinter. There was nothing that had to be done, which is how the weather felt too, because the sky had all day to get out of the gray range, and didn’t. Sunday, reposing ambiguously at the end of one week and the beginning of the next, was the right time, all right. Especially Sunday afternoon. Because on Sunday afternoons, time stands still.
But I am wrong. There were things that had to be done. I had to read the heap of Sunday papers and I had to make popcorn. I had to shuffle here and there on diversionary missions after tea, a piece of paper, the cat, a pillow. And the piano cried out to be played every time I went near it, which was often, in my shuffling. That is one cute piano, I would say to myself, only 61 keys; never saw another one like it. And then I would sit down to play. By late afternoon I was playing “A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square” with no mistakes.
All too soon, Sunday afternoon packed up its special ambiance and made way for Sunday evening, which is as different from Sunday afternoon as it is from Friday morning. The moment had passed. The brown bag remained in the attic, unexamined.
That’s how it’s been since over a year ago, when an acquaintance offered me her nine-pound collection of old recipe clippings. She had no further use for it. Her cooking style had changed; she was tired of sorting through the clippings.
I gladly accepted the windfall in the paper bag, intending to glance at the recipes immediately. In my delight at having custody of the bag, I did a figurative little jig around it and gave it a figurative little kick to see what it would do. It surprised me that anyone could so casually relinquish what takes years to accumulate. I wondered what kind of recipes I’d find, and whether finding out might prove disappointing.
Finally I trundled the thing off to a dark place in the attic to ripen before I bit into it.
In the ensuing months, I conspired with myself to avoid the inevitable. I’d tackle the bag after cleaning the house. Not a good deal. The house wasn’t scheduled for cleaning until the next total eclipse of the sun. Okay then, after I’d counted twenty yellow convertibles; that’s the way we identified our true love in junior high.
After a dry spell of no convertibles of any color, I hired someone to clean once a week, which invalidated the contract I’d made with myself about cleaning because it wasn’t me doing the cleaning, eclipse or no eclipse. Then I quit making deals and tried simply waiting for the right time.
That’s what I though Sunday afternoon was. Instead, I read papers, popped popcorn, played the cute piano and watched the right time go right on by.
Just as well. Poking through somebody’s recipe collection is a nosy thing to do. What if the donor turns out to be big on canned soup concoctions, when I thought she made everything from scratch? Suppose her collection suggests she’s a nut on whole grains and yogurt. Am I obligated by my gratitude to keep a straight face if I run across a recipe for Twinkie pie deep down in the pile? Or can I laugh? Do the as-yet undetermined benefits of taking over a secondhand recipe collection outweigh the disadvantages?
I have a choice. Either I learn to stop worrying and love the bag, or burn it and forget it. There’s a lot of popcorn to pop and a whole book of big-band hits of the 30s to master before I have to decide.
Karyl’s Headnotes
Popcorn Sunday Supper has long been a tradition here at Cook & Tell Headquarters during fall and winter. To those already familiar with our spectacular menu—the apple, the hunk of cheddar, the mug of hot chocolate (besides the obvious popcorn) and to those just finding out about it, the entire staff of C&T extends an invitation to join us for this yummy, weekly excuse for a meal—no recipe needed—at your place and ours. Time to plug in the beat-up old corn popper!
Amie’s Endnotes
I had hoped to find said bag of recipes stashed in a dark corner of the attic, along with the battered old corn popper, but I came up empty on both counts. I did uncover a box of miscellaneous fabric scraps and Butterick sewing patterns, though. Too bad I didn’t inherit the seamstress gene.
It’s not like I need more recipes, thank you very much. I’ve amassed plenty since I wrote this last year. The bigger problem is cataloging and storing them. In a decluttering frenzy last month, I ditched the scribbled sticky notes and handwritten lists and made a spreadsheet of all the recipes on my “To Make” list. And for the 4 x 6 cards that don’t fit in my old 3 x 5 card file, and the magazine clippings (yes, I know: old school) and hard copies downloaded from internet not yet offshored to my Paprika App (by far, my favorite recipe keeper, so not totally old school), I treated myself to a new recipe binder, which amazingly still exists.
Okay, I’m curious: How do you store your recipes?
Your pantry pals,
Amie & Karyl
The Cook & Tell Library | Recipe Index | Owner’s Manual | Notes | the micromashup
Your mom's drawings always make me smile, and Sunday afternoons are definitely not the same as Sunday evenings. Storing recipes: I use a recipe box, Jim uses a 3-ring binder. Recipe boxes remind me of my mom, and I have many of her handwritten and typed recipes that I store in a ziplock bag for the time being, as we don't use dairy or eggs. My husband wants to move all to his binder, but I like my recipe box, flipping through the tops to see what's there, sort of like a card catalog of yesteryear's libraries.
My recipes are all over the place, Amie! I have some folders, stuck in books, etc — it’s always a surprise when I find something and am like “oh, how nice…” 😂 Love your binder, love the Sunday supper illustration, too. xx