The Stories We Eat

I love old recipe books—with the infusion of smells made by ingredients splashed on the pages, the yellowed edges, trying to read around the vanilla stain to decide if it’s one or two teaspoons, and how words like 'lard' and 'sugar' were used with such abandon.

Recipes for pickling cucumbers or cooking brain (yes, not a typo) sit alongside one for raisin frosting. Raisin frosting? Why hasn’t Betty Crocker put that into a can by now?

I enjoy working through the worn pages that have served my family well over the years, filled with memories: meals we shared, conversations, laughter, and plenty of sibling antics. Some meals went beautifully. Some sparked a rebellion.

Recipes aren’t just a list of ingredients or instructions; they are storybooks, family histories, and sometimes love letters written in flour, butter, and eggs. The food stains and handwritten tips in the margins tell their stories—not just in the process, but in the smells, tastes, and memories they carry.

I remember making chocolate chip cookies with my mom, sneaking bites of dough, and then enjoying the happily-ever-after moment—the warm chocolate melting into the soft cookie, waking up all my taste buds and inviting them to a party.

Recipes might seem bossy, telling you what to use, how to use it, and how long to do various tasks. But they also invite collaboration, daring you to do something different. Add more salt. Try a different spice. Bake it for nine minutes instead of seven.

That’s when our recipe becomes a creation, splattering the page with our own experience. And every time we share a recipe, we leave a story:

“You’ll need more vanilla.”

“I didn’t use that much sour cream.”

These notes become part of the narrative. And in sharing them, the story of the recipe bonds us.

Of course, editable stories also teach us valuable life lessons.

I remember when I was about ten years old, crashing through the door after school, forgetting my mom would be in the middle of a piano lesson.

“Mom, can I make some cookies?”

She shot me a look that meant not now and shook her head.

Not to be discouraged, I said, somewhat softer, “Can I make cookies? I know how!”

I had my Betty Crocker New Boys and Girls Cookbook, and I wanted to try a recipe on my own. My mom relented—the kind of relenting moms do when they need the problem to go away.

Imagining the praise and congratulations that would come, I pulled out mixing bowls, measuring cups and spoons, the mixer, cookie sheets, and got to work on Sparkling Sugar Cookies. I mixed, sorted, and sifted, put the cookies in the oven, and set the timer.

When they were done, I arranged them on a plate and proudly walked them into the family room, offering a cookie to my mom and her student.

My mom took a bite, and instead of smiling, her mouth puckered. She quickly found a napkin and spit it out.

“How much salt did you put in these?” she asked, grabbing the cookie out of her student’s hand.

I checked the recipe and realized I had flipped the amounts of sugar and salt.

Although my story didn’t have a happy ending, I enjoy looking at the recipe and remembering my mother’s reaction. It was an opportunity to learn to laugh at myself—and to realize that mistakes can be overcome. I never mixed up the two ingredients again.

The Latin root of recipe means both giving and receiving. In the exchange of recipes, more than food is shared. The sociality of recipes creates connection and memory for both the giver and the receiver.

While helping my mom pack up her house to sell, she told me she had a recipe box filled with her recipes, as well as ones from her mother and a favorite aunt. I asked if I could look through it. She said I could have the box.

Later, while unpacking her belongings at our new house, I found the metal box just as she’d described—stuffed with recipes. But as soon as I reached for it, she started pulling the cards out. Then she handed me the empty container.

By then, dementia had already claimed much of my mother’s mind—was it confusion, or her sense of humor, still shining through?

I’ll never know. But every time I see that box, still filled with recipes, I remember that moment and smile.

I cherish the recipes my friends have shared with me over the years. They are as varied as the people who gave them. Some are healthy, some… not so healthy. (The recipes, not the people.)Some are simple. Some are more complex. Some were freely given. Others required a pinky promise never to share the recipe with anyone else.

I once overheard my mom laughing with a friend on the phone: “No, it never turns out the same,” she said. “I think she leaves out an ingredient.”They spent the rest of the call laughing together, trying to figure out the missing ingredient, which they were pretty sure was mustard.

What is it about a 4x6 card that unites us?

While comparing pie crust recipes with a friend, we were both surprised to discover we had been using the same one, passed down from our mothers. It felt like uncovering a shared memory, a quiet thread connecting our friendship to the women who raised us.

Can something as simple as a recipe connect generations?

Can a good cookie recipe really bring people closer together?

Perhaps not world peace, but it’s a start.

After a long day of packing for our move from Texas, surrounded by a maze of boxes, my neighbor came to the door. She had never come inside to visit before, so I was touched that she wanted to say goodbye.

She asked a few awkward questions and finally got to the point of her visit:

“Do you think I could have the recipe for the cookies you give us every Christmas?”

I laughed, dug through a box, and found the cookbook. My neighbor took a photo and told me how much her family loved those cookies, looking forward to them every year.

That day, we did more real bonding over a recipe than in all the years we’d lived next door to each other.

When my kids were little, I’d bake cookies by spreading the dough in a pan and cutting it into squares—efficient, fast, just like brownies.

One day, my son William came home from school, buzzing with excitement. He had seen a friend with homemade round cookies in his lunch.

"MOM!"

"Yes?"

"Did you know the cookies you make can be round—like the ones in the store?"

“I do,”

“Then why don’t you make round cookies?”

I explained that cutting them into squares made the process quick and easy. William’s next question: Under what circumstances would I make round cookies?

I told him that if I knew someone I loved was struggling or feeling sad, I would take my time to make round cookies to help them feel better.

A week later, I decided to bake round cookies for the kids.

That evening, I discovered a note on my bed:

Mom, thank you. You knew I had a bad day and made me round cookies so I would feel better. Love, William.

I have a collection of recipe books from various church congregations I’ve been a part of over the years. My favorite is The Davis Ward Cookbook. The names beside the recipes belong to people who loved me—people who shaped my life in quiet, lasting ways.

Each recipe is a memory of someone I love. As I flip through the stained pages, I can almost hear their voices, telling their stories through the meals they once made. I love that I am continuing their legacy each time I use one of their recipes.

This talk of recipes may seem small, but they’ve shaped so much of my life. Whether scribbled on a 4x6 card, typed in a church cookbook, or shared with a neighbor in a kitchen full of moving boxes, each one is a reminder:

The most lasting things in life often come from the simplest ingredients.

---

Do you have a favorite family recipe or a food story to share? I’d love to hear it—share in the comments below or reach out!

---

Recipes:

If you try this recipe, please let me know how it turns out! Should it be processed and sold in the stores?