"notes in the margins..."

coming in from the shimmering heat of a
dusty summer day...the sidewalk hot enough
to fry an egg or penetrate the soles of our
sandals...we enter a world of dim memories
and the cool dry scent of old quilts and floral
tablecloths in shades of aqua, red and butter
yellow...

our voices lower as we call to one another from
corners filled with someone else's treasures...
sterling soup spoons with generous bowls,
wedding photos of nameless brides and grooms
that make us weep, and wonder: didn't anyone
care enough to save them, or at least write their
names on the back...

then I see it, a battered vintage copy of Julia
Child's "The Art of French Cooking," duct tape
holding its bindings together like something
used again, and again...and cherished long...

I tenderly lift the battered front cover,
and there, on the first page,  is this note:

December 25, 1981

Dear Mom -
I hope you enjoy this cookbook as much as
I enjoy your cooking...and contrary to
popular belief -- I do enjoy your cooking.

I hope you'll "share" some recipes with just
us -- your family.  And in years to come, I
hope that you'll share them with my family.

Thank you for always giving the best, and
trying your hardest to please all of us.

I love you mom,

katie
oooo
xxxx

I clutched it to my heart and shed a silent tear for
"mom" and "katie"...where are they now?  why
did anyone let this treasure, with its
vanilla-stained and flour-dusted  pages
filled with comments and notes, out of
their lives...

it is a question I can't stop asking, as I think
of all the cookbooks I have written little notes
in, for my girls..."I baked this cake for the twins'
fifth birthday party...delicious...added an extra
1/4 cup of chocolate powder...frosted it with
butter cream (recipe on page 44) "