Ever notice how a memory that doesn't really exist can seem so powerful, even if you KNOW you were there, but you just can't remember it?

I've been doing some spring cleaning (er...getting rid of clutter)...and came across something that is clutter, but I won't ever get rid of...My birth Mom's cookbooks. I don't know the story behind why she wrote down and chronicled about 8 spiral notebooks full of recipes. And some mini-3-three binders. And a photocopied packet from an Indonesian cookbook.

Many of the pages are splattered and stained. Some are crossed out. Some have notes in the margin; "Great" or "made 3/13" or "needs more salt". Some phone numbers are jotted down in the margin. Some pages even have crayon scribbling across the entire page. I have to believe that is my doing. Which means I was there.

I was there when my mom made Banana Bread, or Mud Cake, or Lemon Chicken (yes - those are all written on the same page). I was there when she found a recipe to write down and make for her family. I was there when she spilled the 1/2 cup of water onto the cookbook (which explains a lot...seeing that I spill EVERYTHING also).

But more importantly - I. Was. There. You see - I can't remember anything about my mom. I spent 6 years with her, but who can remember times from before they were 6? I have photos. I have events that are vague. I have what people have told me...but I don't have my own memories. And that isn't fair.

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