Every book tells a story...

The myth surrounding me, according to some is that I have it all sewn together on the organisational front;. though those who know me better than that will laugh at the thought of me being in "control".... of anything!

The truth is that I'm slapdash at best and the older I get the less I care about being anything else other than who I already am....

There are objects in my life that will attest to this... my notebook is one of them... in fact there are quite a few of them knocking about the house... somewhere.

it mostly contains well loved and truly tried and tested family recipes... only the good ones make it into this book... but leafing through the pages I also came across family photos, a few knitting/crochet patterns... veg price lists written by my local veg man... old shopping lists...meal plans.... you name it, it's all in there somewhere.

The perfectionist in me sometimes wants to grab a brand new pristine book and rewrite the recipes, but my children have banned me. 

There's something about these stained pages that speaks to them and reminds them of family life.

So I hold back and keep adding to it, knowing that one day they'll come back to these recipes themselves when feeding their own families...

My mother once passed on to me her own hand written cookery book, and I've moved so often in my life that it somehow got lost along the way somewhere. I wish I still had it. It's a connection to the past... a handhold on what is familiar to me. 

These are the treasures that make memories....