This is it. The perfect time. What better distraction as I continue to dodge a deadly virus, mourn those who could not, worry about my country’s soul and find comic relief in links that I obsessively impose on friends and family?
Yes, now is the time to take advantage of virtual house arrest by cleaning out my recipe file – files, plural, to be accurate, as old as they are chaotic. There they are on a kitchen bookshelf, in fat loose-leaf binders overflowing with yellowing newspaper clippings, computer printouts, fading photocopies, handwritten recipes on 3-by-5 index cards – tangible reminders of a happier era.
What a mess. I have been meaning to bring order to my recipes for years, urged to cull them by my orderly husband, or to digitize them by my equally well-ordered stepdaughter, who has volunteered to help me, and I know she would.
But this is my job. I will do it. Or will I?
Confession: I have tried before. Many times. I start. And I stop. Here is what happens, every time: