I made cookies. Soft, cake-like oatmeal cookies speckled with cinnamon and nutmeg and a few with raisins. They weren't the best, which is why I don't feel the need to share the recipe with you; but they were beautiful. And warm. And a great subject for my new camera.
A month or so ago, I came across this 1961 edition of the Joy of Cooking at a bookstore. It is beautiful; I love that the faded blue cover is accented by the still-bright red bookmark. And the pages. Oh, the pages. They smell like a small-town library and some feel so worn down they could pass for onion skins. This book was loved by the woman, the mother, the daughter, the homemaker who cooked from its pages.
Nestled in between some of the pages are ads from the 70s, and better yet, hand-written recipes on yellowed index cards. I love this book, even if I never use one recipe from it. Open-faced on the counter, it calls me to it, beckoning me through its pages.