Hand-Me-Down Family Recipes by Kaye Spencer #familyrecipes #recipes #oldfashionedrecipes

Hand-me-down family recipes offer more than mere sustenance. They give us a dash of history, a pinch of nostalgia, and a sprinkling of posterity.


I am fortunate to be the recipient of several old family recipes and recipe books. One of my older recipe books belonged to my Aunt Irene (b. 1926) that she used in her high school Home Economics class.

"All About Home Baking" c. 1933

I've been adding family recipes to my website and also to a Board on my Pinterest account. But this takes time, and I'm moving at a snail's pace, because so many other tasks pop up and distract me. My intent for 2019 is to add at least one recipe a month.

This is an example recipe that shows the format I've designed. (not an 'old' recipe)

I've kept the original wording and measurements from the recipes. I have 14 Hand-Me-Down Family recipes on my Pinterest Board, but only five of them on my website HERE. *sigh* Again, it's a matter of available time.

Anyway, if you're so inclined, you will find my Hand-Me-Down Family recipes on Pinterest HERE.

On a side note: I'm experiencing an ongoing issue with commenting and responding to comments on Blogger. If I am unable to respond to your comment, I will come back to this article and add comments in this area. Please check back, because I do read and respond to every comment. I appreciate the time and interest you've taken to write a comment.


Until next time,
Kaye Spencer
Writing through history one romance upon a time

Website/Blog- https://www.kayespencer.com
Instagram - https://www.instagram.com/kayespencer/
Twitter - http://www.twitter.com/kayespencer
Pinterest - http://www.pinterest.com/kayespencer
Facebook - https://www.facebook.com/kayespencer23
Amazon - http://www.amazon.com/author/kayespencer
LinkedIn - https://www.linkedin.com/in/kayespence
Prairie Rose Publications - http://prairierosepublications.com/
YouTube - https://www.youtube.com/c/kayespencer0203

THREE PICTURES, by by Mollie Hunt, Cat Writer

I’m looking at a picture of my parents. My father in a plaid shirt and turtleneck, standing arms across his chest, smiling. My mother sitting, outside somewhere, the green of grass for background. Legs crossed ladylike, cigarette in hand. She is smiling too.

I realize with a start that they are my age... I am their age... the age they were in that picture, I am now.

The picture has been on that shelf for some time. I have lived in this house over thirty years, though it doesn’t seem possible. When I put the photos in their double brass frame, I was much younger. My parents may still have been alive. Now it comes around. They are gone, I am old. I will be following soon.

Okay, maybe not that soon. I’m healthy, reasonably. I’m not staring down the jaws of death or any such. All is well, in fact. No lost abilities, yet. But I can read the writing on the wall. It’s right there in the photos: my parents, happy and enjoying life one day; gone the next.

There is something else I read in that picture though. I look closer, at the smiles, the twinkling eyes. They’re not hiding away, dreading what will inevitably come. Live life now, they say in those captured images.

There are two other photos on the shelf. I didn’t intentionally group them, more like set them in a spot where they fit. But now as I look, the fit is more apt than mere spacing. The fit is perfect.

One is a photo I’ve always loved, taken by my father when we were at the beach. I was in my twenties, tresses blowing against the perfect blue sea. My son, age three, sits in my lap, all blonde hair, soft skin, and possibilities. We are holding a beach ball.

I remember the time, sad now that there hadn't been more of them, that I hadn’t been more mindful, too busy in my own life and friends. Still, for that moment, we were a happy family. I have a picture to prove it.

The third photo, also taken by my father, is of my mother, my grandmother, and me. It was shot from behind as we walked hand in hand in Laurelhurst Park. The year was 1953, which would put my mother at forty-two and my grandmother in her sixties.

In spite of the white hair which makes her look older, I am currently the age my grandmother was then. I know what happened after that picture. I know about the gradual debilitation, the nursing home, the stroke, the death. She, on the other hand, walks with her family through a sunlit park, blissfully ignorant. She is looking at me, the tiny girl with her whole life ahead of her. I feel sad and sorry, having dashed her hopes with my wandering ways.

But maybe she would have liked me anyway.

Check out more blogs by Mollie Hunt, Cat Writer at:

Mollie Hunt: Crazy Cat Lady Mysteries and more

Happy reading!

SCHRÖDINGER’S TRUNK, by Mollie Hunt, Cat Writer

Trunk in the Attic, by Valentina Rota

There is a trunk in the attic with my past in it. Not all my past: I moved around a lot when I was young. Still, therein lies a cornucopia of experiences, now so distantly removed from my current life, they seem like those of another person.

There is the first cat story I wrote, in fourth grade, about my tabby Two and a far-off land where everyone lived in houses with diamond walls.

There is a sketchbook from my days in Chicago, pages of dark scribble and slashing lines depicting inner city buildings in the shadow of 1968.

There is a photo album from when I was a hippie living on the farm. In some of them I am naked, innocently swimming in a country lake. In some, I’m ensconced with other bell-bottomed, bead-bedecked flower children. In one, I’m playing pool.

Other things have accumulated in that magic trunk as well. A flotsom of greeting cards, letters, notes with a loved one’s name penned longhand nest at the dusty bottom. Some of those loved ones— too many—have been lost along the way.

There used to be diaries in the trunk, but several years ago I shredded them, consigning my youthful craziness to the ash pile. At the time I felt release— no longer bound by my indiscretions. As a writer, I suppose I should regret the loss, but I don’t. I did keep the poems and drawings; the rest was so much hooey.

I think about the trunk from time to time. I’d like to post the pool player photo on Facebook; I’d like to read a birthday card from my grandmother; I’d like to check out the cat story, see if it’s as great as I remember. It’s probably not, but as long as it stays buried in the trunk, I can pretend.

The trunk remains closed. A decade ago, workers redid the attic beams, and in their effort, stacked my trunk underneath a small mountain of other clutter. Every so often, I look at it, gage the amount of work it would take to dig it out, and go away again. It’s on the list, among other jobs to be done... but not in winter because the attic is too cold and not in summer because it’s stifling hot. I can’t do it alone because some of the items are heavy and awkward, yet I don’t want anyone to do it with me. Besides I have no place to put it once I get it out. The dust makes me sneeze. 

Someday I’ll want the trunk badly enough to overcome the obstacles. Until then, I can remember. Schrödinger’s trunk: its nostalgic contents can be whatever I decide.

Check out more blogs by Mollie Hunt, Cat Writer at:

Mollie Hunt: Crazy Cat Lady Mysteries and more

Happy reading!