I was rearranging my vast collection of cookbooks this morning. I love my cookbooks. I have a collection that goes back to the early 20th century "Encyclopedia Of Practical Gastronomy" which includes a section on how to cook with animal blood. I cherish my first edition copy of "Peanuts Cook Book" by Charles Schulz, 1969 because the Peanuts gang brings me great childhood memories. I read cookbooks like a non-fiction story cover to cover, page by page with each page creating a colorful picture in my mind and in some cases I can smell the warm aroma of a well prepared meal.
When I was done stacking my fragile collection I turned around to find a 2-inch by 3-inch scrap of stained paper on the floor with a handwritten recipe in clear black ink. It fell out of my mother's very worn French cookbook of almost 1,000 pages that was her go-to for all the family dinners I grew up with from stewed pheasant to Duck a l'Orange and Crepes Suzette. I recognized this handwriting, I knew who wrote it over 50 year ago. This was a recipe between two girlfriends; my mother Louisa and her bestie Angie. They worked together in a Palo Alto, California restaurant long ago. Louisa was the chef and Angie a waitress. Waitress is what we called them then when politically correct nomenclature was not a "thing".