The Secret of Good Recipes
First published in the Chicago Tribune
About a week ago, while losing yet another round of mahjong, I asked if anyone had a good dessert recipe for Passover. Play paused for a moment while everyone’s eyes glanced toward Madame X, sitting to my right. Then the cracking and bamming resumed.
“You have a good dessert?” I asked the good Madame, whom I’d only just met. I’m not rich enough to lose at maj on a regular basis. As an occasional substitute, I view each invitation to play as an opportunity to meet new people and give them my spare change.
Without so much as a glance my way, Madame X said, “I don’t share my recipes.” Her beguiling South African accent did nothing to soften her tone.
“Is she kidding?” I asked, feigning nonchalance as I threw an eight crack.
“She doesn’t share her apple cake recipe,” Lady M. said from my left. “We’ve all asked.”
“Well now I need the recipe.”
Madame X stopped play, peered at me over her glasses, and said in no uncertain terms, “It’s my mother’s. It’s special. I don’t share.” A significant glare followed, and though I’m not fluent in South African body language, I believe I successfully translated her non-verbal communication. The recipe did not change hands.
When I got home, I called a few friends. Not to get all Deep Throat about it, but not a single person agreed to talk to me on the record if I used their names. I had suspected this was a delicate topic; I had not anticipated the depth of feeling the issue would reveal.
Here’s all I asked: Do you share your recipes?
One of the best cooks I know answered immediately, “Yes, because I am not that person. I don’t like that person who doesn’t. I don’t leave out ingredients. The world of home cooking is not so magical that it’s worth keeping secrets. I prefer people give credit where credit is due. So I like to think that somebody gives me credit when it’s due.” Then she added, “I think it’s a little snotty when people don’t share.” She paused. “It’s not very mature to say snotty.”
Mature? No. Accurate? Well, Madame X’s behavior did seem a little snotterig. That’s Afrikaans for snotty.
Consider this. During a recent visit, my daughter and I decided to bake. Leafing through recipes like “Aunt Annie’s Hot Milk Cake” and “Betsy’s Famous Limon Bars,” we settled on “Linda’s friend Wendy’s Cousin Paula’s Challah.” In my binder, a hand-written note amends the name to read “Sally’s friend Linda’s friend Wendy’s Cousin Paula’s Challah.” (Editorial and grammatical note: I count both Linda and Wendy as friends, but Cousin Paula belongs only to Wendy. I’m choosing not to reconfigure the possessive apostrophes because really, life is too short.)
Correction. With luck, life is not short. There’s time to read through recipes, annotating them to create a record of connections passed from kitchen to kitchen. It’s an historical record of food and friendship. Both are worth sharing.
