Neglected

Quite a few years ago our now deceased but much beloved dog ate a chunk out of the Betty Crocker cookbook I received at my wedding shower. I mourned. For me, she is the premier of cookbooks, the stable one to go to. I eventually found another worn copy at a used book shop.

But strangely I've been feeling a bit sorry for my cookbooks, lined up quietly like soldiers waiting to be called to duty. It's become so easy to grab a recipe from the computer, or pull out a scribbled "how to" written down at a friend's delicious dinner party. Or just to pull ingredients out of the frig and cook whatever comes together.

There's a few things I always pull Betty out for, one is an apple pie. 

Old friends are coming for dinner tonight. It will be a simple table, and a simple fare,

 with concentration on just enjoying being together on a rainy night. 

There are friends like this––as comfortable as "old shoes." Friends that we're blessed to 

grow old older with. We'll sit around, maybe listen to some of the "oldies," have conversation, put the 

coffee pot on, and lace the pie with a little vanilla ice cream, per the Gardener's request. 

It should be fun.