I can’t stop thinking about my mom’s cookbook. Den Stora Kokboken. "The Big Cookbook."
It was thick, heavy—white with worn edges, filled not just with recipes but with her. She kept it in the kitchen drawer, always tucking in handwritten notes, scribbled ingredients on the backs of envelopes, magazine clippings folded into soft creases. Over time, it became less of a book and more of a container for memories—one that never quite closed properly. If you didn’t grab it just right, the whole thing would fall apart in your hands, pages slipping to the floor in a quiet kind of chaos.
I don’t know why this memory is haunting me now. Maybe it’s because I can see her handwriting so clearly in my mind—elegant but not fussy, that classic cursive style without being truly cursive. She had beautiful handwriting.
And now I find myself searching my mind, reaching back for memories I once discarded so easily. All the things I threw away—flowers, pictures, textiles, books. Years of memories, gone without hesitation. I never thought I’d care. I never thought I’d miss them.
Yet here I am, unable to stop thinking about a cookbook.
Why?
And why do I so desperately need something in writing?
The other day, I nearly drove to the storage unit to dig through my Christmas boxes, just for the chance of finding an old card from her. A little piece of her handwriting, something real. This year, I barely cared about Christmas cards. Just like last year, hers was missing—the small, classic ones she always sent, with a Santa in a snowy frame.
I didn’t think I’d need any of it.
But I miss her. And I just want to see her words again.