I got a package in the mail today.
It was from my mom. This is the only vanilla I have ever, in the history of my recollection, seen in our cupboard at home. There is no other kind. My Mama is no slouch at cooking, so generally, if it's good enough for her, it's good enough for me. She's also already sent me a set of brand new pots and pans, also the kind she uses and swears by.
And I mean that literally. If you wanted to make sure you were getting my mom's good word on something, pull our her red enamel skillet.
Like I said, she's no culinary novice, which is what made the other item in this package worth more than the shiny new pots. Pirate's Pantry was probably the source of more of my meals growing up than any other single volume.
These are south Louisiana family recipes, which is synonymous with "delectable".
It was a gift to my dad when they were courting.
And now it's mine.
This is my kind of cookbook. This is 90% of everything good I've ever eaten. The book itself is a memory. The contents could be a family history.
Mama says you can tell which pages have the best recipes because they're covered in food stains.
This one has taken the place of a birthday cake for me for at least the last five years.
Today was a good mail day.