For years I have clipped and torn out and scribbled down recipes that I swear I am going to try someday. Right. Sure I will. I finally organized my cookbooks earlier this summer and actually used them to ... gasp ... COOK. Now, though, I need to empty the four-inch thick file of random paper scraps.
First, I separate the entire pile into two: file-ready, uniformly-sized papers with neatly printed recipes go into one pile; small and mis-sized cut-out recipes go into another pile. Then, I start organizing each pile. I start with the papers that are all the same size, and I toss out repeats and recipes that I probably will never make. After that is done, I start in on the random cut out recipes.
What shocks me is my sudden disgust with spending inordinate amounts of time in the kitchen when no one is home consistently enough to indulge in my creations. I don't despise cooking and baking. I despise cooking and baking that involve so many intricacies that I'm exhausted and ready for IV fluids when I'm finished. I despise a kitchen so destroyed by creativity that I need a vacation after cleaning up the mess.
Seriously, though, am I ever really going to make Pecan-Encrusted Maple Leaf Pumpkin Cookies? No, not ever. Will I ever again hand-make pretzels? Maybe. But, like the five variations of homemade play-dough, I'm sure if I want to make pretzels from scratch, I'll be able to readily find that recipe online.
When it's all said and done, my recycling bag is stuffed a little fuller, and my recipe file is a helluva lot slimmer. Now, if only my waistline would follow suit of the file folder, I might be on to something.
