I keep track of all my cooking in little black book, writing everything down as there have been too many instances of “Wow that was great – what was in it?”. A dash of this and a handful of that all seemed so simple at the time, but by the next day they’re hard to recall.
Reading back over it is a strange and interesting experience. I can see what I cooked for whom and on what occasion. The successes and failures, the phases of eating I went through, the weeks of Asian food followed by French and British, Spanish or Mexican – it’s all there.
Pulled pork tacos with smoky salsa sit alongside frozen plum yogurt. The latest pages contain various brownie recipes I tried to get just right.
There are empty pages, too, where I’ve meant to write up things the next day or revisit dishes long since forgotten.
The pulled pork recipe is there, but a page sits blank where the salsa should have gone. And sadly the whole experience is so far in the past I can’t even remember the name of the chillies I made it with.
An experiment for another time and a new culinary adventure…