Three dear friends are coming to stay next weekend. They’re bringing along their writerly muses for an extended brainstorming session. It’s going to be so much fun. Naturally, good food is also on the agenda. I have a recipe for a fancy fruit pie that I wanted to refine and bake up my for gal pals.
Test-kitchen day arrives and I go looking for the recipe. There is only one hardcopy version, much revised and speckled with rejected ingredients. Now, my usual place for recipes under construction is tucked inside the front cover of my well-loved Baking with Julia.
My recipe wasn’t there.
Unflustered, I checked my desk where I might have laid it to be typed up, backed up, and stored forever. No such luck. I checked my briefcase where I might have tucked it to give to a friend. Still no luck. Panic nudged the corners of my mind. Unusual places were searched; my nightstand, my piano books, my sewing box. Nothing.
Desperate and panicky, I asked my dear husband (DH). He saw nothing, knew nothing. Of course.
Now, I began looking in absurd places; the recycling bin, the ashes in the woodstove, the bottom of the birdcage. Okay, I don’t have a pet canary, but you get the idea.
After three days of futile attempts, I find the Lost Recipe. Where?
Jammed into the manual for the motorboat, marking the page for the setting of sparkplug gaps. The manual which the DH had referenced the day the recipe disappeared. It’s a good thing he was in the room at the time of discovery or accusations would have been tossed about like confetti. Apparently he’d been doing his version of “tidying up.”
Sometimes the D in DH does not stand for dear.
© Joan Leacott 2011, x-posted at Voices from the Heart