They Draw & Cook, and hand-written recipes

There are few things in the world that are more wonderful to me than the hand-written recipe.

While visiting my grandmother's house last week, I spent hours perusing the cookbooks in her kitchen. They're filled with her favorite recipes, transcribed from ancient issues of Gourmet and Bon Apetit, always credited, or from her friends who (I like to imagine) traded them like gossip or quasi-folk remedies at parties. The latter have titles like "Sybil Bracker's Famous Meatloaf" and "Marcy Shapiro's Delicious Fruit Cake." Adapted in her slanted finishing school handwriting on now browning paper, they seem to me like integral but forgotten history, as if they might contain an answer to life's most pressing questions, or, at the very least, a cure for cancer.

They don't, but there is still something wise about them. The romance of sharing knowledge among women coupled with the distinct beauty of my grandmother's script, maybe. I used to receive a letter from her every month when I was little and to me, her handwriting is her signature, her seal of approval. Her pithy commentary too; even the typed recipes have little hand-written notes and food stains, a reminder of their continued evolution. I'm sure it's all three--the sharing, the script, the evolution--they're all so personal, like a living history.

Which brings me to this, the hand-drawn recipe.

I don't often check in with They Draw & Cook, a blog of recipe renderings by different artists and illustrators, but every time I do, I'm amazed with the beauty and coolness of its offerings. The recipes, which are often basic, scrambled eggs, spaghetti and meatballs type-things, become incredibly personal and meaningful when drawn by hand. I am so thoroughly gladdened that this project exists.