I don't know about you, but I love old things. I love that they have seen things beyond my own time. I like to think of the people that have handled them over the years, of when they were used and the lives that were touched by them. I love old worn books for their character, their rips and tears, their stains and missing pages.
My favorites are my grandmothers old cookbooks, the ones that have been used and loved the most. Their pages are speckled with batter and singed at the edges but carry their battle scars with the pride.
My Granny's beautiful handwriting, her notes and recipes, line their pages. Stray cards and papers, buried treasure pressed thin, come loose and fall like feathers to floor as I finger my way through them.
I love them for what they are, not just what they contain. I know that she touched them and read them and took pride in feeding her family their delicious recipes. I think about the stories she shared while standing over their pages; or the occasions that took place while they lay, quietly on the counter; Weddings, Christmas, birthdays.
I love them for what they have seen. I think of these things when I use them, to cook for the people that I love.