It has been in the same place for almost twenty years above the steps leading up to my kitchen. A fixture of sorts, like a Rembrandt painting on the wall. Some would think it's only an old green book in a well-worn state when they see it. Well, to many, it is only an old book, but to me, every page tells a story of my mom’s everyday life and of days in the kitchen. It was and still is, my mom’s cookbook. It was her favourite for almost fifty years. Now it has become mine. The worn and loose pages tell me of the hours she browsed through it looking for new recipes to try. Some pages with the corners turned down tell me she saw some that sparked an interest to try at later dates, but the ones that tug at my heartstrings are the pages that are stained. The brown stains seem to tell a story of their own. They tell me those were her favourite pages, her favourite recipes. Now mine. As I gaze upon them, I can see her standing at the kitchen table, cutting out the molasses gingersnaps with a water glass. I can smell her cinnamon pinwheels as she opened the oven door to see if they were ready. I turn another stained page and see her making white raisin buns for dad. More stained pages. Oh, what memories. Christmas cookies she let us help her with and let us take all the credit. That dab of flour she put on our noses always brought a smile. This old cookbook. What a treasure to possess. With today's technology, getting recipes online, the days of the stained recipe book is slowly fading into the background, like the people who used them. Right now I’ve opened moms book to the most stained page and am gathering ingredients for the molasses gingersnaps.  Dad’s favourite.  Oops! Just lost a smidgen of shortening on it. No problem. It blends in beautifully with mom’s accidents.