A Recipe Apart

My mom sometimes says that she thinks I may have gotten switched at the hospital following my birth.
She doesn't mean it in a mean way (I don't think...)

What she does mean is that I, her daughter, like to do things in a way that is very, very, very different than what she would do.

Take, for instance, scrapbooking.

The mere mention of the craft makes my accountant mother break out into hives.

Followed closely by anything associated with glitter or royal icing.

I know experientially she's right, but every now and then a little something happens that solidifies the nature of our differences. She and my dad have been here visiting over the last few days and yet another example of her 'Switched at Birth' theory came to light...

I offer you Exhibit A:



This is my mother's written instruction and recipe for my spanakopita. I cobbled together this little recipe following a dinner party at a neighbor's where this was served. My mother followed me around the kitchen as I sauteed and chopped and diced and butter-washed my way through this dish. I love, love, love to cook and would love, love, love to share some of my kitchen creations with you.

But therein lies the problem.

Most people, including my mother, see cooking as chemistry.

I see it as performance art.

Hence, my version of the recipe for spanakopita that I originally offered my mother, willing to try to put it to written form, a very big stretch for me...



And herein lies the irony: I think that my written 'recipe' looks more like chemistry, while my mother's step-by-step rendering of my process looks a bit more like the stage directions for an off-Broadway show...

But I do know this...

No matter our approaches, my mother and I will both manage to produce some spankin' spanakopita...