There are certain things in my kitchen that could never be replaced.

Not because they are expensive.

Not because they are trendy.

But because they hold pieces of the people I love.

My Mamu’s measuring spoons.

My Grandma Pearl’s mixing bowls.

A handwritten recipe from my Grandma June—the grandmother I was named after and sadly have only a few memories of—framed carefully and sitting in my kitchen where I can see it every single day.

To most people, they probably just look like old kitchen things.

But to me, they are treasures.

Pieces of women who helped shape me long before I ever realized it.

And lately, I’ve been thinking so much about the power of handwriting.

Which honestly feels a little ironic considering I run an online food blog with more than 700 recipes that can instantly be printed with the click of a button.

I love what I do.

I love sharing recipes online.

I love that someone I’ve never met can make something from my kitchen in theirs.

But the recipes I treasure most aren’t typed.

They’re handwritten.

Written on recipe cards softened with age.

On scraps of paper with butter stains.

In looping cursive handwriting that instantly brings someone’s face to mind.

Recipes written quickly while standing at a counter.

Recipes shared because someone loved you enough to pass them down.

There is just something about seeing someone’s handwriting that feels deeply personal.

It’s almost like hearing their voice again.

I still remember when I got married the first time, everyone who came to my bridal shower brought a handwritten recipe card for me.

They were gathered together into a recipe box that I still have today.

And after all these years, it’s not just the recipes that matter.

It’s the handwriting.

The little notes in the margins.

The different styles of cursive.

The evidence that someone sat down and took the time to write something out just for me.

That kind of effort feels rare now.

And maybe because of that, it feels even more meaningful.

I wonder sometimes what our children and grandchildren will have from us someday.

They’ll have thousands of photos tucked away in phones and clouds.

Maybe they’ll have our texts.

Our emails.

Our recipes printed from websites.

But will they have our handwriting?

Something they can actually hold in their hands and know that ours once held that very same piece of paper?

I hope so.

Because a handwritten recipe is about so much more than ingredients and instructions.

It captures a moment in time in a way a typed recipe never quite can.

A recipe card can outlive us.

It becomes proof that we were here.

That we gathered.

That we cooked.

That we stood at kitchen counters and fed people we loved.

Maybe that’s why I hold onto those kitchen treasures so tightly.

The measuring spoons.

The bowls.

The recipe cards.

They remind me that the women before me left behind more than recipes.

They left behind little pieces of themselves.

And what a beautiful thing that is.

So maybe sometime this week, pull out an index card and write down a recipe someone loves.

The birthday cake you make every year.

Your cinnamon rolls.

The cookies everyone asks you to bring.

Don’t worry about having perfect handwriting.

Don’t worry if you drip a little vanilla on the corner or smudge the ink.

Maybe that’s what will make it even better.

Add the little note in the margin.

Write who loves it.

Write where it came from.

Date it.

And tuck it somewhere safe.

Because someday, someone you love may hold that recipe in their hands…

and for just a moment,

hear your voice again.

Sweet Wishes,

June

Come Gather With Me

If this story felt familiar, I’d love to have you join me. Gathered is my Sunday note about food, family, memories, and finding something meaningful in the ordinary moments of life.

Pull up a chair. There’s a place for you here. 🤍