We sang an old hymn at choir practice, one I know well enough that I could look up instead of following every word. I could feel the sound in my chest, especially when the other altos came in beside me, and I stood straighter without anybody reminding me. By the last verse I needed a proper breath between phrases. I am always surprised that singing can leave me warm when all I have done is stand in one place. My heel complained when we finally sat down, but the rest of me felt rather good. On the drive home I tried the low part again and could not make it sound the same by myself. Probably just as well nobody else was in the car!

I found two versions of Mother's scotcheroo recipe in the church box, both in her handwriting and both marked original. One has an extra note about the pan, which may be the version she gave me after I complained mine stuck. I called to ask and she said she has always done it the same way. Well, the cards suggest otherwise! Now I am wondering how many of our supposedly fixed recipes have been adjusted a spoonful at a time without anybody remembering. I still want the committee to keep the handwritten cards, but a clear copy beside each one would help. Especially if original can apparently mean two different things in the same woman's kitchen.

Our daughter called to ask how I make the lemon bars, and I was tickled until she said she was bringing them to someone else's mother's house. Isn't that silly? I want her to have friends and invitations, yet for a moment I felt left out of an afternoon I could not possibly have attended. I gave her the recipe and asked whether they had a mixer, as though the whole visit depended on that. Later she sent a picture of the pan and they looked very good, a little pale at the edges, but I did not say so. I told her I wished I could have one. That was the truth. I would have liked to be sitting at her kitchen table while she cut them.