For over a year now, I have searched every square inch of my house for a brown cloth bag containing two army green recipe boxes. Covered in rust spots, dented with a few off-the-counter nicks and scratches, these two rusty little things would appear outdated and in need of replacing. But these two dingy boxes, both close to 80 years old, are irreplaceable. One belonged to Nan-Nan, my grandmother, and the other to Auntie, my great aunt. Although the two were sisters, or I suppose exactly because they were sisters, the two boxes were in every way opposite and yet innately in tune. These boxes were my treasure troves. I had begun going through each individual box while each relative had been living, organizing their already organized recipes and labels, asking questions, and beginning to formulate a recipe book. But to be honest, after my grandmother died, although I found great solace in my writing and recreating memories of food I reached a point where I had to step away from the emotional project. Looking through the notecard recipes and seeing her beautiful handwriting, thoughtful labels, and feeling her energetic personality just in the little way she crossed a “t” or wrote th...