My mom is meticulous, particularly when it comes to recipes. Even my best friend, a woman whose wallet looks like a bomb went off, follows them to a tee.
Even when I vow to follow a recipe, I always tweak it just a bit. Sometimes it is because I don’t have the proper ingredients, other times I am too lazy to grab the measuring spoons or it is because I don’t particularly like capers.
It should also be known I love cookbooks and cooking magazines. I would bet over half of my internet/blog reading includes recipes and meal plans of all kinds. I will someday proudly inherit my mother's incredible collection of cookbooks, binders and index cards; I will be amused by her handwritten notes "easy, kids enjoyed" knowing that she did not deviate from a single teaspoon of vanilla.
I have been told my paternal grandmother cooked the same way that I do - flames licking at her wrists, no cookbook in sight. Whereas my maternal grandmother, who was also a force to be reckoned with in the kitchen, always followed the rules.
I suppose I view recipes as inspiration. I follow the rules elsewhere, so every so often I let them slide into the skillet.
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