August 14, 2017 – It was always there. Woven into the fabric of almost every cooking memory, every kitchen, of my Louisiana childhood. There,  along with the cast-iron pot, aluminum Magnalites and Chime-O-Matic rice cooker. Its mischievous plastic teeth underbiting the worn-out spiral binding, tattered yellow tabs frayed and curled, stamped with grease stains and reinforced with rubber bands. Four hundred fifty pages of green-inked recipes by the women whose footsteps paced the linoleum floors of the kitchens before us.