The Recipe Card Collection That Never Fed Anyone

Margaret Chen kept a wooden box on her kitchen counter in Portland, Oregon, filled with over two hundred recipe cards written in her grandmother's careful hand. Pork dumplings with ginger and scallion. Red-braised fish for New Year's. Sesame noodles that could make a grown man weep. Margaret loved reading them. She'd pull out a card on a quiet evening, run her fingers over the faded ink, and smile at the memory of her grandmother's tiny kitchen in Taipei.

But Margaret never cooked a single one.

She told friends about the recipes constantly. She could describe the dumpling technique in extraordinary detail — the way the dough should feel like an earlobe, the precise fold that sealed in the broth. She knew the recipes by heart. Yet her oven stayed cold, her wok gathered dust, and her family ate takeout most nights.

One Thanksgiving, her daughter asked if they could finally make the dumplings together. Margaret hesitated. "I wouldn't want to get them wrong," she said. Her daughter looked at her and replied, "Mom, Grandma didn't write these down so they could live in a box."

James understood this kind of self-deception. He wrote that anyone who hears the word but does not do what it says is like someone who looks in a mirror, walks away, and immediately forgets their own face. The recipes were never meant to be admired. They were meant to be made. And the Word of God was never meant to be merely heard. It was meant to be lived.