The green plastic binder bulged at the seams. It swelled and throbbed as if it had a pulse. A heartbeat. A hunger for more. “Feed me more recipes!” it demanded.
The dreaded recipe binder.
The once-tame beast had broken its bounds. Grown gargantuan and overflowed with sheets filled with ingredients and steps for meals that we would NEVER undertake. But it didn’t stop us from printing more off and stuffing them in the binder.
“Oh, this looks simply delicious. Squid ink pancakes. I’m sure we’ll make that someday.”
Chomp, chomp, chomp. “Give me more.”
Only now, when you pulled the binder out to find something, its guts spilled all over the floor in a 17-ton tsunami of loose copy paper and magazine clippings.
“AHHH, I hate you, recipe binder,” I would cry.