Lost socks. I used to think that laundry machines ate socks. But now I know: socks hide in the folds of sheets, especially fitted ones. Have you read Marie Kondo on socks?

Nothing to eat. You hear this when someone you love looks into a full fridge and comments on the contents. It’s like a judgement. It’ not true. I think I told you, when I published my cookbook about leftovers (Encore, McLelland and Stuart, 1978, I think), I crossed the country on a publicity tour—they did that in those days. Also in those days, most newspapers had a writer-cook on staff, who was expected to review the cookbooks. I challenged everyone to cook lunch for them with whatever I found in their refrigerator.** No one would take me up on it. They told me there was nothing to eat.

** You will note I am obeying the new dictum from —whoever decides these things—to use the plural (they, their) to refer to a genderless single antecedent. I did it a few weeks ago and no one noticed. It bothered me to do it. It still does.

Finding things. You know very well that you are the only person in your house who can find something, even when you give specific directions.

Mothers are the inventors of necessity.

You lock in at a certain age and you lock in at a certain price.

A few random notes from my piles of paper.