My mother kept neat little index cards, with the recipes that she treasured, usually gathered from her mother (my Russian grandmother), friends who were brilliant cooks, special potluck dishes she ran across, or cribbed from torn and tattered favorite cookbooks. These were dependable recipes that wow’d guests every time, and she didn’t want to forget them. I admire this method. However, I am more improvisatory, and hardly ever repeat a recipe (or re-read a book, for that matter). So while my mother cooked wonderful things, I “don’t cook like my mother…”