Potato salad—an enduring favorite for picnics or backyard barbecues. A prerequisite for summer. But my husband’s quest to master it proved deceptively difficult. Bill tried countless combinations of russets, reds, Yukon golds, mayo, vinegar, yogurt, olives, pickles, capers, mustard, hard-boiled eggs…. The results were as mixed as the parade of condiments auditioning for the job. As official taste-tester, I gained five pounds, but, alas, the perfect recipe eluded him.
His stepmother made exceptionally good potato salad. It checked off all his boxes: taste, texture, tang. So, finally, Bill asked step-mom for her recipe.
She refused.
“I don’t share my recipes,” she said with finality and pride.
I pondered reasons why people won’t share their recipes: they’ve promised to keep it in the family, they’ve never actually written it down or made it the same way twice, they doubt the requestor’s culinary skills. Does it confer a sense of superiority to know that no one else will ever be able to replicate one’s Chicken Marsala or Chocolate Cherry Rum Balls? Or maybe they just don’t want others to have something that belongs to them.
My mother-in-law fit this last category. She held tightly to everything, afraid that if you had something, she’d have less. Afraid that one day she would open her cupboards and find them empty. She was a hard woman to love.
When she died, the loss of her potato salad may have been mourned longer than the woman herself.
Potato salad is a small thing, but the withholding of it speaks volumes. No amount of ponder has helped me understand the unwillingness to share recipes. How much better to know people are thinking of me fondly as they prepare my special dish.
The Dalai Lama tells us, “Share your knowledge. It is a way to achieve immortality.” But, in her way, my mother-in-law did achieve immortality. She lives on as a cautionary tale, a reminder of what I don’t want to be, of how not to live or be remembered.
If someone asks for a recipe, I happily oblige. I try not to hold tightly to possessions, or to dole out compliments and smiles as if the supply were limited.
Whether my recipes, compliments, or possessions, they aren’t to be hoarded or held back, but shared, enjoyed, and savored. Each time I offer my gifts—however meager—I affirm my belief in the abundance of the world. More will come. It always does.
By the way, Bill finally nailed potato salad. It’s to die for.
Can I send you the recipe? He says it’s okay. | 
