Marcelo Prais

The yellow book. Yesterday was my mother’s birthday. 82. Among so many memories, this little recipe book caught my mind. Made by a nine-year-old mini-me as a Mother’s Day gift, it disappeared in the early 90s. One copy. Gone for 30 years. Yesterday, while my sister was making one of its recipes, we asked: “Where is the book?” Five minutes later, it reappeared. A recipe book? Also. For me, and only for me, it’s a photobook filled with images I remember, imagine and relate.