My parents never took mass transit; it was a point of honor that they drove their own cars. Never mind that my mother had no sense of direction and got heart palpitations when she drove. That was after my brother, then about age six, fell out of her sky-blue Rambler onto busy Flatbush Avenue. Even before I got my driver's license, she had severely curtailed her driving, and once I was licensed, she never drove again.
I haven't made chopped eggplant in years. Although I often think about chopped liver and chopped herring, I hadn't thought about chopped eggplant for a very long time until my cousin Cary contacted me from California, asking if I had the recipe for the chopped eggplant his mother used to make. Since our mothers were sisters, we assume they both prepared the same recipe, or at least close enough not to matter. I gave him the recipe, and asked if he had the requisite double blade hand chopper and wooden chopping bowl with which to prepare it. I was never able to find those very old-fashioned items in any store, and although I faked it over the years using a single blade chopper and a metal bowl, the eggplant never came out as good as Mom's, because I couldn't get the right consistency and degree of emulsification from adding the oil at the end.
"No, I don't," he wrote back. "I guess I'll try using the food processor."
Genius. My cousin is a genius.