I approach this week’s topic with a level of diplomacy normally reserved for Middle East peace talks or union negotiations.

I’m talking about sharing recipes— those who do, and those who don’t.

In the interest of full disclosure, let me start off by saying there are only two recipes I’ve refused to share.

The first is the secret ingredient in our family’s potato salad. Only my mother, my sister and I know what it is.

The second is my mother’s recipe for meatballs. I have a friend who for years begged both my mother and me for it. I think mom may have finally relented on the sauce recipe, but not the meatballs.

When she would ask for the secret formula, we’d tell her we were saving it for the cookbook we planned to write one day.

One Sunday a few years back, my mother sat in church and listened as the priest discussed the importance of sharing—ourselves, our time, our resources— and he used an example of a woman who wouldn’t share her recipes, selfishly keeping them from the rest of the family until she died and they went to the grave with her.

What a waste, he lamented.

As my mother told me this story, I was feeling guilty. But mom quickly cautioned me that the meatballs would not go to her grave, as she had passed on the recipe to me. She had shared—albeit selectively—but I was to keep my mouth shut.

So as you can see, I understand and have participated in the secret-keeping side of this debate, even though my heavenly reward could be on the line.

But that doesn’t stop me from asking others for their recipes. Some would say I do it for a living.

A few holidays ago I went a few rounds with a sister-in-law who refused to give up her recipe for cranberry gelatin salad. She would not be in attendance at that year’s dinner, and I wanted to make sure the salad was there.

She refused to give it up.

Her explanation was essentially this: If she gave me the recipe, then I’d start making it, and then she wouldn’t be known for it any longer. At this point of the conversation, I think I laughed out loud, which didn’t help my cause.

I tried to explain to her that I didn’t want to start making it, I was only asking for the recipe because she wouldn’t be there that year and that I wasn’t about to start making it year after year, usurping her culinary glory.

Still she refused to give it up. “But I’m family,” I protested. Nothing. We hung up as the phone line began to frost over.

Now, some of you are probably thinking, “Well, tit for tat,” or “That’s what you get when you won’t share.”

So this is where I have to play politician and talk out both sides of my recipe box.

To me there is a difference in the multitude of recipes that can and should be shared, and those precious few we may want to keep within the family.

Said cranberry gelatin was not a family heirloom, handed down from generation to generation. It came out of a cookbook, one that I don’t happen to have.

If you have a secret family recipe, a true secret family recipe, one that your great-great-grandmother carried in her bosom during a long and arduous journey from some foreign land, or even one that you just worked hard to create from scratch and have perfected over the years, keep it a secret for now. Just make sure someone has it before you die, and since none of us knows when that will happen, share it with at least one person now.

Better yet, give us a copy in your own handwriting so we’ll remember it came from you and we’ll think of you every time we make it. Remember, sharing is caring.