By Graham Robert Scott
The pages of my grandmother’s personal cookbook were yellowed, brittle; any recipe not in her hand, a heavily annotated clipping.
“You aren’t looking through my old recipes again, are you?” she called from the deck.
“No.”
“Good. Amateur scribbles. Buy a real book. From a TV chef.”
I turned the page. The next recipe, in her hand, called for “1 human head, pickled.” I squinted, tilted, peered. Failed to decipher those words as anything else.
“Could you bring out some tea?” she called. “Green tea in the fridge is fine.”
Such was my haste, I spilled some on the counter.
Brilliant. This made me want to know so much more about her, and the conversation that followed (or even the silence that might have replaced the questions).
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More! More! I want to read the rest of the book!
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I loved it. The unexpected recipe was gold!
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Loved this, and my curiosity wishes to read more…
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