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.
“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.