R<\/span>ummaging through a stained and greasy tomato box that mainly contained pieces of things that offered no clues about the things themselves, Sandy came across a small tin. The lid squeaked as she opened it. Inside were scores of yellowed index cards, each covered in fluid script. They were recipes, written by a woman who had no doubt learned how to write when handwriting betrayed one\u2019s education. Each card conjured images of an idyllic family and their dinner rituals. The planning, the care, the time spent, the smells, the heat of the oven, cinnamon\u2014always cinnamon.<\/p>\n

Flipping through the cards she tried to imagine the woman who had prepared meals called \u201cKnuckles and Mash,\u201d \u201cChicken Fried Parts,\u201d \u201cPeanut Butter Souffl\u00e9,\u201d and, simply, \u201cKnitted Hearts.\u201d Maybe, she thought, the recipes were a more accurate description of their owner\u2019s upbringing than the handwriting.<\/p>\n

<\/a>She decided to buy the tin full of promised meals. Sandy knew she would never take the time to make \u201cOil Salad\u201d or \u201cClothesline-Dried String Beans,\u201d but to her the tin was a relic from a romanticized time, like a bullet found on a Civil War battlefield, or a black and white movie where everyone spoke too quickly and both the kisses and the gunshot wounds were dry. It was a biography of a life she would never live, a life filled with fears and hopes and misfortunes not unlike her own and yet so radically different that it was more a curiosity than an actual life. She wondered if some day someone would be sifting through the litter of her existence thinking these very thoughts. Doubtful. Who would be nostalgic for her time?<\/p>\n

She placed the tin on the card table set up by the front door. The woman guarding the gray cash box looked old enough to be dead herself, but once she saw what Sandy had put before her she came to dusty life. \u201cJohn!\u201d she bellowed in a voice that belonged to someone younger. \u201cIt\u2019s Mother\u2019s tin!\u201d<\/p>\n

An even older man, held together by nothing more than a tight belt and a determination not to fall apart, shuffled to the table. John picked up the tin with flabby fingers\u2014so loose was his skin\u2014opened it, and picked a card at random.<\/p>\n

\u201c\u2018Unboiled Soup.\u2019 Remember that one, Grace?\u201d he said.<\/p>\n

\u201cEverything Mother made had a name,\u201d Grace said to Sandy. \u201cI think she tried to make the world better by giving everything a name, like you might do to a stray puppy that eats tissues.\u201d Grace turned to John. \u201cDo you remember Carl, that stray puppy who kept eating all our tissues?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cSure do. Had to clean up after the thing all the time. Stupid Carl.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHe just needed fiber.\u201d Grace looked at Sandy. \u201cI\u2019m sorry. I can\u2019t take your money.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI understand,\u201d Sandy said, trying not to sound disappointed. \u201cIt has great sentimental value. I don\u2019t need it after all.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh no no no,\u201d Grace said. \u201cYou misunderstand. I want to give it you. It\u2019s much too valuable to sell. Just take it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Sandy, unaccustomed to kindnesses, no matter how small, held the tin like a thin-shelled egg and said nothing.<\/p>\n

\u201cThere is something I must ask, though,\u201d Grace said.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d Sandy asked.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou have to make a dish from that box every year, on June sixth. That\u2019s Mother\u2019s birthday. Every year. Don\u2019t forget.\u201d<\/p>\n

Tears filled Sandy\u2019s eyes. \u201cI won\u2019t,\u201d she said. \u201cI promise I won\u2019t.\u201d She stumbled out the door, crying.<\/p>\n

John watched Sandy until she drove away. \u201cNow what did you do that for, Grace?\u201d he asked. \u201cEven stupid Carl would spit out Mother\u2019s food.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJust trying to get rid of everything Mother left us, and that included the misery,\u201d she said. \u201cNow if only someone would buy that damned Victrola.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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