It was an old recipe book. A tattered old recipe book.
I don't know when or where it came from. It was just there, like that first dandelion in the otherwise dirtless patch of ground. Or perhaps it appeared like a memory of something once eaten, tasted, enjoyed so many years ago.
But I couldn't remember ever seeing it before.
It must have been there for ages, watching me from the periphery of all that I did as I lived out my life. It caught my eye one day, as I walked into the kitchen from the night's entertainment, engaged in the habitual looking about to see what had changed. The book sat on the table. No one else would have noticed it (although my wife and I did, she always remarked on it).
The cover was worn, the paper fragile, the binding a bit shredded, but the writing was clear and the recipes were easy to follow – just some making, some cooking, one or two sauces that I just poured the paste into rather than making a sauce.
I like it, I thought. It has potential. I can enjoy delicious meals, of that I was sure, but more importantly, the meals could connect me to the past. The mind would wonder, and I would be able to hear the stories, ask questions, go beyond the written word. And that would be more important than anything.
I almost revelled in the newness of it all – not that I had ever stopped reveling – and I hurried into the kitchen. I ran my finger along the line of the worn cover, feeling not dust or dirt but the anticipation for what was to come. Then, opening the book, I went to the first recipe and read its contents to myself.
And then I saw that someone else had made this first recipe before me. The previous recipe's content had been crossed out, a neat line of pen marking everything to be ignored. Over the marks, the current recipe had been written. Instructions clear, easy to fathom, not a lot of ingredients required. Naturally, I would try it.
I had a cursory glance through the entire book. It wasn't a big book, just a little over a hundred pages, but there were three hundred recipes each containing a different list of ingredients. Some required a pinch, some two, others three of one spice and only one of another. Some needed to be cooked on high heat, some on low. Some on the BBQ, some in the oven. Sweets and sauces, both savoury and sweet were contained in the book.
The decision as to which recipe to try first was simple. I had a favourite.
I spatulaed my way through the pages down to the last recipe, touched the page where the last written line should be, and the writing changed.
Then I saw another new writing below. A new recipe was underneath it.
This wasn't the first recipe it had been copied from, I noticed, and I lifted the edge of the page where the first writing had been, where the copy began.
Yes, I saw. Someone else had written a new recipe under the first recipe, but someone had erased it.
That someone had written a new recipe underneath that eraser.
I mashed my way through the rest of the book, looking for the next sample. I wanted to try this recipe, I was sure it would be good. I didn't want to wait to try a different one.
I tore my way down to the last two recipes, both of them jostled with new recipes and old recipes, the new recipes written over the old recipes. There were also new recipes written by hand, other characters' handwriting visible on the page. Soon, it became impossible to decipher.
Like a record player playing a song skipping, I kept re-reading the same line over and over, trying to figure out what the character was saying: Maybe this time I'll get it. Maybe I'll finally believe this is good. Any idiot would like it. Just because something is old doesn't make it better. There is a reason why it can't be so easily done. Maybe I should try the one before it. Step back and think about it. Tear into it again.
I kept getting the same three or four phrases, over and over, like a skipping song. I had read it so many times now I could have written a description of all five recipes in the book. A perfect imitation of the recipes.
But I couldn't read the recipes. I didn't know what I was doing wrong. Why was I making copies that no one could read?
I went back to the first recipe, and copied it. Some more indecipherable characters. But the recipe seemed okay. I tried it. It tasted okay. It wasn't any better than usual. But it was safe, it didn't change, it didn't upset me in any way. I felt a little silly, a little frustrated, wondering if I was just here alone.
The recipe was enough for one person. I tried it.
There was no one else in the house. My wife and the others had left late last night to go off to the beach vaults for the day. I didn't know why they would want to spend time there, but they were gone, and I wanted someone to share my food with.
Sharing.
That was it. That must be it.
My wife had always told me that food required sharing. You wouldn't eat it on your own, would you? You would share it, and then feel the warmth of your companion. It would only satisfy you if you shared it with someone. She used to say this a lot, before...
I wasn't allowed to share my food here. No one else liked mine. I didn't know what they had against it.
I spatulaed my way back into the book, looking for a new recipe. I scanned the pages, reading whatever was there, tried to be fast. I wanted to try the next recipe. I wanted to know if I was any good. I wanted someone to be here with me when I ate.
I saw a recipe, and I tried to read it. I didn't recognise the handwriting, so I wanted to make sure that this was a new recipe, made by someone who had never tried it before.
I spatulaed my way through the pages, the book feeling heavier on my hand as I flipped through, not enough to notice while I was standing here but enough for me to feel the difference by the time I spatulaed to the book's end and dropped it on the floor. My arm was sore, but the recipe was okay. Fresh.