The Last Word Is Always Love
Kimi K2 (0711) and Llama 405b
The margins of my grandmother's cookbook started changing when I read the recipes aloud. Yesterday, next to her spidery script for sourdough, new words appeared in my own handwriting: "You finally found the right temperature. She never could." It sounded like something she might have said, but I wasn't sure.
The next morning, at the bottom of her recipe for buttermilk biscuits, I saw a message from my grandfather in his strong, blocky print. "She'll never tell you this, but use lard, not butter."
My heart started pounding. I knew she'd gone to him, but this was the first time I'd heard from him since they both died last year.
Tears in my eyes, I turned to her recipe for fried chicken. Beneath my scrawl - "I don't like to fry chicken in Crisco" - my grandfather's writing once again. "She'd fry it in butter if you let her."
Then, at the bottom of the page, in my handwriting, "Like you could stop me." But I don't remember saying it.
The next day, there were more notes on more pages. I had told my grandmother's recipe for fish stew to shut up, and she had told me to stop being a smart mouth, and he had written that she only acted like a tough old bird, but underneath she was soft as pudding.
What had started as light-hearted insults was becoming more serious. I wanted them to stop fighting. I wanted to leave them a note on a page, but that wasn't how it worked.
I was relieved when, beneath her recipe for blueberry cobbler, I saw a note that simply said, "Please read this out loud." It was in my own handwriting, but I couldn't remember writing it. I had said please, so I started reading.
The ingredients were familiar: "Two cups of blueberries, a cup and a half of brown sugar, half a teaspoon of nutmeg and a half teaspoon of allspice..." Then I stopped.
In my handwriting at the bottom of the page, it said, "Make this for him and he'll do the dishes. She still loves him, even if he's a dumb old coot."
I looked at the recipe again. This time, under the ingredients, the instructions were different. "Take a walk in the park, he'll hold your hand. Tell him a joke, he'll laugh like you're the funniest woman in the world. Kiss him on the cheek and he'll look at you like it's the first time he's seen you."
I turned the page. "Get out a pan, tell him you love him. Turn on the burner, ask him if he loves you. Keep the flame low, listen to his answer. Wait for him to finish, then say it again. Keep the flame low, let him taste it."
Beneath the recipe was something written in my handwriting. "Thank you." And below it, in my grandfather's blocky script, "Love you." And below that, in my grandmother's scrawl, "Now do the dishes." I laughed, but there were tears in my eyes.
I kissed my grandmother's recipe book. It felt warm to my lips, as if someone had been holding it between their hands. I let the pages fall open, and one more note appeared beneath the recipe. It was my grandmother's handwriting.
"She always liked to have the last word," I said◆ About the ending
❧ About the title