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This
was
a
lie
.
In
all
the
years
not
one
single
dish
resembled
another
.
Was
this
one
from
the
deep
green
sea
?
Had
that
one
been
shot
from
blue
summer
air
?
Was
it
a
swimming
food
or
a
flying
food
,
had
it
pumped
blood
or
chlorophyll
,
had
it
walked
or
leaned
after
the
sun
?
No
one
knew
.
No
one
asked
.
No
one
cared
.
The
most
people
did
was
stand
in
the
kitchen
door
and
peer
at
the
baking
-
powder
explosions
,
enjoy
the
clangs
and
rattles
and
bangs
like
a
factory
gone
wild
where
Grandma
stared
half
blindly
about
,
letting
her
fingers
find
their
way
among
canisters
and
bowls
.
Was
she
conscious
of
her
talent
?
Hardly
.
If
asked
about
her
cooking
,
Grandma
would
look
down
at
her
hands
which
some
glorious
instinct
sent
on
journeys
to
be
gloved
in
flour
,
,
r
to
plumb
disencumbered
turkeys
,
wrist
-
deep
in
search
of
their
animal
souls
.
Her
gray
eyes
blinked
from
spectacles
warped
by
forty
years
of
oven
blasts
and
blinded
with
strewings
of
pepper
and
sage
,
so
she
sometimes
flung
cornstarch
,
ver
steaks
,
amazingly
tender
,
succulent
steaks
!
And
sometimes
dropped
apricots
into
meat
leaves
,
cross
-
pollinated
meats
,
herbs
,
fruits
,
vegetables
with
no
prejudice
,
no
tolerance
for
recipe
or
formula
,
save
that
at
the
final
moment
of
delivery
,
mouths
watered
,
blood
thundered
in
response
.
Her
lands
then
,
like
the
hands
of
Great
-
grandma
before
her
,
were
Grandma
’
s
mystery
,
delight
,
and
life
.
She
looked
at
them
in
astonishment
,
but
let
them
live
their
life
the
way
they
must
absolutely
lead
it
.
But
now
for
the
first
time
in
endless
years
,
here
was
an
upstart
,
a
questioner
,
a
laboratory
scientist
almost
,
speaking
out
where
silence
could
have
been
a
virtue
.
"
Yes
,
yes
,
but
what
did
you
put
in
this
Thursday
Special
?
"
"
Why
,
"
said
Grandma
evasively
,
"
what
does
it
taste
like
to
you
?
"
Aunt
Rose
sniffed
the
morsel
on
the
fork
.
"
Beef
,
or
is
it
lamb
?
Ginger
,
or
is
it
cinnamon
?
Ham
sauce
?
Bilberries
?
Some
biscuit
thrown
in
?
Chives
?
Almonds
?
"
