Sam unwrapped the book, leaving the brown paper intact. Sitting in the middle was her latest purchase. She couldn’t resist buying used cookbooks, the kind that were full of handwritten recipes passed through families, stains of ingredients and memories splattered throughout. Notes scribbled in the spaces, ideas for next time. She would cook every recipe, in order, adding her own notes, suggestions for a next time that would never come. And then she would bring it to a used book shop, resale store, wherever, and offer it.

When refused, she left it on a shelf.

This one was a beauty: handmade with care, the red gingham cover perfect for a cookbook. She read each page. Just as she was ready to close it, she noticed the pocket – the one where recipse to try are tucked away during their test period. Before they earn a handwritten entry in the coveted pages.

She felt folded paper. She pulled out the yellowed piece of loose leaf, but it didn’t contain a recipe. Sam’s eyes widened as she started to read the note.