oven temperatures, written by three different people. The box was less a record of one woman’s perfection than a history of people showing up.
Nora called her grandmother’s friend Mae, intending to ask about the handwriting. Instead, she asked whether Mae had eaten dinner. There was a pause. “Not yet,” Mae said. Nora looked around at the open cupboards and half-filled boxes. “I have canned tomatoes and a loaf of bread,” she said. “And nowhere nice to put either.”
“Good,” Mae replied. “I’ll bring a pot.” She arrived with the pot, two onions and an opinion about which wooden spoon Nora ought to keep. They cleared enough counter to work. The soup was ordinary. The bread was from the supermarket. Neither woman mentioned that the table had mismatched chairs.
Halfway through dinner, Nora apologized for the mess. Mae pointed her spoon toward the recipe box. “Your grandmother always hid things
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