SPENT has made it to the next round of voting for All Authors Cover of the Month! You can vote once each round, and I’d love for you to continue voting! Thanks again for all your support. VOTE HERE: https://allauthor.com/cover-of-the-month/17484/
I swear, sometimes I am psychic.
Over dinner Wednesday evening, I asked the family for input on something that was bothering me.
“If you submitted something to a contest, well ahead of the deadline, and then that deadline was extended, would you think the jury wanted more time because what they had already received was shit?”
This was my headspace around a short story contest I had submitted to earlier in the year. Two days before the deadline, they extended it.
Everyone had a different opinion about why this might happen, but I knew in my bones that my story would not be accepted. Later that night, at exactly 8:34 pm, the longlist for that contest landed in my inbox. I wasn’t on it. I can’t explain why I had to bring this up at dinner that night. My intuition was bang on and maybe I also felt I needed their kind words and support.
I have zero grief about this. This was the third time I submitted this story and this would be the final rejection. Moving on to the next thing.
I want to share this story, Secret Recipes, with you this week. It may not be award-worthy, but I still like it.
Happy reading!
xo Dana
Secret Recipes
“I don’t want to be a nudge, Stu, but are you going to deal with that today?”
Stuart, resettling the baby on his left hip, looked over his right shoulder to the box in the foyer.
“Yes, Arthur,” he huffed, “I’ll take care of it.” On top of all the other things I do everyday.
Arthur smiled and leaned in for a kiss. Stuart pressed his mouth to his husband’s thin lips.
“Have a good day,” he called as Art walked to his car parked in the driveway. “Wave bye-bye to daddy!” Baby Liam lifted his pudgy little hand and squeezed the fingers opened and closed. They stood in the open doorway, watching Art drive away.
“Ok, Liam,” Stu said as he closed the door, “what should we start with today? Breakfast? Playtime?”
Liam pushed his tongue through his lips and blew a spit-filled raspberry. “Gahmahba” he babbled, looking seriously at his father.
“Okay, then. Smoothie it is.”
Taking a step, Stu stubbed his slippered toe. He looked down, frowning at the dusty brown box. It had been sitting in the foyer for almost two weeks now. If Stu was being honest with himself, it wasn’t that he was too busy to open it, it’s that he was avoiding what might be inside. The box had come to him a month after his grandmother passed away. He hadn’t seen or spoken to her in a decade. She cut him off when he came out.
“Maybe we leave the crate of hate for later, hmmm? What do you think, Liam?” The baby smiled, then giggled.
Stu put the baby down on the runner. Liam shrieked, pushing himself from his bum onto his knees. He rocked back and forth, readying his little body. The wool gave him the leverage his chubby and bare knees needed. Stu walked in front of Liam, turning back and squatting, arms open, inviting Liam to crawl forward. The baby started moving, one knee thrusting out in front of the other, propelling him forward. Liam stopped at the box, then used both hands to grab the dusty edge of the top. He pulled his little body into a kneel, then leaned forward to gum the space between his hands.
“Liam, NO!” Stu shouted. Stu lunged for the baby, but it was too late. Liam’s face was smeared with wet black streaks of dirt. Stu shuddered, imagining where that box had been sitting and where that dirt came from.
He rushed the baby to the kitchen, soaking one of the washcloths they kept in a drawer by the sink. He wiped the soot from Liam’s face, who gurgled before throwing up all over himself and down the front of Stu’s tee and joggers.
“This is why Daddy doesn’t always get things done,” Stu moaned.
Post bath, there was just enough time for Stu to get them both dressed and Liam fed before they had to run out the door. Wednesdays were Gymtastic days and if Liam didn’t get his mid-week music interlude and Stu didn’t get time with his stay-at-home-parent friends, they would both be cranky until the weekend.
When they got back home, the stroller rammed into the box, causing Stu to almost drop the grocery bag he cradled. He peered down at the sleeping baby, who didn’t seem fussed by the jarring. Using the side of his foot, Stu pushed the box closer to the wall.
Leaving Liam asleep in his stroller, Stu began to prep dinner. With the mellow music of his favourite cooking playlist playing, he sliced peppers, slivered an onion and cut chicken breast, swaying his hips to the music. He had never really explored cooking until he and Arthur moved in together, and he knew he would never be a chef. His repertoire of meals were all easy to prepare, and sheet pan fajitas were top of his list.
“The box is still here?” Arthur grumbled the moment he stepped into the house.
Stu shoved his hands into oven mitts, roughly pulling the baking sheet out of the oven.
“Dinner is ready,” he announced, ignoring the comment.
Art kissed the top of Liam’s head. “Hello sweet boy,” he said. The baby responded with a sputtering gurgle.
Art shook out his napkin, placing it on his lap. “I thought you were going to deal with the box today. Did you forget?”
Stu tucked his chin to his neck, looking up at Art from under his furrowed brow. He leaned back and slumped in his chair.
“I didn’t forget. It was a busy day. Liam threw up, then needed a bath. He had gymnastics. Then we went to the library. We stopped at the park after so Liam could play with some friends. Then I got groceries for dinner, dropped off your dry cleaning—”
“I don’t need a run down of your day, Stu. I get it. You’re a very busy man. But when you say you’re going to do something, you should do it.”
Stu glared at his husband. “I’ll…get…to…it…when…I…can.” He put space between each word, trying to contain his anger.
“Pffthhtt,” Liam answered, spraying out food.
“Why are you steering clear of that box? What are you afraid of?” Arthur asked as he pulled their comforter down later that night.
“I’m not steering clear,” Stu lied.
“Yes, you are. Do you want me to open it? I can audit the contents for anything…unsavoury.”
Stu sighed. Arthur always had his back. He was loving and supportive, and he knew how much Stu hurt when his grandmother looked through him like he wasn’t even there. Over and over again, at every family event, Stu extended the olive branch. He tried to make conversation. He brought her favourite pecan and caramel chocolates to every gathering. The final nail in the coffin—and the biggest blow for Stuart—was her refusal to come to Liam’s baby shower.
He shook his head. “No, I’ll do it. Tomorrow. Can you drop Liam at daycare?”
Art nodded. “Sure. I haven’t had a chance to flirt with Simon in ages,” he winked.
Stu laughed. Everyone flirted with the daycare’s hot, gay, owner.
Thursday morning came with low, grey clouds and the threat of rain. Stu felt the thick humidity cling to him when he kissed Art and Liam goodbye at the front door. He might have imagined it, but the brown banker’s box appeared to sag, as if burdened by the heat, oppressed by expectations.
“What secrets are you hiding?” Stu wondered aloud.
He bent over to pick up the box, but it was heavier than he had anticipated. The delivery guy had placed it in the foyer with such ease. Did she send me rocks? Stu dragged the box into the kitchen, then hefted it onto the kitchen table. A plume of dust rose when he dropped it down. He glanced down at his shirt, aggravated by the smear the box left across his middle. Good thing there is always laundry to do in this house.
Scissors in hand, Stu cut through the clear tape sealing the edge of the lid. His heart was pounding as he took a step back, putting space between him and whatever might jump out of the box. He tucked his fingers under the corner of the lid and lifted. He peered inside, but saw nothing in the darkness within. He pushed the lid off, letting it fall onto the kitchen table and then started laughing. He was looking at crumbled brown packing paper. There were no booby traps, no spiders or snakes patiently waiting to attack.
Removing the layers of paper, Stu uncovered what appeared to be leather-bound journals.
“What the…?”
Without hesitation, he reached in and pulled the first one out. Stu laid the burgundy leather-covered book on the table and opened to the first page. The smell of mildew wafted up his nose. The lined pages were dry, but some were wavy, like they had been wet once. On page one, in swirly calligraphy, were the numbers 1965. Stu flipped the page, finding elegant and angled penmanship.
“Yesterday, I was Caroline Meldon. When I woke this morning, it took me a moment to recall I was now Mrs. Caroline Speckham.”
Stu hunched over the journal, recognizing his grandmother’s handwriting. He continued reading.
“My first responsibility is to set up house, to get the staples I need for the kitchen.”
At the bottom of the page was a grocery list of spices. Stu remembered doing this exact thing when he and Arthur first moved in together. As he kept turning pages, Stu found this journal contained mostly recipes. He never heard of some of these things: Steak Diane and Salmon mousse; Sazerac and Sidecar. The smears and stains that were now more than 50 years old told their own story. Why on earth had she left these for him? Stu had never given her any indication he was interested in cooking. She must have assumed all gay men liked to cook.
In the third book he opened, Stu found flowers and leaves pressed between the pages, alongside recipes for tinctures and salves. He pulled out all the books—37 in all—of various sizes, colours, and styles. Some were leather bound, while others were hardcovers with geometric patterns. There were a handful of spiral bound steno pads where the pages flipped up. Every one was dated with the year it was started. Stu realized half the day had passed when his stomach rumbled.
He randomly reached into the pile, pulling out a dark green journal with a ring stain on the front. Stu wondered for a moment if it was coffee, or water, or perhaps a midday nip of sazerac—which he now knew was whiskey, bitters and absinthe. 1968. He found a recipe for quiche Lorraine, and confirmed he had most of the ingredients, substituting Swiss gruyere and a milk and butter combination for cream. He was surprised by how easy it was to make a flaky crust, and how simple ingredients he already had on hand could make a whole meal.
While the quiche was in the oven, Stu continued flipping pages. Halfway through the journal, he found a paragraph tacked on to the end of a recipe for Chicken à la king.
“Oh my unborn child, if only you could understand the thing I’m doing, I am doing out of love. I cannot bring you into this society of uncaring and selfish people. You see my darling, if I had you, your future would be in my hands. I am barely capable of coping with myself.”
“Holy shit,” Stu muttered to himself, wondering why his grandmother would write this here, like a diary entry. The oven timer rang, pulling him away from the journals. Without waiting for the quiche to properly cool, he cut into the pie, letting the textures and flavour flood his mouth. How could someone so bitter, make something so delicious?
“Clearly, she had an abortion,” Art said around a mouthful of cold quiche at dinner.
“That was three years after my mother was born. Why would she get an abortion?”
Art shrugged. “Maybe there was a problem with the baby. Or maybe the pregnancy caused a medical issue. Back then, abortions were illegal. A board of male doctors made the decisions about when termination was necessary.”
“God, that’s horrible.” Stu fell silent for a moment, looking at the words his grandmother wrote.
“Is that the only note?” Art asked.
“It’s the only one I’ve found. I randomly pulled some out, but there was nothing else. After I made the quiche, I put all the journals into chronological order.” Stu pointed to four piles of journals resting on the far end of the quartz countertop.
“I think it’s kind of cool that you have these. I know your grandmother hated us, and if you want to get rid of these, I’d understand. But it might be a good idea to hang on to them. You know, for Liam.”
Liam smacked his fist into the cold egg pie on his highchair tray, punctuating the sentiment.
Stu gazed at the piles. “I might leave them there for a bit. I need time to process. But at least I got rid of the box in the foyer,” he grinned sheepishly.
The journals sat untouched until the weekend. Art took on their errands, so when Liam went down for his afternoon nap, Stu had time to kill. He stood at the counter, chewing his thumbnail while trying to decide if he wanted to see what else was in the journals. He pulled the next book from the pile, 1969.
He turned the pages slowly, scanning the recipes for unexpected prose. He was almost at the end when he found a passage, hidden between beat egg whites until light and add sugar gradually in a recipe for upside down pineapple cake.
“The people are no longer sheep requiring a shepherd. We fight. We sing about peace and Space Oddities. One day, we will be free. They can throw Stones at the Wall, but the rainbow will always come after it pours. I miss you, Maggie.”
Stu frowned. None of this made any sense. Was Maggie the aborted baby? He continued to the end of the journal, but there were no more notes. Page-by-page, he went through the books. He ran his fingers over the indentations left by his grandmother’s pen. He brought a book to his nose, smelling a mix of leather oil and cooking molasses.
In 1975, there were two single-line notes.
“We are not psychotic” she scribbled between the ingredients for lemon meringue pie. “I graze my hand against my skin and think of you” was tacked onto the first step in making Watergate salad.
As he started to read 1982, Stu heard Liam stirring from his nap. He was grateful for the distraction. The notes in the journals were so cryptic, with no explanation, and Stu was starting to wonder if maybe his grandmother was bi-polar or suffered from some other kind of mental illness.
“I can’t make heads or tails of all this stuff,” Stu said, spooning some sloppy joe into his mouth. “I mean, in the recipe for these sandwiches, she wrote “They called us fish, but we swam upstream, bringing our Blood Sisters.””
“That’s some weird poetry,” Art said, shaking his head.
“Or signs of insanity,” Stu smirked.
“I think you’re actually enjoying discovering these recipes,” Art smiled. “I know I am.”
“It’s weird, right? I feel like I’m connecting with a woman I didn’t know. Caroline was so horrible to me…to us. Maybe this was her way of reaching out and making peace. Maybe she’s trying to tell me something through all these notes.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Art said. “The entries started decades before you were born.”
“I asked my dad if he ever looked inside the journals, but he said he didn’t even know they existed. And even if he did, he had no interest in recipes.”
When Art went to bed, Stu drifted back into the kitchen to flip through more journals. As he progressed though the remaining piles, he found recipes cut out of magazines and an unsigned erotic love letter in someone else’s swirly handwriting that made Stu blush. Did Caroline have an affair? Gram, you saucy minx.
Stu took the last book, dated 2002, to the couch and lay down. Holding the book up over his face, he turned the pages, stopping when he came to an entry that had no recipe at all.
“Stu is different, like me. But different from me. He is fascinated with my perfume bottles, dresses and high heels.”
“Yeah, grams, cos I’m gay,” Stu laughed to himself.
“I would give them all to him if I could live freely as I wish. I would parade him out if I could do the same. I cannot, and that is killing me. Perhaps the world will change and all the work we’ve done will allow him to love whom he chooses. It’s not fair, but someone had to do the fighting.”
Reading those sentences stirred something in Stuart. On a whim, he went back to the diary entires, re-reading the breadcrumbs buried in the recipes. The capitalized words meant something. He took to the internet, searching the terms and the year of the journal they appeared in. Space Oddity. Stonewall. Blood Sisters. The song by David Bowie. The riot that launched the gay rights movement. The lesbians who took care of the gay men dying of AIDS and also gave blood to help boost the shortage. He re-read the anonymous erotic letter, this time noticing the feminine handwriting. What if that letter was written to a woman who was loved by another? A grandmother who knew her grandson was gay, but couldn’t accept it for fear of revealing her own desires, and was bitter about it. A woman who was smart enough to hide her secrets in recipe books, where her husband would never see them.
His mind swirled. He dropped the journal to his chest, wiping away his tears. He cried for her lost life, for her inability to be who truly was, and for the time he never got to share with her.
He wanted to wake Arthur and share the revelation. Instead, Stu gathered the journals, and started at the beginning. Caroline may be gone, but he would find her here, her secrets served up alongside the spills and stains of her best recipes.
Dana, I see your talent in every word. Too bad the contest judges missed an opportunity to showcase Secret Recipes. I enjoyed it and thank you for sharing.