Cookbooks

I like reading freecycle and the classified sections of newspapers, just to see what people are selling. There’s never an explanation why ... until now. I’m going to start writing a story a day [[or as frequently as possible]], breathing life into these classifieds. The actual ad will be posted up top, followed by the tale. Enjoy. -- lisa


RE-OFFER -- 22 paperback cook books. Last time I offered these the "Taker" never called back. These are 5-1/2" x 8-1/2" paperbacks, about 60-70 pages each. Each on a different subject from soup to nuts. Some "Good
Housekeeping", some ShopRite. Thumb worn, but handy.


I’m done trying, he told himself as he leafed through one of the cookbooks his grandmother had left him. It wasn’t much of an inheritance, but his grandmother was hoping the gift would travel to his wife. She made notes in the margins that would help her future granddaughter-in-law, markings like, “a dash of salt isn’t enough” or “if you add too many peas, the color is off-putting.”

The problem was: He never got married. He had the books in his kitchen for years, sitting under take out menus. Real men don’t cook, he once said. He told that to his grandmother one day, and she said a nice woman would one day come along and change his mind. She said when his wife was pregnant with their child, he would cook her anything she wanted. I can make reservations, he told his grandmother, but she said that’s not the same as her famous lasagna.

His grandmother died and he felt an obligation to at least try one recipe from a book. He came home with all the ingredients, put them into a glass Pyrex dish and put it in the oven. He took it out of the oven and placed it on the counter. Next thing he knew, he heard a loud bang. He wanted back into the kitchen and the Pyrex dish had exploded – sending shards of glass and food everywhere.

He picked up a piece of chicken- and cheese-coated glass and thought, I’m done trying.

He swept the glass into a garbage bag and put the books in a box. It gives more room for take out menus, food that doesn’t fight back, he said.

That’s when he posted the classified ad.

It was admitting defeat, admitting the food had won. But there was another victor: bachelorhood. His grandmother has given him the cookbooks with the hope that some young housewife-to-be would enjoy cooking as much as she did, and her recipes would feed and comfort future generations as it had past ones.

There would be no wife for this man. There would be no cookbooks. There would be no more explosive glass dishes.

Unless, of course, the person who is picking up the books is young, pretty, and owns metal pans instead.