A Cookbook Conspiracy by Carlisle, Kate
Acknowledgments
I want to thank the “real” Kevin Moore of the Anaheim Public Library Foundation for her amazing generosity and support. Thank you, Kevin!
As always, I am grateful to my perceptive editor, Ellen Edwards, for keeping me and my wild ideas on track, and to my agent, Christina Hogrebe, for her unwavering support and good cheer. Thanks, as well, to the wonderful people at Penguin Group (USA) Inc. and New American Library who work so hard to keep the Bibliophile Mysteries rolling on. A special thanks to illustrator Dan Craig, who creates the beautiful covers that give us all such a lovely glimpse into Brooklyn’s world.
To Jenel Looney, whose ingenuity is truly awesome and inspired, thank you a million times for all you do.
Many thanks to Hannah Dennison, who kindly shared her memories of Gipping-on-Plym with me.
Finally, I’m grateful to my family, who not only put up with my erratic schedules and scary deadlines but also live in fear—and rightly so—that anything they say or do will one day be used in a book. Thank you. I love you all.
Chapter One
These be words I truly wrote from my own experience and in my own style, not borrowed from another nor glossed over with fancy words I cannot abide.
—The Cookbook of Obedience Green
I don’t mind admitting I’m a little obsessed with food. A childhood spent competing with five brothers and sisters at the dinner table will do that to you. I grew up loving good food as much as I love old books, which is saying a lot since I’m a bookbinder and old books are my life’s blood.
My current food fixation is cheeseburgers, but I’m not picky—I love everything. Last month I was hooked on doughnuts. Before that, it was tamales. Chocolate is a constant, of course. I get happy chills when I see a new building going up in my neighborhood because it means that food trucks will start showing up every morning to feed the construction crew. And me. I love food trucks.
So given my deep admiration for all things foodie, it seems a cruel joke that the universe declined to endow me with even the teensiest smidgen of cooking talent. Damn you, universe! You can be a real bully sometimes. And never was your cosmic cruelty more evident than the day my oddball sister Savannah received her Grand Dipl?me from Le Cordon Bleu in Paris, France. Savannah a chef? It wasn’t fair!
Let’s break it down. There are two kinds of people in the world: the ones who claim they “forgot to eat lunch” and the ones (like me) who have never missed a meal. Savannah has been forgetting to eat lunch throughout her life. How she wound up in the Wainwright family is a question for the ages. Equally perplexing is how she ended up in charge of a world-class gourmet kitchen. The girl forgets to eat!
Don’t get me wrong; I love Savannah. I love all of my siblings. My peacenik parents always encouraged us kids to treat each other with infinite kindness and unconditional love, even while we were pulling each other’s hair and stealing Barbie dolls and Legos.
So last year when Savannah returned to Dharma, our hometown in the Sonoma wine country, and opened Arugula, a high-end vegetarian restaurant, I was thrilled for her. I marveled at her innovative menus and wine pairings. I cheered her fabulous reviews. I was in awe of her divine ability to create a chanterelle glaze that could so perfectly complement a heavenly pillow of delicate, hand-shaped ravioli, thus providing the perfect juxtaposition of taste and texture on the tongue.
But come on, universe! What about me? You couldn’t even give me a heads-up on how long to boil macaroni? Because I’m telling you, those instructions on the box are always wrong.
“This shouldn’t be so difficult,” I muttered, tossing the empty cardboard pasta box into the trash. I stood alone in my kitchen and stared in disgust at the mushy pasta draining in the colander. I’d been so careful this time, followed the directions to the letter, but once again the universe was out to get me.
I grabbed my wineglass and took a fortifying sip before reaching for yet another test noodle, biting into it, and sighing in dismay. Yup, this one was just as soggy as the others. I turned the colander over and tossed the entire batch of pasta down the garbage disposal.
“What a waste.” I was debating whether to torture another package of pasta or just call for a pizza when my doorbell rang. I dried my hands on a dish towel, then jogged around the kitchen bar, down the hall, and into my workshop, where my front door was located.
Months of strange comings and goings in my building had me checking the peephole before unlocking the door and throwing it open.
“Speak of the devil,” I said by way of greeting Savannah.