I stared at the book’s impressive title. The Cookbook of Obedience Green: Containing Three Hundred Curious and Uncommon Receipts and Including Miscellaneous Articles of Useful Domestic Information and a Brief History of My Life, by Obedience Green, many years Cook and Housekeeper to the Eminent War General Robt. Blakeslee.
Curious and Uncommon Receipts? I had no idea what that meant, but if Obedience had been a housekeeper, perhaps she’d recorded her household grocery receipts or something. I turned a few more pages to read an introduction in the same fancy handwritten script as the title page. It was slow going, especially since every s looked like an f.
I had no idea what the author meant when she promised to offer the most modern receipts presented in the most elegant manner. It wasn’t until I reached the Table of Contents page that I realized what she meant by receipts. My clue was at the top of the page, where she had written Herein a bountiful listing of receipts and a practical bill of fare for every season, every month of the year.
“Recipes!” I looked at Savannah. “Because it’s a cookbook.”
“Duh,” Savannah said, her eyes rolling dramatically as only a sister’s could. “Can you fix it up or not?”
“Of course I can fix it, but I’m not sure I should.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The book might be too important.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake.” Clearly annoyed, she stood and folded her arms across her chest. “It’s just an old cookbook, Brooklyn.”
“It’s not just old, Savannah.” I returned to the title page and searched for a date. I finally found it scrawled at the end of a long, run-on sentence that listed various contributors’ names. MDCCLXXXII. I dug back into my grammar school brain and did a quick translation of the Roman numerals. M was one thousand, D was five hundred, and C was one hundred. So, one thousand five hundred, six hundred, seven hundred. Seventeen hundred. L was the Roman numeral for fifty. X was ten, so three X’s after the L made it eighty. Plus two I’s.
1782. Yikes.
I took a few fortifying breaths until I could finally scowl sufficiently at her. “It’s over two hundred and thirty years old.” I showed her the date, then clutched the book to my breast. “That makes it extremely valuable just on its surface, never mind its historical or cultural value. And it’s written by hand! It’s beyond rare. Where did you find it? What are you going to do with it?”
Her shoulders slumped and I felt mine sinking, too. My sister could be so clueless sometimes. And right then, it was obvious that she thought the same of me. “What does it matter to you? Why do you always have to ask so many questions? Can’t you just do as I ask? Just—” She fluttered her hand at me. “You know, do that thing you do. Dust it off and put a pretty cover on it.”
I glared at her. “Do I tell you how to make a soufflé?”
She laughed a little as she held up her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. But if you could…I don’t know. Just fix it. I’ll pay you whatever it costs if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“You know I don’t care about the money,” I muttered, still too fascinated by the book to get completely riled up at her. I was used to people undervaluing books, especially these days when you could download a classic novel onto your phone for free. But it was frustrating to know that my own sister couldn’t recognize the book’s value. Savannah was many things: chef extraordinaire, bald as a baby, free spirit, vegetarian. But book lover? Nope, not Savannah. Not in this lifetime.
Ignoring her, I inspected the book’s Table of Contents and couldn’t help smiling at some of the old-fashioned terms used for the various chapters:
Mutton Flesh: A Primer
Drying and Salting of Flesh and Fyshes
Tongues and Udders
Collaring, Potting and Pickling
Fricassees
Syllabubs and Jellies.
I thumbed carefully through the pages, but stopped abruptly when I saw the words I delivered a baby today. My first experience and possibly the only time I’ll ever do such a thing, for it was frightening and messy.
“Hey, looks like part of the book is a journal.” I paged to the beginning of the section.
8 March 1774. In high spirits. Today we set sail for America. Through the good graces of Miss Ashford at Budding House, I have obtained an apprenticeship with Mrs. Branford, cook and housekeeper to His Lordship General Robert Blakeslee, lately appointed Royal Governor of Massachusetts. Mrs. Branford has vouchsafed to instruct me in the art and science of food preparation, of which I confess to know little.
11 March 1774. Today Mrs. Branford scolded Cletus, the ship’s cook, for adding garlic to the dishes. While happily employed by the French, she advised, garlic is nonetheless better suited to the medicine chest than to the kitchen.
17 March 1774. Storm coming. Ship rocking violently and I am unable to eat.
18 March 1774. Overcome with grief. Mrs. Branford has been swept overboard in a savage gale.