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Eileen’s recipe notebook contains songs in the margins and very few reliable measurements.
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Eileen’s notebook rests on the hospital blanket, open at a recipe headed “Enough flour”. Her niece has underlined the words twice. Eileen cannot defend the measurement. Her mother judged dough by the feel of it, and Eileen copied the confidence without recording the explanation. Now she tries to remember the tin, the wooden spoon and the sound of the kitchen clock. The exact quantity still escapes her. Beside the recipe she writes a more useful detail: the loaf was always shared while the crust was still crackling.
Someone has tucked a song sheet into the notebook. Eileen remembers a family party at which three cousins sang three different versions of the final verse. Nobody yielded. Her father conducted them with a teaspoon until the youngest cousin announced a fourth version, entirely about the cake. That settled it. Everyone joined in. In her hospital room, Eileen taps the tune softly against the notebook cover. She remembers the ridiculous cake verse perfectly. The proper one has still not returned.
Eileen has left a clean page after the flour recipe. Her niece may put measurements there, if she wishes. On the next page Eileen writes down the cake verse, including the rhyme that never worked. She had thought a recipe notebook ought to be orderly. Looking through it now, she finds splashes, corrections and several different handwritings. It resembles the kitchen more closely that way. She closes it and moves it onto the bedside cabinet, ready for its next contributor.