The recipe was penciled on the inside of the cabinet door. No title. No occasion. Six lines of ingredients, four lines of instruction. Just bread. She never mentioned it. The rolls just appeared.

Her mother made it when there was nothing. Grandma made it her whole life long after there was any financial reason to. She served it in the good bowls every time. Not the everyday ones. The good ones.

The recipe was pure Grandma: equal parts simplicity and danger. Chili powder, smoked paprika, a mountain of beans, and a commandment written in the margins: “Use fresh peppers only.”