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.

Margaret-from-the-choir has been making icebox cake at the third-Sunday potluck for longer than anyone can remember. She has never once come first. Grandma brought the same cake for twenty-two years and never explained why she didn't need to change it.

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 seemed innocuous enough: chicken, blackberries, and a whole lot of peppers. "Perfect," I thought, "a little kick, a little sweet." Grandma knew what's up, and she clearly didn't want Betty to know.