Her mother always said that a clean recipe book was unlucky. She had inherited her book of recipes with the broken spine from her own grandmother, its pages stiffened by tomato sauce and crusted with split sugar, the writing inside as delicate as spider webs.
Niamh liked to put it to her nose, the scents of the food it had made complimented by the aging paper.
What she didn’t tell anyone was that the book could transport her so that she was standing by her great-grandmother’s side, dusted sugar on her lips and warmed spices in her hair.
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