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and that’s when he gets upset. No one can make his soup like I can. Not even his wife could, and Eve certainly can’t.”

      I told Eve what her grandmother said, and Eve agreed that she wasn’t much of a cook.

      “But will she try, if I give her the recipe?” Grandma asked me. “Please? For my boy? Will she try and make his soup?”

      Eve agreed to try, and Grandma agreed to cross over once she’d given us the recipe. Two weeks later, Eve called me to tell me how the soup had turned out.

      “The house doesn’t smell so good,” she admitted. “I had to move the pot to the detached garage while it’s stewing, but you wouldn’t believe it, Mary Ann.” I could hear her getting a bit emotional, but she gathered herself and explained, “When he ate that soup, my father actually cried with joy.”

      She paused, then added, “It must be an acquired taste.”

      Grandma’s Pickled-Beet Soup

      6 large or 10 small beets

      4 cups lukewarm water

      1 slice sour rye bread

      Salt and pepper to taste

      Dash of sugar (optional)

      Scrape and dice the beets. Cover with water and place slice of bread on top. Cover loosely and let stand for 4 days in the warmest part of the kitchen. The liquid should be sour and tasty by that time (depending on the weather). Should mold appear, carefully skim it off. Discard bread and season soup to taste. May be served hot or cold with sour cream, if desired. Tightly covered, it may be stored in the refrigerator for later use.

      MRS. WHITE’S CLEAR CONSOMMÉ

      RUTH JOHNSON WAS NOTHING IF NOT FRUGAL. She counted pennies and clipped coupons, and when she saw a good deal at the secondhand shop, she didn’t think twice about taking it. So it was with the cooking pot she came across one day: It was the right size, and the lid, of all things, was spectacular. She’d been looking for something bigger to make her applesauce in, and she couldn’t help but grin with glee at finally finding it.

      Then the problems began.

      First it was the lightbulbs in the kitchen constantly burning out, then it was the radio going on the fritz. Around the same time Ruth started feeling run-down, which she attributed to her suddenly restless nights. But it wasn’t until she saw the shadow that she thought she’d better call someone.

      Just outside her bedroom door she had a nightlight in the hallway, and she started seeing it go out then come back on again—only she knew it wasn’t turning on and off. No, she could just tell that someone was walking in front of it and blocking it from her view momentarily. As reasonable as she was frugal, Ruth knew when she was up against something she needed help with. She hadn’t lived 60 years and not learned when it was time to ask for help.

      When I arrived at Ruth’s small bungalow, where she’d lived for 25 years, I confirmed immediately that there was a ghost because she was standing glaring at us before I even got in the door. Her name was Mrs. White, and she clearly didn’t appreciate sass from anyone. Her hair was gray and tied up in a severe bun, and she refused to give me her first name.

      “Mrs. White,” she said curtly. “Everyone calls me Mrs. White.”

      Realizing that small talk was not going to work, I got right to the point: “Why are you here? Do you know Ruth?”

      She stood up straight and glared. “No, I don’t know her. She’s just using my pot wrong. Ask her—isn’t her applesauce always burning?”

      Ruth agreed that it was. Her new pot, as perfect as it was, always seemed to burn her applesauce.

      “That’s because the pot is made for consommé, not fruit,” Mrs. White explained haughtily.

      “Consommé?” I checked. “Do you mean broth—soup stock?”

      “I mean consommé!” she retorted. “I used to cook for the wealthiest family in four counties. I know what broth is and I know what my pot is for!”

      That’s when it all became clear. Ruth had brought home more than just a good pot from the secondhand store. She’d also brought home Mrs. White, whose pot it had been, and the old cook was angry about how Ruth was using it. When I explained this, Ruth was actually overjoyed.

      “I’ve always wanted to make my own soup stock!” she cried. “Will she give me her recipe if I promise not to use that pot for anything else?”

      “If she promises to call it consommé! And only if she cleans the pot well first,” Mrs. White decided, but I could tell by the twinkle in her eye that she’d got what she really wanted. Her consommé was clearly a great source of pride for her and she didn’t want the recipe to join her in the grave.

      Mrs. White’s Clear Consommé

      10 cups cold water

      ¼ pound chicken giblets or chicken meat, cut in small pieces

      ¼ pound veal

      2 pounds beef brisket

      Salt to taste

      Dash of freshly ground pepper

      2 medium onions, preferably baked

      1 large leek

      2 or 3 carrots

      1 celery root

      1 parsley root

      Few sprigs of parsley

      ½ head Savoy cabbage (optional)

      1 bay leaf

      1 bouillon cube

      The chicken and veal should be first dipped in boiling water. Cover chicken, veal and brisket with cold water (5 cups of water to 1 pound meat) and bring to a boil. Skim carefully. When no more fat comes to the surface, lower flame and add salt, pepper, and remaining ingredients. Cover and let simmer for 3 hours. Skim fat, strain, and serve with crackers or noodles.

      NEW ENGLAND CLAM CHOWDER

      MOTHERS LIKE TO BELIEVE THEIR CHILDREN WILL mature as they get older. In many ways they do, but in other ways they stay the same bickering siblings they’d been since they were little children. I don’t know if that’s any more true for twins, but Tammy and Terry from Rhode Island were still petty and argumentative when I met them when they were in their 40s.

      Don’t get me wrong; they were still close. They lived in the same development, and their families often got together for dinners and cookouts. Tammy was a nurse and Terry was a teacher, so neither of them had a career to lord over the other, but one thing seemed to bring out the inner bickering girls: Mom’s cooking. Or, more specifically, Mom’s recipes.

      Their mother, Martha, had been a private caterer, what Terry called her “cottage industry.” She hadn’t been rich, but she’d been a great cook and she’d turned it into a business to put her girls through college. That’s what Mom had wanted more than anything, and she had apparently gone out of her way to not share her recipes when she’d been alive, because she didn’t want the girls to follow her into her business. She wanted them to get good jobs with good pay, which they’d done.

      Now Martha had known when she was dying, so they’d had time to plan for their last goodbyes. Often they would sit with her and talk about growing up and the antics they’d all got up to. One day, Martha asked what they wanted of her. She wanted to make sure that each one got something of hers they really wanted, and she wanted them to have it before she died.

      But they both wanted her recipes.

      Finally, Martha decided they would divide them, and that they would have to share them if one ever wanted a recipe the other one had. They agreed, and the recipes found new homes. One of the ones that Tammy got was a recipe for New England clam chowder, which Terry had always loved, so she asked for a copy of it. Tammy was only too happy to give

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