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Noreen’s Casserole
Episode 3 of 3 of Exactly As Written by Renee Dufresne · free to read
My sister cooked our grandmother’s last recipe card alone at her own house, and on Tuesday she brought it back blank.
That was how Noreen’s tin box worked. Cook a family card exactly as written, and its writer sat down to Sunday dinner until somebody cleared their plate. Then the card went white.
Gretchen came by Tuesday evening with it in a sandwich bag, the same way Arlo had carried Dad’s.
“I made it Sunday,” she said. “My husband took the kids to his mother’s.”
I let her in. She sat at my table in the chair Gran had used and didn’t seem to notice.
“Was she there?”
“She was there.” Gretchen turned the bag over in her hands. “She said my dumplings were too big. The card just says drop by spoonfuls, so I used a serving spoon. She said she always meant a teaspoon, the size of a walnut.”
“Were they big?”
“Like a fist.” She almost laughed. “We got an hour, maybe less. I couldn’t make it last any longer by myself. There was nobody to pass anything to.”
“What else did she say?”
“To call my brother.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
I put the card in the tin box with the others. That made three blank cards. One still had writing on it, at the very back.
Gretchen watched me. “You’re going to use Noreen’s.”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t,” she said. “Ivy, it’s the only thing left in her handwriting. Her house is sold. Her clothes went to the thrift store. You cook that card and there’s nothing.”
She wasn’t wrong. I had the tin box, one of her sweaters, and that card.
“She made it for me every Sunday,” I said. “Six years. After Gran died, somebody had to drive out there, and I was the one without kids.”
“I know. I should have gone too.”
“I missed one Sunday. The last one. I worked a double at the pharmacy and texted her I’d come next week.” I looked at the card. “She died that Tuesday. She ate her last Sunday dinner by herself.”
After Gretchen left I sat with it under the light. Noreen wrote small and square, like she was saving room. 8 OZ EGG NOODLES. 2 CANS TUNA, DRAINED. 1 CAN CREAM OF MUSHROOM. 1 CUP FROZEN PEAS. 1/2 CUP MILK. CHEDDAR. CRUSH CHIPS ON TOP. 350, 25 MIN. FOR IVY.
On Saturday night I took a fresh index card out of the pack. I copied the recipe in my own handwriting, word for word, down to FOR IVY. I had already lost Gran’s pot roast. I was not losing this one.
Then I held Noreen’s card over the open box and didn’t put it down.
I could slide it back behind the clippings. The box would have her writing in it for as long as I lived. Or I could give her the Sunday I had skipped.
I wasn’t keeping her in a box. I texted them both.
Noreen’s card. Tomorrow at six. It’s the last one, and I’m cooking it whether you come or not.
Gretchen came at quarter to six with a bag of rolls. Arlo came at six exactly, sat at the far end, and didn’t look at her.
I set the casserole down with the chips browned on top. Noreen was in the fourth chair, small, in her good blouse with the pin at the collar. She looked at the three of us one at a time.
“Well,” she said. “All three of you. At one table.”
“Hi, Noreen,” I said.
“I’d have paid money for this.” She held out her plate. “Corner piece, honey. Your grandmother always got the end piece, and I always got the corner.”
She asked Arlo about the garage and Gretchen about the baby. Nobody said much back. Noreen buttered a roll and waited.
“Somebody tell me what’s wrong,” she said. “Or pass the peas. Either one.”
Arlo passed the peas. Then he looked down the table at Gretchen.
“What was he like,” he said. “On the drives.”
Gretchen held her fork still. “He did the crossword in pen and got half of it wrong. He made me stop for gas station coffee every single time.” She swallowed. “He asked about you on every drive. Every one.”
Arlo nodded. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t get up either.
Noreen ate two helpings. Then she wiped her mouth and looked at me.
“You missed one Sunday,” she said. “Don’t you dare carry that around.”
“I should have come.”
“You came three hundred and eleven times. I kept track.” She folded her napkin. “Now clear the table, honey. I’m tired, and you three have dishes.”
Gretchen and Arlo both looked at me.
I could have warmed the rolls again. I could have made coffee and cut pie into slivers and kept her until midnight. I stood up and picked up her plate myself.
When I turned back from the sink, the chair was empty. Arlo was holding Gretchen’s hand on the tablecloth. Neither of them let go when they saw me looking.
The card was blank. I tucked it in behind the others and filed my copy at the very back.
The last card was in my handwriting.