Grandma's Resurrected Recipe

“Hello, Ms. Williams, thank you for coming in today. Please sit down.” The crimson haired petite woman said to me as she waved her hand towards the seat in the cramped, candle lit room in the back of a nail salon.

A few days age I had made an appointment with a psychic, thinking that nothing will happen. But the night before I found her and made the appointment, I had a detailed lucid dream involving my late grandmother. My friend suggested that I get a medium to interpret this clear dream. But I simply told her, “Jessica, I can’t afford a medium in this economy. I can barely afford my car insurance.”

“Fine.” She said, “At least follow this woman on Tik Tok, she’ll help you figure out that dream.”

“What brings you in today?” The psychic asked as I squeezed myself into the folding chair. Not giving my legs enough room between the wall and the small plastic folding table that was covered by a red fabric and black lace. Under the table were boxes of what I can only hope are business records of Ms. Glimpse.

“Well my friend recommended you, she saw you on Tik Tok and figured that I needed to talk with you and find out why my grandmother is trying to reach me? I guess.” I said, looking down at her laced table as she uncovered her crystal ball.

“My brother called me insane for promoting my brand online. But as you can see, it’s bringing in business.” She waved her hand as I looked around. I didn’t see how social media had blessed this woman until I remembered that I found her online.

“Oh, yes. Definitely.” I said, still feeling the awkwardness of sitting with my knees together off to the side of the table.

After uncovering the crystal ball in the center of the table, she handed me a deck of tarot card.

“Shuffle, please. I needs your energy and intentions.” She said, handing me the deck of cards with worn edges.

“How much?” I asked.

“Until it feels right.” She said.

After shuffling the tarot deck and returning them to her, she places three cards face down in front of me.

“Do I?” I asked, hoping she would give me direction.

“Not yet.” She said, looking at me and pondering.

“What?” I asked.

“Your mother,” she started to say.

“Grandmother.” I corrected her.

“Right, your grandmother is tell me. Telling you.” She said.

“What?” I asked.

“She has unfinished business, she’s telling me.” She said.

“What about?” I said, trying to think of anything my grandmother may have forgotten to do before she passed away last year, before Thanksgiving.

“Did Alma always make a dish for thanksgiving?” Ms. Glimpse said.

“How did…?” I asked.

“Remember. I can see where others aren’t able to.” She said.

I sat there, cramped and unable to quickly stand, looking at this woman in amazement.

“She made a dish, yes.” I said.

“And what did she call it?” She asked.

“I...I don’t remember.” I said before honestly thinking what my grandma called the Alfredo noodles.

“Alma’s telling me,” she started to say as she caressed her crystal ball, “did she leave the recipe with anyone before she died?’

“I don’t think so, I could ask my mom later.” I said.

“No need, your grandma regrets that she didn’t.” She said.

“So that’s her unfinished business?” I asked.

“On this mortal plane, yes. She forgot to write it down.” She said before looking down at the face downed cards.

“So, how are we..?” I started to ask.

But before I got the full question out, she chanted, “bow tie, bacon, tomato, Parmesan.”

“What?” I asked.

“Your grandmother, Alma, she’s channeling her recipe through me.” She said.

After Ms. Glimpse channeled the entire list of ingredients, she wrote them down for me and finished our session.

“If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to call or text me, and we can ask Alma. She wants it to be perfect. But each time we ask about her recipe, the veil gets thinner” She said as her phone beeped to indicate that it took my payment.

“Okay, will do.” I said as I walked out of her tiny back office and through the nail salon to the grocery store in the same shopping center.

I looked down at the list, wondering what the measurements are to this complex recipe, a pair of priests stopped me urgently on my way into the store. The older, more experienced priest yelled Latin to my face before he spat in my face, calling me a satanist slut. The younger, quieter priest stood behind him, trying to apologist for his partners behavior. With astonishment, I continued my journey into the air conditioned grocery store, making sure to wipe my face with an alcohol wipe they keep by the carts.

“Okay,” I said to myself as I grabbed a cart, “I need..” I paused, looking above the aisles for clues as to where the ingredients will be stocked. After checking out, I walk my groceries back to my car, still parked in front of the nail salon. As I unlock it and place the new canvas bags I just bought because I forgot to take the bags from my kitchen to my car the last time, I noticed an ominous note stabled to a business card clamped down by my windshield wipers. I looked at the note, then back at the business card, then back at the note. I was a simplified version of my grandmother’s recipe.

“But, that can’t be?” I said to myself as I folded it up and slid it into the grocery bag. When I got home, I had gotten a text from Jessica, asking how it went. I called her back with my great revelation.

“So you’re going to make the recipe?” Jessica asked.

“Well, yeah. I feel like I have to.” I said as I pulled out the ingredients from the bag and placed them on the counter in front of me.

“Don’t forget to salt the noodles” I heard a voice say.

“Did you hear that?” I asked Jessica on the phone.

“No, what?”

“It almost sounded like…, oh never mind. Do you want to taste this when I get done?” I said.

“Yeah, when will that be?” She asked.

I looked down at the note stapled to the business card, “about thirty minutes.”

“Okay, cool. I’ll be over there shortly.” She said, before we hung up.

I looked down at the printed recipe, the first step was to turn on the burner under a shallow pan. “Well duh, I should hope so.”

“Chop the bacon.” I heard that voice again. Except it was coming from the fridge. I looked down at the recipe. I doesn’t say how to prepare the bacon. Feeling that the voice wants my best interest, I listen and start chopping the thawed bacon. Tossing the bacon into the heated pan. After the bacon was finished cooking, I start to drain the grease until I heard that voice again telling me to use it in the Alfredo sauce.

“Grandma?” I asked the voice, but no answer.

As I kept adding ingredients and preparing them according to the paper Ms. Glimpse printed and left on my windshield, I would hear the ghostly moans and praises from behind my shoulder.

“Hey girl! I’m here.” Jessica said as she stepped through the front door.

“Come in! I’m almost finished. Here, try this sauce.” I said, lifting the sample spoon to her mouth.

“So creamy.” She said.

“Right!” I said.

“Okay, I’m glad your grandma shared this.” She said, looking over my shoulder.

“do you see something?” I asked.

“I thought I saw…, of never mind, it’ll sound too crazy.” She said.

I turned my head to the empty space behind my left shoulder as I say, “Thanks Grandma.”