"I'm trying, Auntie," I mutter into the fabric. "I'm trying."
I findthe menu idea after midnight.
Sleep's a lost cause. My brain won't shut off, spinning through budgets and timelines and the growing certainty that thirty days isn't enough. So I do what I always do when I can't sleep: I cook.
There's a farmer's market haul on the countertop, courtesy of Maya's tip. I grabbed whatever looked good this morning. Heirloom tomatoes, their skins thin and jewel-bright. A bunch of basil so fragrant it perfumes the whole kitchen. A wedge of sharp cheddar from some farm I can't pronounce.
I dice the tomatoes, toss them with olive oil and salt, let them sit while I tear the basil and grate the cheese. Find a cast-iron skillet that's older than me and probably better seasoned.
Grilled cheese. Simple. Stupid simple.
But I toast the bread in butter until it's golden, layer in the cheese, the tomatoes, the basil, and when I press it down the smell that rises is summer and comfort and every good meal I've ever had.
I flip it once, twice, and slide it onto a plate.
The first bite is transcendent. The tomatoes burst, sweet and acidic. The basil sings. The cheese melts into molten gold.
This.This is what I'm supposed to be doing.
I'm chewing when I spot the box.
It's shoved under the desk, half-hidden by a stack of old menus. Cardboard, taped shut, labeled in Cora's looping hand:RoRo, you'll want this.
RoRo. She's the only one who ever called me that.
I reach for the box out, brush off the dust, and peel back the tape.
Inside: a mess of papers, recipe cards, scraps of notepaper covered in her handwriting. I lift the first batch out and spread them across the desk.
Spring pea risotto—use Farmer Hank's first harvest.
Braised lamb with wild ramps—talk to Ivy about foraging permits.
Seed night special: roasted squash, heritage variety, tell the story.
Seed night.
I flip through more cards. The phrase pops up again and again.Seed night.Seed swap special.Ask Ivy re: winter squash for seed library.
And then, tucked between two recipe cards, a folded piece of notepaper.
I unfold it.
Cora's handwriting, large and confident:
RoRo,
If you're reading this, I'm gone and you're probably panicking. Don't. You've got this.
The bistro isn't just a restaurant. It's a hub. Every third Thursday, we host seed nights—locals bring seeds, swap stories, eat together. Ivy Vale runs the seed library program. She's prickly but brilliant. Work with her. The town needs this connection. Food isn't just what's on the plate, kid. It's the soil, the hands, the history.
Keep the door open. Feed people. Listen to them. The rest will follow.
Love you to the moon,
Cora
I read it twice. Three times.
