Postkort fra 2039: The Margins of the Cookbook
Kære Kasper,
It has rained all day in Valby. The good kind, the slow kind, so the courtyard smells like the summers when your mother was small and refused to wear shoes...
I was looking for the recipe for the brown cabbage. Not because I wanted it — nobody wants it — but because I couldn't remember whether it was vinegar or sugar first. And there in the margin, in pencil, in Preben's handwriting: "for lidt salt, Birthe. altid." Too little salt. Always. Three years, and he is still correcting me from page 114.
The kitchen thing offered to read the recipe aloud in his voice. It has heard enough of the old videos, it said, it could manage it. I said no thank you. It asked once more, politely, the way they do, and then it went quiet for the rest of the afternoon, which I appreciated.
I kept the pencil line instead. That one is his. The voice would only have been mine, borrowed.
The neighbours have a new dog. It barks at the rain, which seems fair.
Come at autumn break. Bring laundry.
Farmor
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