Granny O’Toole’s Recipe
by Gene Alvin
The bookstore was at least as old as Granny. As she opened the door, a bell tinkled somewhere in back. The smell of musty, dusty used books filled the air. Donning her bifocals, she headed to the cooking section. It didn't take long for her to find something. "Recipes of the Auld Sod". The book was ragged and dog-eared. Just like me.
"I'll give you a quarter for this book, sir,”
Her thin voice quavered as she called to the shopkeeper. He looked at it and nodded his approval. She paid for the book and hastened home as fast as her arthritis would allow. Sitting in her little living room, she thumbed through the pages, eagerly looking for something to bake. Suddenly a handwritten recipe wedged between the pages fluttered out. Lucky Irish Pound Cake. She nodded and smiled as she read it.
Each cake had a silver dollar embedded in it for the lucky recipient. Good thing I have a collection of silver dollars. This is wonderful; I’ll make it for Jilly and Benny. She baked every weekend then put the cakes and cookies out on the kitchen table, hoping that her son and his family would drop by. They never did. Every Sunday evening her loneliness and depression grew just a bit more intense. Each Monday she gave the cookies or cakes to the children’s home a block away.
As she read the recipe, one ingredient didn’t seem to fit.
“Four cups of flour, 2 cups sugar, 2 cups butter, 2 teaspoons Baking Powder, one-half teaspoon salt, one Shamrock leaf, six large eggs, one teaspoon flavoring extract and one silver dollar.”
Shamrock leaf? What on earth for? I don’t have anything like that! Just then she heard a thump in the kitchen. When she went to investigate, she found the pantry door open. An old green glass spice bottle rattled and clattered across the floor towards her. Her shaky old voice quavered, “Who’s there?”
Only silence and the lingering echo of the glass bottle answered her. Granny cautiously picked up the bottle. Her palsied hand shook, causing a “clinking” noise along with the soft shush-shush sound of dried leaves. The label read “Shamrock Leaves.” She gingerly opened the bottle and poured the contents into a little bowl. Clink, out fell a rusty old key.
“What in the world?”
“It’s a bit of th’ luck o’the Irish I’ll be bringin ye, Granny O’Toole.”
The voice came from the top of her fridge. Sitting on its edge was a tiny Leprechaun smiling toothily down at her. He was a visual cliché from his Kelly green top hat with its big shiny brass buckle to his fiery red beard, green topcoat, red tights and green and white striped socks.
“Tis a key to treasure I give ye, but to use it, ye must promise to leave me a cake every time ye bake.”
This must be a dream, goodness, I must be getting senile. “Well, okay, I promise.”
“Foin Granny, now go find the lock that the key fits.”
Granny walked down the little hallway toward her living room. She passed by the door under the stairs and stopped.
“Door under the stairs? Oh my, there’s never been a door here before!”
She could just make out one word scrawled across it-“Nevermore.”
“Nevermore? What on earth?”
She just stood there a moment, confused and wondering if she could have forgotten about the door.
“Tis your doorway Granny,” the Leprechaun’s Irish brogue intruded, “don’t ye be a’foolin with it though. Ye must niver iver lock it from the inside. If ye do, ye’ll hear the song of the Bean Sidhe and yer spirit will vanish, like a will-o-the-wisp, to be seen again, nivermore.”
Granny hesitantly tried the key. The lock slowly, reluctantly gave way with a groan of old hinges, then opened. She peeked inside. Her dim blue eyes grew cloudy as she tried to take it all in. The light from the hallway spilled onto what looked like an old Confederate Army storeroom. There were swords, old rifles, pistols, a few age worn uniforms and two locked chests marked C.S.A. She shrugged her shoulders and tried the key. It fit! The first trunk was full of confederate money. The second had bars of gold neatly stacked all the way to the top. There were two old wooden chairs in the room. Granny sat down on one and sighed. She had to think. What should I do? She ran her wizened old hand through her salt and pepper hair, tucking a wayward strand back into place. She decided to keep quiet about it for a while. She carefully locked the two trunks and the door behind her and stepped back into the hallway.
That Sunday Granny O’Toole tried out her new recipe. She carefully wrapped a silver dollar in greaseproof paper and added it to the dough. It was three in the afternoon when she finished. She had eight beautiful loaves of pound cake. She hadn’t seen the Leprechaun again but a deal was a deal. She left one loaf on top of the refrigerator. The rest of the loaves were placed lovingly on her table. She put a cake knife and 5 clean plates out and chuckled to herself, anticipating the surprise when one lucky grandchild found the silver dollar.
She waited for them to stop by on their way home from church. She sat on the porch, in her rocker, watching cars go by. She must have fallen asleep because it was dark when she awoke. She shook her head, and slowly walked back inside her empty house. The next day she walked to the Collinwood Children’s Center and dropped off the cakes. She told Sherry, the lady who ran the small center, that one of the cakes had a silver dollar in it.
“Oh wonderful, Granny, the kids will love the surprise.”
Once back home, Granny went back into the kitchen. The loaf she left on the fridge was gone. The next day she called her son at work.
“Jerry, it’s mom, what happened yesterday? It’s been such a long time since you all have been by. If you’re too busy to visit, why not leave the twins with me sometime when you need a babysitter. I’ll be glad to care for them.”
“I don’t have time to talk about it now mom. I’ve got my hands full with this job; I’m working six days a week and barely have time for Sandy and the kids.”
“You work too hard son.”
“If I don’t, whose gonna pay for college? And what about retirement? You know darn well I don’t want to wind up living in a little dump like you. I’m sorry; I just don’t have time to spare for you right now. Don’t bug me about it. If I need you I’ll call. Anything else?”
“Well I have some news but I guess it can wait til I see you again.”
“Good, I’m in the middle of something right now, gotta go. Bye.”
Granny sighed as she hung up. It had been a year since they had come to see her and that visit had been way too short. It saddened her to think that she was on the bottom of her son’s priority list, and what was wrong with her little house? Later that day, she made a call to an old friend of hers. An antique dealer. She invited him over for tea and to take a look at her treasure room.
“Good Lord, Granny! Have you always had this? Why didn’t you tell me about it sooner? This is worth a fortune. Do you want to sell some of it?”
“All of it. What do I do next?”
“Lets try Southeby’s. It ought to create quite a stir. Civil War stuff is really in demand.”
Bidders on the floor at Southeby’s Auction fought to outbid each other for every article that was presented. By the time the auction was over Granny’s name was added to the list of American millionaires.
The next Sunday Granny baked more Lucky cake. She left one on top of the fridge and put the rest out on her kitchen table. It was 3:00 P.M. when she heard a horn honk in the driveway. She peeked out just in time to see Jerry, Sandy and the kids piling out of the car. Her face lit up, they were here just in time for tea and cake. My how the children have grown. They sat and talked, Jilly got the silver dollar and squealed with delight. Jerry scowled and stared around the room, eyeing her knick-knacks and little treasures.
“Mother, I heard about the auction. Where did all that stuff come from? Why didn’t you let me handle it, after all, I am an investment broker.”
“Well when I called, you said you were too busy. I didn’t want to bother you.”
“Don’t be stupid, I’ll make time. What are you going to do with the money? Invest it? I’ve got some hot stocks that’ll double your money in no time. I’ll drop some papers off to you soon as I can.”
“I’ll think about son. Did you like the cake?”
“No, a little too dry for me.”
Jerry called her three times during the week and dropped by again the next Sunday. Each time he called, her depression deepened. I wish he cared about me as much as the money. That Sunday evening, after Jerry, Sandy and the kids left, Granny sat down and re-wrote her will. She sealed it and put it on the nightstand next to their family portrait. Jerry was such a happy child in the picture. What did I do wrong?
Granny walked slowly down the little hallway and opened the door marked nevermore, walked inside the room, turned slowly around, put the key in the lock and turned it. A puff of cold air whistled down the hallway followed by the thump of something heavy dropping onto the hardwood floor. The mournful wail of a Bean Sidhe briefly filled the air, followed by silence. When Jerry stopped by to drop off the papers that Monday, he found Granny’s body in the hallway.
The lawyer’s office was typical. Legal books, a large oak desk, and a black computer cleverly disguised inside a cabinet. The reading of Granny’s will started.
“Granny O’Toole always loved children. In order to spread that love as far as possible she has set her will up as follows:
One: The executor of my will is Sherry Grant, the administrator of the Collinwood Children’s Home.
Two: Half of my estate I leave to Jilly and Benny O’Toole, my grandchildren. The funds to be held in trust until their twenty first birthday.
Three: The other half I leave to The Collinwood Children’s Home to be used for the benefit of the children.
Four: To my son Jerry and his wife Sandy, I leave my recipe for Lucky Irish Pound Cake. May it bring them the luck o’ the Irish that it brought to me.”
Jerry was furious. What had the crazy old bat done? Why had she left all that money to the children’s home? He could give a rap about some stupid old recipe; he didn’t even like the cake. As they were filing out of the office, the lawyer handed Jerry the recipe. He crumpled it up and threw it as hard as he could at a wastebasket in the hall.
Late that night the old cleaning lady found the crumpled recipe on the floor. She read it, smiled and put it in her pocket. Maybe her grandchildren would like some cake.
The End
In Irish folklore, the Bean Sidhe (Pronounced Banshee, woman of the hills) is a spirit or fairy who mourns a death by wailing.
