You find the strangest things at garage sales. Some are just useless junk, sold for coin. Others are sad, like clearly-loved childhood toys and keepsakes. Sometimes you even find rather personal items. I did see a binder once of recipe cards. They were all hand-written and dated. The penmanship was clear, the cards were neatly arranged, and the binder had the sort of splits and wear one would expect from something much used. The family only wanted 50 cents for it and was emphatic that I had to take the recipes as well as the binder. I thought that very strange, the vehemence with which they pressed the binder upon me, and I thought it still stranger that I heard the seller mutter what could either have been a prayer or a curse my way as I departed. I now understand them all too well, and I am certain that the line between prayers and imprecations may sometimes be blurry for sound reasons.

You see, I had given the recipes only the most cursory of glances, and even at that only the ones towards the front, which seemed of the sort you would find in most any collection — stews, casseroles, sauces, desserts, breads, etc. I did not pay any particular mind to the ingredients called forth, much less to the misbegotten associations, combinations, and indeed thralldom or enslavement of so many unfortunate foods. Contained in those plastic-pocketed pages of 4×6 notecards were what I can only describe as alchemic incantations that, though they might not summon the demons up from hell, might reasonably regurgitate the contents of the digestive tract. You see, I had purchased the cookbook of a madman.