After my grandmother died, my mother gave me her recipe book. It was not really a book. It was a school notebook, full of her handwriting, some pages stained with oil. For months I did not open it. Then one evening I decided to cook something from it. I chose a soup because it looked simple. Halfway down the page, between the ingredients, she had written: "Do not add the lemon until it stops boiling. Your grandfather always forgot." I laughed out loud in an empty kitchen. After that I read the whole notebook. It was full of these small notes. "Cheaper in September." "Ayse does not like this one." "Made this the day we moved." The recipes were ordinary. Anyone could find them online. But nobody online would tell me that my aunt refused to eat rice for two years, or that my grandmother thought the neighbour's bread was better than her own and never admitted it. I cooked the soup. It was fine, nothing special. Now I add a note every time I use the book. Yesterday I wrote: "Too much salt. Grandmother would have said nothing and eaten it anyway."