But when I glanced up at the order slips – clipped by clothespins to a string hanging across the window between the kitchen and the dining room – I felt like someone had suddenly shoved an intercepted code from World War II in my face.
“BEOM/#13” read one slip. “B/Scb/It, BagTst” read another. “#3/HF/Whtt” read a third.
I had no idea what any of it meant, never mind how to start cooking any of it.