The secret family recipe.

It was written in a fine, steady hand on thick old paper, the sort of stuff that might have had a will or a deed on it back in the day. The ingredients were laid out, as were the measurements, just as they had been in great-grandma’s time.

I felt my hands tingle at the prospect of making it myself, of feeling that deep and abiding connection to the family past. Honestly, I couldn’t wait.

“Hey!” A security guard cried. “What are you doing?”

As I ran for the window, alarms blaring from the cracked safe, I smiled. Great-grandmas secret recipe, the cornerstone of three generations of corporate gourmet-food success for my stuck-up cousins, were about to be posted for free on the internet.

Assuming I got away first, of course. And after I’d made a batch myself, to taste.

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