The Recipe Box

Maya cooks pasta for dinner. Her father sits at the table. He eats quietly. He does not smile.

"It is good," he says. He looks away. Maya puts down her fork.

"You always say that," she says. "You never eat much."

Her father is silent. He comes from a small town. He worked hard as a boy. He wants to save money. Maya wants to try new things. She buys fresh herbs. She uses olive oil. He thinks this is wasteful.

"In my town," he says, "we eat simple food. We do not waste."

Maya feels hurt. She works long hours. She wants to share her joy. Her father does not see this.

"I cook for you," she says. "You do not see me."

Her father looks at her. His eyes are soft. He remembers his own father. They never talked. They only worked.

"I am sorry," he says. "I do not know how to say it. Your food is good. You are good."

Maya stands up. She gets a small box. It has old recipes. The paper is yellow. It is from her grandmother.

"I use her recipes," she says. "I mix them with new things."

Her father touches the box. He smiles a little. "She would like that," he says. "She always tried new things."

Maya sits down again. They eat together. The pasta is warm. The room is quiet. But it is a good quiet.