The original recipe called for forgetting—as if memory were optional,as if you could unsalt the soup,unburn the bread, pretend the smoke alarmnever sang its accusations through the house.
Forgive and forget, grandmother said,stirring grudges into her marinara,each tomato crushed like a tiny revenge.But watch her count the yearssince her sister stole the rosary:thirty-seven seasons of perfect recallseasoned with selective amnesia.
Here's the recipe that actually works:Take one pound of rage, fresh if possible.Don't trim the fat—you'll need itfor the long simmer ahead.Add the onions of ugly crying,the salt of things you wish you'd said,the pepper of things you did.Cook until the smell stops making you gag.
Forgetting is not an ingredient—it's what happens to the leftoversyou find months later in the freezer,unrecognizable but still taking up space.Forgiveness is different: it's learningto eat at the same tableas the meal that once poisoned you,knowing exactly what it cost.
Some days forgiveness tastes like nothing—like water after wine, necessary but bland.Some days it's the only flavorthat doesn't turn your stomach.It's not a feast. It's not dessert.It's the daily bread of choosingnot to reheat yesterday's painfor today's consumption.
Serve at whatever temperatureyou can swallow.Forget the presentation.Just eat.