My grandmother raised me alone after I became an orphan – three days after her death, I learned that she had lied to me my whole life.

I turned on the kettle and took two cups out of habit.

The envelope bore my name, written in his handwriting.

I stared at her for a good minute.

"No," I murmured. "Absolutely not."

Then I made some tea that I didn't want, because that's what she would have made. I put the kettle on, took out two cups out of habit, even though one of us was definitely dead.

I finally opened the envelope.

"You'll rot your teeth, my dear," she would always say when I put too much sugar in.

"You love it like that too," I reminded him.

"That doesn't mean I'm wrong." She sniffed.

The kettle whistled. I poured the tea. I sat down. I finally opened the envelope.

His writing struck me more powerfully than any funeral oration.

For full cooking steps, turn to the next page or click the Open button (>) and don't forget to SHARE with your Facebook friends.