I'm not even sure where I got this little fella.
I'm guessing it was in the years prior to the normalcy of having a GoogleWebMachine at home, and I had cookbooks peppered throughout my Christmas wish lists.
Many of the books I received came from local churches with sometimes wonderful, sometimes odd, and sometimes just downright puzzling family recipes contributed by folks Lee grew up with, or knew from the community.
I loved it.
I still find it comforting to have that sort of history living under my roof.
All of this was back in the day, at a time in our lives when Lee's friends would come over and play cards on a Friday night for hours on end. (HI, BOYS!)
Back when vast amounts of pizza and Doritos didn't give anybody heartburn.
And Mountain Dew could be consumed after 4pm without serious side effects.
And everyone's lives weren't so busy.
So ... far away.
I miss those days.
I'm convinced it was during one of these all-night card-, laugh-, and junk-food fests that something happened to my precious little cookbook.
Something so reprehensible the perpetrator hid his handiwork, not to be discovered for some time.
Enter the quiet, unassuming archivist from Nebraska.
The kind of guy you'd never expect to commit a nefarious act of cunning.
That is, of course, until he does.
And then you're not surprised at all.
I imagine it to be how Jeffrey Dahmer's neighbors felt, finding out the quiet guy wasn't so unassuming.
We're not sure how long the modification made to the cookbook existed before we discovered it, but once discovered, we knew exactly who the perpetrator was.
Those archivists, they don't mind waiting a few months, years or decades to have things brought to light.
That's right, Thomas.
We're on to you.
(Truthfully? We miss you and your shenanigans an awful lot.)