There's a recipe for happiness

It?s different for each person. And I?m not talking about something stupid like, ?hydrate, get enough sleep, and learn to love yourself?, I mean an actual recipe like you?d make in your kitchen. It?s not something you can find. It comes to you, if you?re looking for it, in the form of an index card slipped into your mailbox or in the frame of your door.
I wasn?t looking, not at first. Then my friend Susan?s life turned around - and I mean it really turned around for her. Her breast cancer went into remission practically overnight. She?d been unemployed (because cancer) but now she?s got a new job that doubled her salary and she loves it. Then there?s Eric and while he didn?t have as big of problems as Susan, he?s just been chronically disappointed with how his life has turned out. We talked about it a lot, before he got his card. He?s a lot more upbeat now and he?s starting to pick up new hobbies and he just seems happy.
So I asked him what changed and he told me there?s a recipe for happiness. He found out about this from Susan so I talked to her too. I thought they were just pulling a prank on me. But then Laura and Sam found out about the recipe and they received their index cards and now things have changed for Laura, at least. Sam died.
I hadn?t quite decided what I wanted to do when my index card arrived. I admit I was thinking about it - who doesn?t want to be happy, after all? The cost scared me a little. Okay, it scared me a lot. Seeing Eric smiling is great, but I keep staring at his ears, where the earlobes are neatly clipped off in a straight line on both sides. He used his kitchen shears, he said, and he advised me to splurge on a really high quality pair if I needed them. Then there?s Susan and while it?s great that she?s not going to, yanno, die, she also wears long sleeves all the time now to hide where she used a vegetable peeler to remove a strip of skin from her wrist to her shoulder.
The first index card wasn?t too scary, at least. The instructions were written in pen in tidy handwriting, a list of ingredients and then numbered steps. It was a symbolic sacrifice. I thought I?d just go ahead and make the recipe because it wasn?t that hard and I could quit anytime and there didn?t seem to be any consequences. Tim chickened out on the last card and he?s been fine, other than the usual exhaustion from working two jobs but that?s nothing new.
My first meal was ravioli with a cream sauce garnished with a shredded letter from my grandma. She passed away five years ago. I?m not even that great of a cook but I followed the instructions on the index card exactly as they said and it turned out great. I suppose I got lucky in that I only had to eat paper. Susan made a squash soup that included the ashes of her recently deceased dog.
I didn?t see any immediate results, which my friends assured me was normal. They told me to be patient and wait for the second card. I was miserable during this time. Knowing that I was on the path to being happy only made the annoyances in my life seem more unbearable. My job was unfulfilling. My coworkers bored me. I felt helpless to keep up with simple tasks and my garden went unweeded (and really, what was the point, I couldn?t keep it clear for more than a few days) and the garage continued to accumulate clutter despite my resolve that this would be the year I?d organize it. Then I?d feel guilty for my own unhappiness, because really my life wasn?t that bad so what right did I have to complain? It was like the promise of reprieve only heightened my misery.
Every day I came home and checked the mailbox, desperately hoping to find an index card. For weeks I walked away from this ritual despondent with disappointment until my excitement faded entirely and I began to loathe the ritual. I needn?t have tortured myself so with the mailbox. The second recipe showed up on my bathroom counter. I found it when I went to brush my teeth before leaving for work.
It took a while to find the nerve to procure the ingredients. The index card?s instructions were explicit. Eric told me that when he got to the second card he was convinced he was going to get arrested, but he did exactly what the card said and nothing bad happened. Nothing bad happened to him, at least. He has no idea what happened to the person he mugged and took their green card from. I think he feels guilty about it still. He gets uncomfortable talking about it so I don?t bring it up.
My second recipe was a maple bourbon pumpkin pie, which is an interesting combination. It had a good taste, but the texture was unpleasant, on account of all the human hair in it. I feel bad for the lady that was out jogging. She was screaming hysterically and clutching at her hair after I jumped back into my car, her ponytail clutched in my fist. But like Eric, I haven?t been caught. I just stood there beside the path, staring at my phone, and when she passed I reached out with one hand, grabbed her hair, and then cut it off with the scissors I had hidden behind my back with the other. There had to have been over a foot of hair. It must have taken her years to grow it that long.
Nothing changed in my life, except for the lingering guilt over what I did, of course. My stomach ached with it, although perhaps that was more because I?d eaten an entire pie. I began to look forward to the third and final card and with that anticipation came a renewal of hope. I began to prepare for it, for when everything would change and I would finally be content and happy. I weeded my garden. I bought some shelves for the garage. I was more pleasant with my coworkers and while they were still dull and my job was still unrewarding, I at least found it was easier to ignore. The promise of happiness was like a lining over everything around me, causing it to glitter and shine. My friends even noticed the difference and asked if I?d gotten it, if I?d received the third card. Not yet, I?d tell them with a laugh. I?m still waiting.
Then? it came. I woke up and it was laying on my chest. I fumbled for the bedside light and read it, trembling with excitement. My friends had warned me that this would be the hardest one. I?d have to plan carefully. Do it over a weekend and choose a time when I could take some days off work. Make sure I had some money stashed away for the resulting medical bills, for whatever insurance refused to cover. Most importantly - have first aid supplies nearby, because I wouldn?t be able to go to the hospital right away.
We?d learned this from Sam. The index card is explicit that the recipe has to be prepared in one go. You can?t harvest the ingredients and come back later. Sam? well, Sam bled out while waiting for the tamales he?d stuffed with five inches of his intestine to steam. I suppose he made the incision too big.
You know that thick pad of muscle right at the base of the thumb? It?s a group of muscles, one of which is called the ?abductor pollicis brevis.? I had to look that phrase up to understand what the index card was telling me. I think I removed some of the neighboring muscles as well by accident. I don?t regret it. I didn?t want to mess this up, after all, and it was so hard to see what I was doing with all that blood and dizzy from the pain. I thought I was going to pass out while the meat was simmering and I had to lean on the wall, stirring with my remaining good hand, taking deep breaths and telling myself to just fight through it, just keep going because I was so close.
I made a sloppy joe. I diced the muscle from my hand and mixed it with ground beef and sauce and served that up on a bun. I ate it voraciously, my stomach twisting with every bite and I fought down nausea when I was done. Then, after I swallowed the last of it, I called 911 and told them there?d been a kitchen accident and I was bleeding badly.
I think I passed out after that, for I only remember bits and pieces of everything else. My memory clears much later, when I?m in a hospital bed with my hand wrapped up and an IV dripping pain meds into my vein. The doctor told me there wasn?t much they could do. The muscle was gone, the worst injury she?d ever seen in a kitchen, and they had nothing they could repair to restore function. That hand was crippled.
I told her that it was okay. That I was going to be happy now. I think it was the pain meds that made me slightly delirious. She looked skeptical and went away.
I am happy. Sure, the thumb on my left hand doesn?t work that well anymore, but I think that?s such a small cost to have paid for what I got. Happiness is something we spend our whole lives chasing, after all, and so few of us obtain it. So few of us even know what it feels like. Well, I can say confidently that I understand what it means to be happy. After I got out of the hospital I applied for a new position, one that would be more people-oriented so I wouldn?t have to type as much, and I got it. I enjoy it. It?s made me get to know my coworkers better and they?re not as insipid as I thought they were. I?ve fixed up the yard at home so it looks nice when I have my friends over now, which is a lot more often because we?re all happy and actually feel like doing things. Except Tim, on account of being miserable with his two jobs. I try to remember to invite him anyway, but sometimes I forget. Last we talked he?s reconsidering on his index card, because a teaspoon is such a small amount compared to how big an organ the liver is, really.
It?s such a small sacrifice. I tell myself this every day after I get up in the morning. I go look at myself in the mirror, I smile, and I say that it was worth the price. I?m happy now, I tell myself. I mustn't ever forget that. I?m happy now and my sacrifice wasn?t in vain.
I wish I could tell you how to start this whole process, but I don?t actually know. I started thinking how great it would be to finally be happy, truly happy, and a few days later the index card was waiting for me. I guess the most advice I can give is if you?re lucky enough to find a recipe in your mailbox, do whatever it says. Whatever it tells you to give up, whatever it tells you to take from others? do it.
It?ll be worth it. You?ll see. It?ll be worth it.


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