RED MARILLION.
That's what my old man had named the stuff. I found it listed under “R” in his little black book, just as I'd figured. I’d been sitting there on the basement floor—in what was now a very empty house—going through some of his things, when I came across the tome my mom used to call Harry's Cookbook. It'd been neatly tucked away between the middle pages of my folks' wedding album, which had been at the bottom of an ancient, dusty box I 'd found beneath the staircase.
My dad had always been a weekend woodsman. Kind of an odd guy. He'd pack up his camping gear and spend every other weekend alone in the mountains. His knowledge of various plants and herbs and the like was phenomenal, and he wrote down everything he knew, including new finds, in his black book. He had an herb or
