Dear Sandra Marzano…
Our advice columnist, Sandra Marzano, will knead out the problems of your day-to-day, clarify the broth of all squabbles, and develop a recipe for a peaceful and delicious life. Today, she advises a reader on how to seek vengeance on a recipe-stealing frenemy.
Dear Sandra,
I'm writing to report a theft! My EX-friend stole my broccoli casserole recipe eight years ago and claimed it was hers. She STILL won't admit she stole it. How can I best seek revenge?
Seethingly,
Helen
Dear Helen,
I'm sorry to hear about the loss of your friendship, and the betrayal you feel about the purloined recipe. But the brevity of your letter has resigned me to nosiness, and I’m curious how your friend stole the recipe.
Did she sneak into your house past midnight, climbing through a bathroom window she had unlocked while powdering her nose at brunch, dressed all in black and clutching a pen light, to riffle through your recipe cards and lift the treasured broccoli casserole recipe? Did you notice it missing months later, the night before the office’s “team bonding” retreat? Did you only put two and two together the following December when your friend's broccoli casserole at the church Trim-a-Tree potluck tasted delectably familiar?
The idea sets my Nancy Drew–loving heart pitter-pattering, but I do think it’s, on the whole, unlikely. Unless your friend took this recipe by force or burglary or hidden camera, I imagine you must have given it to her. Be honest, Helen. Did you perhaps, inadvertently, divulge the recipe after one Chianti too many, then beg her to strike the recipe from her memory and her Notes app when you sobered and smartened up the next day? Did she laugh in your face, or did she play dumb?
In any case, you found out what Coca-Cola has long known: once the secret recipe gets out, there's no getting it back in the bottle. That's why Coke keeps their original recipe in a vault, which is conspicuously locked up tight on display at the World of Coca- Cola in Atlanta. The recipe Coke uses today, at least according to legends leaked by Coca-Cola itself, is only known to two people, who may never fly on the same plane, and when one of them dies, the survivor recruits a new secret holder. The recipe for Coke isn’t copyrighted, trademarked, or patented. It’s protected only by Trade Secrets law, a billion-dollar secret protected only by the will of two people to shut their traps.
Under Trade Secrets law, if Coke doesn't adequately protect its secret recipe, then there's no legal recourse if it gets out because someone blabs. And dear Helen, I fear you probably blabbed, leaving you, likewise, no way to get your recipe back. And after eight years, you can bet this friend’s untrustworthy tuchus that she’s shared that recipe even further. At this point, dozens of people could be enjoying the delectability of your treasured broccoli casserole. No, Helen, don’t cry. You need to gather your strength for what’s next.
In your letter, you write that what really upsets you is that your friend claims the recipe is her own—she doesn't credit you as the author of the recipe. Now, I won't pry and ask where you got this recipe, Helen (I'm wondering if it wasn't off the back of a box?), but unfortunately you have no shot to claim authorship over this recipe regardless of how many years have elapsed.
Copyright doesn’t cover recipes, because the bureaucrats at the U.S. copyright office don’t consider them to be creative enough. I know, misogynist hogwash, imagine saying with a straight face that cooking doesn’t take creativity, but them’s the rules, Helen.
I expect you already know that your chances for regaining possession or authorship of the recipe are long gone. You didn't ask for how to get your recipe or even the credit back. You asked, smart cookie that you are, for advice on how to take revenge. As I see it, you have two possible routes to retribution.
The first would be, as they say, to get revenge by living well. This would mean to make an even better broccoli casserole recipe (or to find one, somewhere), bring it to every possible public event, and this time, Helen, you really have to keep a lock on that intel. Zip it!
But if you're too miffed to take the high road, and I don’t blame you, then look to your ancient namesake, Helen, and give this friend a Trojan recipe. This advanced level of trickery will take months of focused effort, hard work, and an award-winning theatrical performance, so don't attempt it if you aren't going to fully commit!
First, you must make up with your ex-friend. (I told you it would take acting skills, Helen!) Invite her over for a chat over the beverage of your choice (tea, coffee, martinis, whatever gives you strength for your performance), and make no mention of either broccoli or casseroles. Instead, inquire about her recent goings-on. Keep the hatred from your face and laugh politely when she tells you about her horrid boss, her adorable pet's escapades, her tasteless husband's high jinks.
Once you have lulled her into complacency, bring out your most stunning baked good. This must be a true work of art, something she had never seen you make before. Might I recommend starting from the Russian Honey Cake from Michelle Polzine’s Baking at the 20th Century Cafe? It takes ages, is terrifically fiddly, and tastes like God wants us to be happy.
Your friend will, undoubtedly, ask for the recipe. Obviously, her thirst to appropriate your glory was not slaked by a mere broccoli casserole recipe.
Here you must play hard to get. At first, demur, then, after some cajoling, give in. Pull out a recipe card from your cabinet and offer her the chance to take a photo of it with her phone.
But, Helen! Do not show her the real recipe. Show her the Trojan Horse recipe. It must be slightly off in many ways, leaving some key ingredients out, adding in bitter ones, and ideally including high temperatures and long bake times to result in crispy disastrous crumbs. Now should she ever muster up the energy to attempt this recipe, she will be foiled. You will have found your revenge.
May your cake launch a thousand ships,
Sandra Marzano
Ariana Gunderson is a food anthropologist living in Bloomington, Indiana and Leipzig, Germany. You can read more about her research on fake meat, food TV, and recipe theft at www.arianagunderson.com.
