Nine amendments to Fuensanta's salmorejo recipe

Aunt Fuensanta's salmorejo. Printed by Ildefonso Lucientes, taxi driver, in the stairwell newsletter of number 14, entrance B, on Tuesday the 7th, with the permission of his aunt Fuensanta Robledo, retired dressmaker, second floor left. Nine amendments arrived after that.

A kilo of ripe tomatoes, two hundred grams of yesterday's bread, a clove of garlic, olive oil, salt and a splash of vinegar. Blend it all together and serve it cold, with hard-boiled egg and ham on top.

Amendment the first. Wednesday the 8th, unstamped envelope, under the door: "Ildefonso, the bread is not yesterday's. It is two days old. Yesterday's still has soft crumb, and soft crumb drinks the oil, and then you complain. Your aunt Fuensanta."

Amendment the second. Thursday the 9th: "Two hundred grams is wrong too. Two hundred and fifty, weighed on the scales, not by eye. By eye you always come up short because you have your father's hand."

Amendment the third. Friday the 10th: "Plum tomatoes and properly ripe, the ones that smell of the plant. If you are going to make it in February, don't. Make something else."

Amendment the fourth. Saturday the 11th, two sheets: "Half a clove of garlic, and blanched for thirty seconds. A whole clove repeats on you for seven hours. You drive the station taxi and people get into your car with the windows up. Think of others."

Amendment the fifth. Monday the 13th, in capitals: "WHERE IT SAYS A SPLASH OF VINEGAR, IT SHOULD SAY NOTHING. No vinegar has ever gone into a salmorejo in this house. Vinegar is for people who have no tomatoes."

Amendment the sixth. Tuesday the 14th: "The oil does not go in with the rest. It goes in at the end, in a thin thread, with the machine running, or it splits on you and you get an orange, sorrowful thing. And don't argue with me about this: I have been sewing for forty-one years and making salmorejo for fifty-five."

Amendment the seventh. Wednesday the 15th, at twenty to seven in the morning, the hour at which the caretaker saw her push it through the slot: "The salt goes in after the oil. Never before. This is not up for discussion. And yesterday the woman from the third floor came up with a notebook asking me about your sheet."

Amendment the eighth. Thursday the 16th, three words: "Chopped, not cubed."

Amendment the ninth. Friday the 17th, on a sheet folded in four: "Ildefonso, one more thing and then I'll leave you alone. The recipe you have printed is not mine. It is the one I gave to the woman on the third floor in 2004, and I put the vinegar in that one on purpose. Tell me who passed it to you, though I can guess. On Sunday I'll send you the good one and you will copy it whole, without touching a comma."

Ildefonso Lucientes printed the following Tuesday's sheet with a different title and one line underneath, in small type: "Aunt Fuensanta's salmorejo, the good version. The one printed on Tuesday the 7th belonged to the lady on the third floor. Amendments to entrance B, and please, one at a time."