Brady Bunch Cookbook Novels & Stories

“Put on a sweater, not a jacket.” I put on a sweater. On the drive she had the wine bottle in her lap, a pinot nobody would be embarrassed to bring, and a paper bag with a hardcover cookbook inside that she’d edited two years ago. The cookbook was for Estelle because, she had explained, Harrison was the cook in the house but the cookbook was for a woman. I had not corrected her assumption about Harrison being the cook. Harrison, in nine years, had never produced a meal that did not involve pasta or eggs in some configuration.

“Why don’t we go eat? Then you can take me to the dance floor and show me off.” He nods and leads me towards the long line. We’re met by pack members as we mosey our way to the buffet line. Apparently Brady’s dad loves barbecue, which is what we’re having tonight. There’s at least four different meats, all smoked to perfection. The sides seem infinite; everything from macaroni and cheese to baked beans graces the table. Not to mention, there’s an entire table dedicated to a plethora of desserts. My mouth waters, and I find myself wanting to try everything though I have no idea how I would be able to eat it all.

“Well, Madame, please tell me what happened. Were you in the kitchen with the victim?” “Yes, naturally.” Brady grasped one of the cardigan arms and flipped it around his neck like a scarf. “I was instructing her on how to properly serve a dinner party. I couldn’t very well allow my own niece to feed her guests dog food like this.” Brady gestured grandly at the empty plates littered over the table.

he said slowly, “this here feels like a story. Y’all comin’ inside to tell it, or we doin’ this confession on the front lawn?” Jaxon gave me a sheepish glance and mumbled, “We’re comin’ inside.” We stepped into the Brooks’ kitchen, where the scent of roasted chicken, fresh biscuits, and brown sugar-something hit me like a warm quilt. The whole room was cozy chaos—counters covered in baking supplies, embroidered hand towels hung on hooks, and enough framed family photos to line a museum hallway. Miss Brenda moved like a woman preparing for battle—pouring sweet tea like it was holy water

But now, as the buzz settled and the store began to find its rhythm, Marcus and Brenda finally had time to just… be. Brenda sat on Marcus’s couch, legs folded beneath her, a mug of tea warming her hands. She wore one of his oversized hoodies, the sleeves drooping past her wrists, and a pair of leggings that had seen better days. Marcus was in the kitchen, preparing what he proudly called “Bachelor Chef Pasta”—a blend of garlic, cream, leftover rotisserie chicken, and a reckless amount of parmesan. “Smells good,” Brenda called. “Don’t sound so surprised,” Marcus teased, his voice half-drowned by the sizzle of garlic in the pan.

So she let him be. There was no convincing Bran to do things when he’d already said no. Not having her link with Bran made it more difficult to stay in the cabin and read through her mother’s books. She couldn’t bother Grayson too much during the day because he needed to concentrate on doing his job as the sheriff. Bree was amazed at the amount of information the books contained. It had everything from the beneficial uses of everyday household items to love potions, curses, and cures for every ailment.

Colby stated. “She makes them just like her mother did. Honestly, half of Jane’s recipes were Brinna’s. They made that cookbook in the kitchen together.” Beta Dimitri said. “Really?” I questioned. I hadn’t realized I was using my mom’s recipes. “Yup. They spent two months putting it together. Every single recipe either of them ever used or created is in that book. There are actually three copies of it.” “There are?”

I was so not in the mood for this. When I finally logged in I plugged my headphones into my computer and halfway listened to one of the lectures I needed for an assignment. My mind was rambling. I could hear Brooke in the kitchen banging pots around. I was curious to find out what she had planned to cook. It was rare she volunteered to cook anything. When the first lecture was over I ran to the bathroom stopping to check on Brooke before returning to my computer. She was cooking fried pork chops, mac and cheese, green beans, and was working on some cornbread.

“Gross. Whatever. No, Alpha Brady, I do not want to look up ways to murder you. Although maybe now I should. I want to look up ways to fix this little mistake of yours. I am guessing that there must be are ways to incorporate tabasco into cookies, or at least mask its taste. I want to g&&gle a few recipes.” Brady smiled and handed me his phone, and I immediately start looking on the internet. “Ah! I was right! I found a couple. Ok, now how much did you put in again? Just a couple of tablespoons, right?” “Tablespoons?” “Brady….” “I thought you said half ---” “--half a tablespoon per batch times four batches, so two tablespoons total.” “Oh.” “How much did you put in?” “Half a bottle….