Your Iowa Grandmother's Recipe Book

By Rachael Gatling

Every recipe has a story and every story has a secret. For folks in Tatatonka, Iowa, the best recipes in town, and therefore the best secrets, have long been kept in the coveted recipe book of local cooking legend Trudie Melody. When Trudie becomes ill, her granddaughter, successful (at least by Tatatonka standards) garden gnome maker Margot, decides it’s no time to be timid and boldly asks for the recipe book. Thinking she’s secured the book for herself, Margot’s life goes into a tailspin when, after her grandma’s death, a crooked probate lawyer determines the book will go to Sheryl, Margot’s shrewd first cousin, who needs the book to bail out her flailing career. Margot's only recourse is to sue Sheryl before she can take possession of the treasured book. The courtroom takes on a voyeuristic and carnival-like atmosphere when the Judge rules to have the recipe book read aloud in order to determine the rightful owner.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Apr 23, 2014
• ISBN: 9781312118928

Book preview

Your Iowa Grandmother's Recipe Book

Your Iowa Grandmother’s Recipe Book

By Rachael Gatling

Copyright © Rachael Gatling 2014

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without written permission of the copyright owner.

ISBN: 978-1-312-11892-8

For information regarding permission, contact Rachael Gatling at [e-mail].

Dedication

To Ken and Betty, who started it all, and to Joe who always believed.

Part 1

Chapter 1

~ If you wish another to keep your secret, keep it first yourself

In a small town delicacy is an essential skill, used for negotiating the narrow and treacherous passages of living around folks who know everything about you, from your past to your present, and if you’ve ever had your spring dirt clods read by Charlotte Dunkel (for a small fee), your future.

Delicacy was for people who had something to lose, it was not for Grandma Trudie.

Her recklessness was barely contained in that tiny five foot one inch frame, and it spilled out into her shale colored hair, wavy and wild, sunlight glinting and sparking off the strands. On Sundays she would try to tame it with a few strategically placed bobby pins, but by the end of the day the pins were either hanging at the ends, waiting to drop into her tea, or they had managed to twist themselves into impossible little knots.

She reminded me of a child, probably because I had been taller than her since the age of ten, but it was also her face. Cornflower blue eyes, round cheeks and her smile, pulled up on one side, inviting you to make mischief with her…which I did…often.

Days spent at Grandma’s house were the best childhood treat of all. Actually, it was my only treat, but I’d rather not whine about my neglected childhood right now. I can, and mostly likely will, do that later on.

I loved opening her heavy oak front door slowly, listening to it creak like the hinges of a treasure chest. As she heard it open, she’d yell, I'm in the kitchen! She was always in the kitchen cooking up something delicious.

When she saw it was me, she’d throw out a plan for the day. Let's grab the fishing poles and catch a nice trout for grandpa, huh? Or do you want to bake something with lots of butter and sugar? I just fixing to…

Grandpa likes Northerns, I’d say hoping she’d take the bait. I always wanted to be outdoors, to feel the juicy, green grass between my bare toes. Grandma Trudie’s kitchen was more of a winter sport.

So he does. Let’s hit it, sweetheart.

That’s how I liked to think about her now, my sassy, pudgy little grandma dumpling. My partner in crime, my best friend.

I leaned back in my chair and looked past my lawyer’s back at the scrunched up face of my cousin Sheryl.

Will you please stop looking behind my back? growled my lawyer.

Sorry.

Pay attention. Sit up straight and stop looking at Sheryl.

I said sorry, I apologized, sounding whiny, even to myself.

You’ve already said you’re sorry like twenty times today. Do you want to win or what?

Of course.

Then do what I say, pretty, pretty, please.

My lawyer didn’t understand that I had to keep a constant watch over Sheryl. She was capable of anything. The whole town of Tatatonka knew better than to trust a word she said, or at least they should by now. I guess if they had really learned their lesson we wouldn’t be here. No one should feel comfortable with their backs turned to her.

Janice caught me leaning back again.

Stop! she hissed. Find a way to stop doing that.

She’s up to something, I said.

Of course she is! That’s why we’re here, Margot. Look, if it helps, most of us know what she’s like. I saw Jake Jorgenson today and you know what he said to me?

Probably something like please rip Sheryl’s throat out?

Something very much like that.

Janice didn’t need to say another word. All I had to do was think of the now infamous Jorgenson Family Birthday Party to know I wasn’t alone in the path of cousin Sheryl’s destruction.

Folks around here still talk about The Jorgenson party. Bucky and Abigail Jorgenson were crop farmers with five sons. The family farm had done well over the years and all of the money they earned went right back into it. They didn’t have much time for frivolity, which included having five separate birthday parties a year for their five boys. They celebrated them all together on one day.

This particular year Sheryl didn’t get an invitation to the party, but she convinced herself it had gotten lost in the mail. On the big day, the first Saturday in October, Sheryl showed up at the party, next to me, of course.

No matter how loudly I protested, my mom forced me to show up for parties with Sheryl by my side. That way she never had to drive me anywhere. She’d brush me off by saying, Sheryl’s going, too. Aunt Doreen can drive.

My mom and my sister Mina probably lounged on the couch, watched a favorite old movie and giggled while they tried to decide if they should do pedicures or facials. I could see them stuff their mouths with chocolate chip cookies, while I stood on the Jorgenson’s porch with Sheryl, humiliated.

Mrs. Jorgenson answered the door and said, What are you doing here Sheryl? You weren’t invited. Plain as the truth.

Sheryl looked stunned. Her face glowed bright red and she turned around to look for her mom’s car, but Aunt Doreen had already pulled away. Sheryl quickly evaluated the walk back to town.

I’m not sure what kind of reception Sheryl expected considering her behavior at last year’s party. She let one of Neil Jorgenson’s 4-H goats loose in the house where he smashed to bits whatever he couldn’t eat or poop on.

Sheryl wasn’t willing to risk ruining her shoes or dress walking five miles on the gravel road that emptied out onto Highway 6, and then walk the remaining mile into town. Even if she had been wearing jeans and a T-shirt she wouldn’t risk the embarrassment of being seen walking when she had Aunt Doreen to chauffeur her around like a princess.

What’s the difference? Sheryl asked sassily. Everyone in town is here. And besides, how am I supposed to get home?

That’s not my concern. said Mrs. Jorgenson.

Sheryl sat, fuming on their big front porch swing. For most children this would have been a good lesson. For Sheryl it merely provided fuel for her hate machine.

Two hours later as we drove home, Sheryl swore revenge on the Jorgenson family. All Aunt Doreen could say to that was, She left you on the porch?

In less than a month Sheryl found the family’s weakness; Mr. Jorgenson. Occasionally he liked to stop in at Ms. Nancy Cutter’s house in town, which was on his way back from the feed store. Ms. Nancy had been his girlfriend in high school and the two would have gotten married if her family hadn’t moved away for five years to take care of a sick grandmother in Michigan.

When her family moved back to town Ms. Nancy discovered Mr. Jorgenson had gotten married to Abigail. She never married and never left town.

Most folks in town knew that Mr. Jorgenson and Ms. Nancy were still friendly and most of them doubted anything serious was going on. They probably sat on the back porch and looked out at Ms. Nancy’s garden and drank a beer while they talked about the old days.

But Sheryl had found her opportunity for revenge. She worked her plan fast and in no time this no-good lazy girl was working odd jobs at Ms. Nancy’s house. Yard work, running errands, playing the Girl Scout, careful to take no money from Ms. Nancy.

Before long Sheryl had become a fixture around the place and Ms. Nancy even forgot that she was there when Mr. Jorgenson stopped by. Who knows what Sheryl overheard or what she saw. It didn’t matter because she already had her story set. Mr. Jorgenson and Ms. Nancy were having an affair and discussing how Ms. Nancy could supplant Mrs. Jorgenson at the farm.

When the timing was right, in January, when life on the farm and in town slowed down and the most interesting topic of conversation was how much or how little snow we had, Sheryl let the affair slip out in a conversation with her mom and dad. She knew full well it would spread all through town by the end of the day. No doubt Aunt Doreen enjoyed spreading the rumor as revenge for the shame her sweet little Sheryl had to endure on the Jorgenson porch.

Mrs. Jorgenson stopped taking phone calls the next day and Mr. Jorgenson didn’t leave the farm for a week. The next week Mrs. Jorgenson left town with the two youngest boys and went to live with her mother in Sioux City. Within a month she had filed for divorce, not a very common thing in our town at the time.

The following October, on the first Saturday of the month, the day of what should have been the Jorgenson Family Birthday Party, Mr. Jorgenson was running the farm with the three oldest boys and Ms. Nancy was a hired hand. By the next October she was the new Mrs. Jorgenson.

Mr. Jorgenson told my dad once that he knew it looked a certain way to have married Nancy, but with Abigail gone, it was the only logical choice. He needed help running the farm and no one was likely to do it except her.

It was now seven months after Grandma Trudie’s death, and my heart was broken, but there was no time for healing in this courtroom.

Janice whispered in my ear, Whatever it is you’re thinking about right now, stop it.

Sorry, I apologized.

That camera is always on. I don’t want you to come across as angry.

I’m not angry. Sorry.

All rise, said the beefy blonde bailiff. Allyson Chalmers. I went to school with her. I was afraid of her because she looked so tough and, truthfully, she really was tough. She could lift a 100 pound bale of wet alfalfa over her head and run 100 yards without dropping it. I know because she did it at last year’s Tatatonka Games, which are held mainly for folks to prove who can carry the heaviest hay bales and then drink the most beer later. She could drink 10 pints of beer. I think she came in second place last year. Now it comforted me to see her in the courtroom as a bailiff.

The judge walked in looking very sour, which was his usual demeanor. He was an imposing figure; tall and solid, white hair combed back over his high forehead, a perpetually furrowed brow, and a long patrician face anchored by a turned down mouth. A couple of times I actually heard him growl as he walked past me.

He was annoyed by this trial and annoyed with me. I could see the impatience in the way he snapped at the lawyers, the way he shuffled his paperwork with exhausted sighs, the way he loudly tapped his pen; in a hundred ways he showed his contempt for me.

You’re doing it again, Janice said under her breath. At least give me neutral.

I annoyed my lawyer more than I annoyed Judge Cower. She was a good lawyer, I guess. I didn’t really know...my dad recommended her as someone who knew the law and worked hard and since that’s all I expected from a lawyer, I hired her. Plus, last year she represented my mom and dad in a landlord/tenant dispute and they won their case. Her name was Janice Stake. The honorable and irritable Judge Cower addressed her as Ms. Take, which made me wince. He called on her quite a bit. I began to think he did it on purpose so I would have to hear him repeat Ms. Take over and over. He found endless reasons to call the lawyers to the bench for a discussion.

I had a knot in my stomach just about every hour of every day now since the trial had begun, but today was physically painful. My Aunt Doreen was being called to the stand and she was going to lie and I would never be able to forgive her. Actually, what she said wouldn’t matter, I was already past forgiving her. I was still going crazy at the thought of it. If she would only tell the truth I could go home with my Grandma Trudie’s recipe book under my arm.

The prosecution calls Doreen Melody to the stand.

Doreen approached the witness stand looking completely confident, and even managed to maintain her composure as she squeezed her bulky, lumpy mass into the chair. She chose a particularly ridiculous outfit for her special day. If I woke up one morning, knowing that I was going to perjure myself I would wear a really smart suit. Maybe a light gray wool blend jacket with a silk shirt underneath and matching pencil skirt. I don’t own anything remotely like that, but I at least know that’s what I should be wearing. Aunt Doreen chose a canary yellow sleeveless dress with an electric blue scarf wrapped around her neck. It was blinding. I was pretty sure she wore it just to spite me.

As the proceedings droned on and Aunt Doreen was read in, I thought about that Sunday morning, when I sat at the breakfast table with my Grandma Trudie watching her butter her toast the way she did, cross-crossing until the whole piece was coated in a sheen of melted butter. It was four days before she would pass away.

As we ate breakfast, a switch must have flipped in my brain and I felt a sense of urgency. I had put it off long enough…I needed to ask for her most prized possession, the thing nearest and dearest to her heart. I had tried many times to ask, but I could never seem to get the actual words out. I was afraid she would say no, that she would tell me that she had already promised it to someone else. I had always told myself I was the favorite, that I was the only person she would even consider giving to, and yet now, I had to face the truth.

I gave myself a pep talk, told myself that it wasn't time to be timid. I just had to ask, no matter what I thought her answer would be. I wanted her Secret Recipe Book.

I started to sweat and I felt sick to my stomach. I put down my orange juice and took a deep breath. What if this sacred part of my family history fell into the wrong hands? What if someone like my Great Aunt Billie got it? She'd hold it hostage and never cook a single recipe. Great Aunt Billie had refused to learn to cook and as a teenager declared that she would only eat raw food. She claimed that the average American woman wasted over 45,000 hours of her life cooking. Wasted?

To refuse to cook was an outright act of war in our family. Even though I didn’t do much cooking lately, still, I would never just refuse to do it. And yet she always talked about the recipe book like it was some prize to be won, a trophy to parade in front of everyone. But it wasn't a prize to me; it was a piece of my Grandma Trudie’s soul.

Anybody in the family might end up with the book, and considering the general temperament of my family members, they weren’t going to share it. I didn't know if Grandma had a will, but even if she did, I could see her leaving it to the Catholic church, thinking they could keep it secret. I wouldn’t have put it past her to ask to have it stashed away in the subterranean vaults of the Vatican.

But she must have known the church would probably bind it in plastic and sell it at the Our Lady of Victory semi-annual bake sale. The random faithful, people who shouldn't have their hands on the recipes without Grandma Trudie’s permission, would be desecrating my family's legacy in their kitchens on a daily basis. No, I couldn't let that happen. The recipes needed a guardian and as far as I could tell I was the only person fit for the job.

As far as any of us knew the book could already be hidden underground. No one had ever been allowed to actually see it. These recipes were the dishes she proudly trotted out at Christmas, birthday parties and family reunions; they were special. The recipe book was her life's work, her magnum opus. It was worth protecting. I knew what I was asking for was big.

Chapter 2

My attention focused back on the courtroom. I looked over at Sheryl who was sitting ram rod straight, her ankles crossed, eyelids half shut as though to say I have no idea why I’m here. Her hair was curled in a freakishly old-fashioned way. She looked like a modern day Nellie Oleson.

No matter the outcome of this trial, she would be my lifelong enemy. I let myself fall into a daydream about a future Christmas Eve with everyone I loved gathered around the tree, talking and laughing, sipping hot cocoa, my as yet unborn children giggling and eating cookies, my future husband sitting next to me. Wow, he was really good looking, too. Probably too good looking, but before reality could come in and replace my future husband with a more probable man, I hear someone in the far corner of the room say the name Sheryl, quietly, thinking I won’t hear them. Oh, but I do. I slowly turn my head in the direction of the dreaded name and the room goes quiet. That kind enemy.

The sound of my lawyer’s persistent questioning brought me back to the courtroom. She was going after Aunt Doreen about that day at Grandma Trudie’s house. Aunt Doreen remembered everything perfectly, except the most important part.

Do you remember a conversation about a book?

No.

You don’t remember my client, Margot Smythe, talking to Trudie Melody, your mother-in-law and her grandmother, about a book that day?

No.

"You don’t remember Trudie Melody telling you, after you asked her which book she was referring to, that it was her book?"

No.

Do you remember Trudie Melody telling Margot that she was going to give Margot her book?

No.

You took an oath to tell the truth Mrs. Melody. Are you sure you don’t remember any conversation between my client Margot Smythe and her grandmother, Trudie Melody?

No, I don’t remember any conversation about a book.

Would you lie to keep your daughter happy, Mrs. Melody?

No.

Would you beg for money to keep her happy?

Objection, your honor, said Sheryl’s lawyer, the question is immaterial to the case.

Ms. Take? said Judge Cower, waiting for my lawyer to respond.

I’m trying to establish the character of the witness, your Honor.

I’ll allow it. Please answer the question, Mrs. Melody.

I’ve never begged for money for Sheryl.

Ok, have you ever repeatedly asked your mother in-law, Trudie Melody for money that you then, repeatedly, gave to your daughter, the defendant, Sheryl Melody?

I have borrowed money from my mother in-law to give to Sheryl, yes.

Have you repaid all the money you borrowed?

Aunt Doreen didn’t even pause to think. She had to tell the truth here. Grandma had left an accounting of all the money Aunt Doreen had borrowed and had paid back. She had never paid back a dime.

No.

Did you pay back any of the money you took...I’m sorry, borrowed?

No.

Why haven’t you repaid any of the money?

Sheryl could never pay me back, so I could never pay Mother Trudie back.

Did Sheryl know where you got the money you gave to her?

No.

When you had borrowed, say ten thousand dollars, and Sheryl had never in the past been able to pay you back any of that money, which meant you were never able to pay Trudie Melody back, did it ever occur to you to stop borrowing money?

I knew some day that Sheryl would be able to pay me back. She is moving up quickly with her company.

ConSys?

I looked at the jury to gauge their reaction to the name ConSys. This was a polarizing subject in our town. The big corporation moved in seven years ago and hired mostly people from out of town and precious few from Tatatonka. Now that times were tough, they were getting rid of most of the locals. Most, but not all.

The Tatatonka ConSys plant manufactured plastic products from corn. Most of the items were shipped out to companies that sold customizable office items. Their biggest customers were foreign governments and sex toy manufacturers. At a family picnic I asked Sheryl if one of the perks of working at ConSys were the free corn cob dildos. Later that week I had four slashed tires at the grocery store parking lot.

Those who had fully bought in to the ConSys culture, who had given up weekends to serve the ConSys hive, those who had become comfortable with putting their families second, who learned to accept long hours and donate their overtime to the ConSys collective, who rearranged their schedules to do volunteer work for ConSys approved charities, mostly in other states where no one in Tatatonka knew anyone, but where ConSys had bigger factories, instead of helping to get their own spring gardens planted or going to their kid’s school play. Those folks were still holding out hope that their sacrifices would be recognized and rewarded.

But dedication and loyalty went only so far in a place like ConSys. You had to go the extra mile to be appreciated enough not to lose your job. You had to be willing to keep an eye on your co-workers and to rat them out when necessary for any infraction of company policy. You watched to see if they returned to their desks after a forty minute lunch instead of the allotted thirty. You logged the minutes the co-worker in the cube next to you made personal phone calls, noted if they said they’re going to a soccer game while telling the boss they have a doctor’s appointment.

You also had to know that whoever your sugar daddy was one day, they might be on the outs the next day. You had to hitch your wagon to the most untouchable person you had access to, and when that person was mysteriously packing up their desk into a cardboard box, you had to scurry on to the next life raft. It was survival of the craftiest.

I didn‘t work for ConSys and had never wanted to, but plenty of folks around town had seen it as the biggest opportunity of they would ever get. Most of them found the money wasn‘t worth the complete takeover of their lives, but one person I knew had positively thrived in the bowels of the ConSys machine. Sheryl.

Being a local Sheryl, who had the ambiguous job title of Senior Assistant Information Advisor, knew she could only go so far in the company. Like a convert to a new religion, she had to show a more fervent dedication than those who had been born into it. She had to prove she would do anything to further the company, no matter how seemingly insignificant. This is where the recipe book suddenly became important, necessary, to Sheryl.

In an effort to promote ConSys culture in Tatatonka, and prove to ConSys headquarters that the Tatatonka plant was all in, management put out a call for Tatatonka to not only participate in the ConSys Neighborhood Cookbook Initiative, but provide the best recipes of the book.

Janice paced back and forth in front of the witness stand as she continued to question Aunt Doreen. Do you know that Sheryl had promised to give Trudie Melody’s recipes to ConSys for their corporate cookbook?

I knew that Sheryl would be contributing recipes. I didn’t know which ones.

Does Sheryl know how to cook?

Yes, somewhat.

So you think the recipes were her own that she was contributing?

I don’t know.

Did Sheryl ever tell you that the only way she could keep her job amid mass layoffs at ConSys was to give authentic recipes to the ConSys Neighborhood Cookbook?

She didn’t say that exactly.

What did she say?

She said it was important that they get some real recipes in the book as none of the other employees had contributed any.

Why not?

I let my mind drift off again while Aunt Doreen asked if she could have a glass of water and a tissue. The bailiff had to go to a back room to get a glass as Aunt Doreen said she refused to drink out of a plastic water bottle that wasn’t made from corn.

I replayed that day at Grandma Trudie’s house when I asked for the book for the hundredth time. She smiled at me and said, I guess I should get ready to pass it on, since everyone’s convinced I'm going to die. Plus you only have one Grandma that has any recipes to give.

Hey, my New Hampshire Grandmother once told me how to make a Vodka Martini...except it was wrong, but still, it was a recipe.

Thank the Lord you have an Iowa Grandmother, she said with a sly little smirk on her face. She couldn’t resist getting in a dig about my Grandmother Smythe whose idea of cooking is to eat out at a fondue restaurant, dip a piece of bread into melted cheese and exclaim, Look what I just made!

And I don’t think that counts, Grandma Trudie said, her eyes narrowed as if she was really trying to decide if it counted. A wrong recipe is not a recipe…and how do you even screw up a Martini?

She’s never been a cook, she’d be the first to admit it, but she has an impeccable palate, I said, defending Grandmother Smythe and sounding just like her.

Oh please Margot, what is that supposed to mean? Anyone can tell you if food tastes good or not.

Ok, I’ll give you an example. Once at a very posh restaurant in Boston she sent back her asparagus with Il Grande Vecchio Balsamic Vinegar because she could tell it wasn’t Il Grande Vecchio. And she was right, they had made a mistake. And it’s not like the one they used was some 12 year old knock off or something.

Gosh, I sure hope she didn’t have the establishment shut down and have the chef’s children sent to the labor camps of New Hampshire where they make diamond studded collars for their little snarly teacup dogs.

I’m just saying that not everyone could do that, tell the difference.

Not many people would go to a restaurant and order asparagus and vinegar.

She had me there.

So...is that a yes? I asked, redirecting her back to the book. Do I get the book?

Grandma looked at me for a few seconds without saying a word. I figured she didn’t know how to tell me that she had already promised it to my mom or one of her other kids, or worse, to Sheryl.

She avoided the question, Before I forget, will you take a look at my phone? Your mom says I accidentally called her house and left a message, but all she could hear was the blender whirring.

Grandma nothing is wrong with your phone, you need to stop letting it float around your purse or leaving it on the seat cushions.

I keep it in my pockets so I know where it is, but it keeps falling out…

And you keep sitting on it and calling people. There’s a word for people like you…butt-dialer.

That’s two words.

I hyphenated it.

Maybe I should wear it on a chain around my neck, then? she said snippily.

By the way, Mina says you left her a voicemail and she heard you arguing with your African Violet…now she’s worried about you.

I’m ready to chuck it out the window. That plant hates me.

Since I’m the only other person in the world that thinks that plant does actually hate you, you might want to keep track of your phone so you don’t end up in a special home for old ladies who leave nuisance calls. And nice try dodging the question about the recipe book…

Then, with perfect evil timing, the doorbell rang.

Will you see who that is? Grandma asked me.

I looked through the peephole and saw my Aunt Doreen standing there with a big grin on her sloppy lipsticked face and plastic shopping bags in her hands.

It’s Aunt Doreen, I said.

Oh, let her in.

No, I said.

Oh she’s not that bad and anyway she was supposed to bring me honey from Duggar’s Farm. They’ve had a really good summer.

Yes, she is that bad, so if she’s heading in, I’m heading out. I really don’t want to listen to her drone on about Sheryl.

Someday you’ll understand about Sheryl.

"No, someday you’ll understand about Sheryl."

I opened the door and let Aunt Doreen in. Ignoring me, she walked to the kitchen huffing and puffing with her honey jar-laden bags.

Hello and good morning Mother Trudie. I brought you some honey.

Just leave it all in the kitchen, Doreen. I’ll unpack it later.

Ok. Oh hi Margot, I didn’t see you there.

I was just leaving. So is the book mine? I asked Grandma, not letting her off the hook.

Well since you seem determined to have it….

What book? asked Aunt Doreen, as though she was part of the conversation.

As I went out the door I heard Grandma say, "My book Doreen, my book."

Chapter 3

The grating sound of Aunt Doreen’s voice dragged my wandering thoughts back to the courtroom. She had her glass of water and her box of tissues sitting on the railing.

So Sheryl was going to save the day with real recipes, recipes that are coveted in a thirty mile radius, so she could help the company save face and save her own job?

Objection your honor...

I’ll withdraw the question. Mrs. Melody, did you know that one hundred people will be laid off from ConSys as of next week?

Yes.

Did you know that they have all been notified?

Yes.

Is Sheryl one of them?

No.

Janice paused for a moment.

Did your mother in-law ever ask to be repaid?

No.

Did that make you feel entitled to the money?

"No,