|
Previous - this entry written on December 27, 2004 at 12:59 am - Next At first glance it's a normal kitchen; a touch old-fashioned, with the fireplace against one wall and a brick oven built into the side of it, a pump for wellwater on the next wall over, beside the door, but still a proper kitchen. There are spiceracks and bookshelves laden with what could only be recipe books lining most of the free wallspace. Garlic braids and boquets of herbs dangle from hooks in the ceiling, the herbs to dry and the garlic to age. There's a door leading to the coldroom as well as a door outside and the door connecting the kitchen to the rest of the house. There's windows, lots of windows, as the kitchen takes up the entire back end of the building. In the island in the center, a more modern gas range and oven stand next to counterspace and two mini-fridges. It's not until the second glance that the names of the spices catch the eye, each jar and tin hand-labeled, the writing done with care. Rosemary and Thyme sit next to Belladonna and Lady's Slipper, Basil and Dill keep company with Hensfoot and St. John's Wort. A few of the names are unreadable, written in some complicated script that shares little with the more traditional english printed on the other labels. Some of the smallest containers are marked with only a single pictographic character, the ink seeming thick, bleeding out onto the paper it is scribed on. There are hooks aplenty for hanging herbs to dry, suspending pots and pans, and still an examination of the ceiling shows more hooks, as well as sturdy metal rings set into the largest beams. The floor is wood, waxed and shined, clearly much walked-upon... and in a few places, beneath the rings, stained to a rich, dark tone. Cupboards and wrought-iron shelves are set along the walls, beneath the windows. Many of the cupboards are locked, some with mechanisms built into the doors, others with padlocks, a few with simple latches but most with more secure fastenings. The hinges are dark as well, rusted enough to make their opening slow and loud, but made of strong iron. The room smells as a kitchen should, faint memories of stews and fresh-baked bread mixing with hints of lazy afternoon teas and traces of onion and spices, even a bit of curry lending its exotic warmth to the scents. There are a few stools kept near the fireplace, well-worn, often-used, and seeming quite normal until the small metal rings set along the inside of each leg are noticed. From here the old-fashioned well in the back yard can be seen, the same well from which the handpump draws and from which the small watertower fills, then sends the water, filtered, to the other rooms of the house and to the more modern sink set against one wall of the kitchen. The rather extensive garden can be seen as well, flowers and herbs, vegetables, even a few rather scraggly fruit trees, set into a cleared area. The forest surrounding the house has been chased back, allowing the sun to fill the garden. No fences are raised, only a few strange, twisted figures serving as scarecrows and a mix of ox blood and fermented garlic spilled in a thick line around the garden's edge to draw in predators and chase away the rabbits and deer that might find the greens tempting. Hosted by Diaryland - All Rights Reserved - Image, Layout, and Content copyright Jax Raven - - Do Not Feed The Moose - |
