Вино из одуванчиков

           Hedustedthewhiteflourintoanoldcookiecrock.Heremovedthesugarfromthemetalbinmarkedsugarandsifteditintoafamiliarseriesofsmallerbinsmarkedspices,cutlery,string.Heputthecloveswheretheyhadlainforyears,litteringthebottomofhalfadozendrawers.Hebroughtthedishesandknivesandforksandspoonsbackoutontopofthetables.

           HefoundGrandma’sneweyeglassesontheparlormantelandhidtheminthecellar.Hekindledagreatfireintheoldwood-burningstove,usingpagesfromthenewcookbook.Byoneo’clockinthestillmorningahugehuskingroarshotupintheblackstovepipe,suchawildroarthatthehouse,ifithadeversleptatall,awoke.HeheardtherustleofGrandma’sslippersdownthehallstairs.Shestoodinthekitchen,blinkingatthechaos.Douglaswashiddenbehindthepantrydoor.

           Atone-thirtyinthedeepdarkmorning,thecookingodorsblewupthroughthewindycorridorsofthehouse.Downthestairs,onebyone,camewomenincurlers,meninbathrobes,totiptoeandpeerintothekitchen—litonlybyfitfulgustsofredfirefromthehissingstove.Andthereintheblackkitchenattwoofawarmsummermorning,Grandmafloatedlikeanapparition,amidstbangingsandclatterings,halfblindoncemore,herfingersgropinginstinctivelyinthedimness,shakingoutspicecloudsoverbubblingpotsandsimmeringkettles,herfaceinthefirelightred,magical,andenchantedassheseizedandstirredandpouredthesublimefoods.