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Grandma
,
he
had
often
wanted
to
say
,
Is
this
where
the
world
began
?
For
surely
it
had
begun
in
no
other
than
a
place
like
this
.
The
kitchen
,
without
doubt
,
was
the
center
of
creation
,
all
things
revolved
about
it
;
it
was
the
pediment
that
sustained
the
temple
.
Eyes
shut
to
let
his
nose
wander
,
he
snuffed
deeply
.
He
moved
in
the
hell
-
fire
steams
and
sudden
baking
-
powder
flurries
of
snow
in
this
miraculous
climate
where
Grandma
,
with
the
look
of
the
Indies
in
her
eyes
and
the
flesh
of
two
firm
warm
hens
in
her
bodice
,
Grandma
of
the
thousand
arms
,
shook
,
basted
,
whipped
,
beat
,
minced
,
diced
,
peeled
,
wrapped
,
salted
,
stirred
.
Blind
,
he
touched
his
way
to
the
pantry
door
.
A
squeal
of
laughter
rang
from
the
parlor
,
teacups
tinkled
.
But
he
moved
on
into
the
cool
underwater
green
and
wild
-
persimmon
country
where
the
slung
and
hanging
odor
of
creamy
bananas
ripened
silently
and
bumped
his
head
.
Gnats
fitted
angrily
about
vinegar
cruets
and
his
ears
.
He
opened
his
eyes
.
He
saw
bread
waiting
to
be
cut
into
slices
of
warm
summer
cloud
,
doughnuts
strewn
like
clown
hoops
from
some
edible
game
.
The
faucets
turned
on
and
off
in
his
cheeks
.
Here
on
the
plum
-
shadowed
side
of
the
house
with
maple
leaves
making
a
creek
-
water
running
in
the
hot
wind
at
the
window
he
read
spice
-
cabinet
names
.
How
do
I
thank
Mr
.
Jonas
,
he
wondered
,
for
what
he
’
s
done
?
How
do
I
thank
him
,
how
pay
him
back
?
No
way
,
no
way
at
all
.
You
just
can
’
t
pay
What
then
?
What
?
Pass
it
on
somehow
,
he
thought
,
pass
it
on
to
someone
else
.
Keep
the
chain
moving
.
Look
around
,
find
someone
,
and
pass
it
on
.
That
was
the
only
way
.
.
.
"
Cayenne
,
marjoram
,
cinnamon
.
"
The
names
of
lost
and
fabulous
cities
through
which
storms
of
spice
bloomed
up
and
dusted
away
.
He
tossed
the
cloves
that
had
traveled
from
some
dark
continent
where
once
they
had
spilled
on
milk
marble
,
jackstones
for
children
with
licorice
hands
.
And
looking
at
one
single
label
on
a
jar
,
he
felt
himself
gone
round
the
calendar
to
that
private
day
this
summer
when
he
had
looked
at
the
circling
world
and
found
himself
at
its
center
.
