Airtight jars of vegetables soaking in saline solution. Fruits macerating in thick syrup or liquor. And canisters of dried fruits, legumes, herbs, nuts, and other dry produce paint the room with various hues. They fill the shelves’ space, leaving practically no empty spots. Behind me, some containers assorted along the neat stony walls resting on the boards of sturdy furniture. I pay them no mind, as they don’t support what I am looking for.

     As I stand, more shelves before me abound with bottles, jars, canisters, and pots of clay. A crate in hand and a stepping stool in the other, I make my way to the pickled food section. Pickled pink radishes, pickled garlic cloves, honey, and rosemary pickled turnips are the ones I set my eyes on. Setting down my items, I thus use both of my hands to lift the jars. When snatching the garlic container, I eye the label twice. To be sure, I take neither the sweet alternative nor the black one. One might take whatever tickled their fancy at the moment. But not me, I cook like a scientist would. I calculate, consider, and evaluate all produce, and always choose wisely.

     Once the trio of ingredients is tucked into the caddy, I wander to the brine section with my stool. I stop before the selection of cabbages. Fourteen different cabbage submerged in salty water have a dedicated row that they fill completely or almost for some. The only row that stands out from its kin is the one hoisting the red cabbage with its reddish-purplish hue. I set my stool and climbed on it. I reached for the fifth shelf, for the clear mixture with tag writing in cursive ‘Bok Choy’. 

     The container goes with its fellows in the timber crate. With everything I need here secured, I walk back to the doorway. Sauntering out of this section of the cellar to go into the next room. I follow the list of ingredients I scribbled. The root cellar is no different than the jar cellar, every inch of space is well-used. Pumpkins and squashes heap in the rustic basins occupying the scant shelves. Onions and garlic tresses hang from the ceiling, practically touching the heads of passersby. The, made of dark wood and with a height of 5 feet - almost as tall as me -, replace the prevalent shelves of the previous room. In those large square structures are drawers containing apples, potatoes, carrots, radishes, and other root vegetables. 

     I part with an armful of apples and rutabagas. With all my findings, I walk by the wine cellar, where we keep our brewing equipment and various drinks such as beer, sake, non-alcoholic kvass, and kombucha. We brew non-alcoholic beverages monthly, as the children go through them faster than you can say ‘Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia’. 

     Making a slight detour, I walk under the archway leading to the wine cellar. In the right corner are the racks holding the different concoctions, with terse descriptions of the beverages the bottles contain. Most of the bottles of alcohol have a thick layer of dust on them. Some have a handmade label, and others have slick professionally made ones; scotch, rum, whiskey, vodka, gin, brandy, and other liquors. 

     The wine racks regroup into five sections: non-alcoholic, beer, wine, sake, and liquors that I bought when the world was zombies-free - I had yet to jump into the making of hard liquor, despite the extensive amount of books available in the library, for one we consume very little of it and second I didn’t have enough time on my hand - compose of wood, as most furniture in this house. 

     The first section and the biggest is the containing the kvass and kombucha. I head towards it pensively. The tags below each bottle entice me. Each time my hand reaches for one, the tag next to it steals my interest. Mint is refreshing, like a light breeze on a hot summer day; hibiscus is sweet and sour, much like a lemonade; ginger is reinvigorating, it slaps you in the face. The other flavours were even more tempting. Pushing aside my desires for the drink, I consider the others’ tastes. The kids liked the strawberry kombucha and the honeydew one. Whereas Clover, Marlaine, and Ming preferred mango-ginger kvass. That settles it. I take each from its duvet bed, the strawberry and mango-ginger kvass, and add them to the box, shifting some articles.

     Heading back to the kitchen, I take the stairs instead of the elevator. I might as well squeeze a workout into my schedule. My brilliant idea became less brilliant at the thirteenth step, where I realized that walking with the crate on flat ground was less exhausting than walking up the stairs. On the twentieth step, I almost give up. I could just go down and take the elevator, and no one would know… But with less than fifteen steps before arriving at the pantry was not worth going down the twenty steps. 

     It is huffing and puffing that I resurface in the large storage room under the stairs. Mira, who is surely looking for the rest of the ingredients, looks at me with an incredulous smile.

    “Why didn’t you take the elevator?”

    “I needed a glute and quad workout.”

    “Maybe I should’ve gone instead.” Mira and I spent a lot, I mean a lot, of time together these past weeks. She loves to cook also and proposed to me a helping hand minutes after she arrived - not really but almost. As we cooked, I would put a vinyl in the record player and we sang while bustling in the kitchen. Past a point, the music became unnecessary and we would talk for hours on hand as we swept the floor or folded laundry. Mira’s personality is like the soft glow of the moon in a bleak twilight. She is a gentle soul I am proud to call my friend. Spending time with her was quenching a thirst I wasn’t aware I had, and very different from hanging out with family. 

     Recently, with a healthy diet and plenty of snacks in between meals, Mira has put on weight. Her cheeks are more plump and so is her body. Her curves are rounder. I noticed that she sometimes felt self-conscious about it.

    “Nonsense! You are beautiful, and you already got a bubble butt, unlike me,” she blushes at my praise. It is barely noticeable on her dark complexion.

    “Thanks.”

    “It is no problem. I am only stating the truth.”

    “It goes for you too, you know! You are very attractive as you are!” her cheerfulness warmed my heart and cheeks. Mira’s upbeat attitude and charming smiles are infectious. It has been a long time since I have had a dear friend, so long that I don’t know how to respond to her. We both look at each other before chuckling and beaming at our silliness. I promise to cherish her, as she is a priceless friend. 

     Leaving the confinement, we emerge from the pantry, situated on the right side of the imposing stairs. As my eyes drift to the windows above the counter, I see the fluffy white flakes falling onto the pavement of the courtyard and laying a blanket over the naked trees. The solar panels will need a sweeping. 

    “Mama!” Dae shouts from his high chair, the stuffed animals he played with rest abandoned on the counter. His chubby cheeks almost hide the boy’s eyes as he smiles, melting my heart with his cuteness. I set the now very heavy box on the top of the cooking station. My arms sing their relief, saying ‘Alleluia’. 

    “You to look alike,” Mira observes.   

     Knowing my baby; I put on sling wrap I keep in the aprons, doilies, and table clothes for when I am cooking; and with Mira’s help, we set him on my back. Mira and Dae are used to our routine by now, not that it had been a straightforward journey. Dae never liked the process that came with being in the sling. His grandmothers had a hard time themselves when they used to help me, but the woman has found techniques to coax the child and the toddler doesn’t struggle anymore. 

    “Well, Dae has Korean heritage and so do I. My mother was Korean,” I say as I tie the string of the sling on my middle section. 

    “Really? I’m sorry for your loss.” 

     Nodding, I say, “She died when I was four. My father ‘took care’ of me for a while, then got fed up and married Clover. As far as I am concerned, Clover is my mother.”

    “So you are mixed. Marlaine is the mother of your father. She is French, and her husband was Italian. So you the tree heritage, correct?”

    “Mister Sherlock, you never fail to surprise me with your spot-on deduction and observation. It is fascinating!”

    “Well, my dear Watson, if you took a note or two you might succeed in doing astute detective work like I. Now, less chatter more cooking. Hungry workers are awaiting their hearty meal.”

    “Sir, yes, sir!” 

     Providing the kitchener with wood from the basket near, we set the fire for the stovetop to heat up. With the snow falling abundantly, made a change of menu. With the garlic, radish, turnip and its juice, bok choy, and rutabagas chopped in chunks, we made a soup. While it simmered, I cut the apples and set them in each of the nine bamboo Jubako boxes, along with wooden bowls.

     Mira disappeared beyond the shoji doors, into the room that separates the hallway from the greenhouse. Upon entering the well-lit room, and after ogling the plants beyond the windows, you notice straight ahead along the walls two counters joined by a sink. Then, if you are not careful and neglect to notice, the low table at the center of the room may make you trip. The said table is exploited when the kids do crafts or revise their lessons while I sit with them, a book in hand. Because of the room’s handiness and the considerable amount of light it brings into the house, the doors are usually open.

     A gentle swooshing sound, signaling the door closing, and then clicking into place, reaches my ears as I stir the aromatic soup. After she rinsed them thoroughly in the Greenroom, Mira came back with fresh green onions and chilies and she minced them along with salmon jerky. 

     The antique long-case French clock, that Marlaine inherited from her mother, that inherited from her mother who inherited from her mother, and so on, chimed twelve times. Implying time for lunch. We took the soup off the pot and put it over a log trivet, so it doesn’t burn a circle on the countertop. Henceforth, fill each bowl with sizzling soup then cover the bowls with lids. The rest of the soup was left there for the others to enjoy when they made their way down to eat dinner. Mira and I undid the sling, waking up a sleeping Dae. While I directed myself to the cloakroom, my friend stacked up the simple boxes on the platform with the handle, locking them in place. Mira followed us to get her coat, scarf, mitts, and boots. She walked on me explaining to the baby where we were going while dressing him. 

    “…we are going to the barn, baby. You like going to the barn, right?”

    “Bawn? We goin’ to Mey Mey houze?” Mey Mey is this year’s milk cow. Obsessed with the cow, now that he learned a cow gives milk after they have birthed a baby, Dae’s excitement is fervent. 

    “Yes, we are going to see Mey Mey, your siblings, and Don…” The toddler walks out without his beanie, running to the door screaming.

    “Letz go, letz go, Mama! Go see Daddy!” shocked stupid, I scurried out of the cupboard, grabbing the door frame in my hurry. Dae was waiting by the door with a pressing expression wrapped in his thick coat and pants, a warm shawl around his neck, and with only his head visible, as the rest of his body cover in the clothes. 

    “Who are we going to see?” I approach the boy with his beanie in my hand. Crouching before him, I put the one item left on his outfit.

    “Daddy, Daddy!” he repeats enthusiastically.

    “I almost forgot the drinks. Clumsy me. Are we ready to go?” Mira walks up to us. I take Dae in my arms and turn to face her. Giving her a curt nod, we were on our way to the barn.

     As we walked out of the estate, down the pathway leading to the road - led by the evergreen since the snow covers the path, it merges in the rest of the snowy ground with no way to distinguish them apart - we encounter two huge beasts frolicking in the snow, chasing one another. 

Loki and Thor have prowled the forest and mountain outside of the estate for a couple of weeks before returning home. It was at two o’clock in the morning, four days ago, that they let me know of their presence at the front gate of the land, beckoning me to open the former for them. I had to slip out of bed, shrug off the nightgown I was in, and dress warmly to brave the wintry night. Don woke up with all the shuffling I was making. He asked me, ‘What are you doing; it’s two in the morning?’ to which I responded ‘The wolves are back, I am just going to the gate to let them in. Go back to bed.’ Don said nothing. He walked to his side of the walking closet and picked a pair of thick trousers and a hoodie, then muttered, ‘No Princess of mine will walk in the dark, cold night to let the mutts in.’ We then made our way downstairs. Don put on his coat and went to the garage for a car while I waited for him to pull to the door of the car inside Don’s order. When a 1930s Ford Tudor was visible outside of the window, I walked out the door, under the porch, and into the car passenger seat. We went to the gate, opened it, and welcomed in the two animals that were more than happy to see us, even ice queen Loki. Then Don cut the moment short, eager to go back to bed as he had to get up three hours later.