Vineyard Kitchen

February 2001

In the darkest corner of this winter, between cabin and studio, an icy path has been worn
across the snowy yard. The moonfilled night reflects indigo and steely grey and I call
Gulliver close and take hold of her curly black fur to steady my guarded gait.
The new heater has made a dent in the chill and I have hung drapes to block off the unused
areas of the studio for the worst the season has to offer. Tucked in a corner at my easel,
the thermos of steaming Irish tea and third batch of pecan cookies within reach, I am stiff with
layers of clothing. Lungs are heavy with weeks of battling this current strain of influenza.
And so, as if by prescription, I transport myself to a warmer night and a gentler horizon.

The screens are curved and sagging from wear but she has left the windows on the sun porch
open to the warm night breezes. This October the weather has been end of summer hot in the
days, and barely sweater cool at night. The shorts are drying out on the line for the third time.
There is a patch of tall grass smoothed over on the bluff from the nights of stargazing. With a
day or two left, the stack of Pennsylvania firewood, which the old truck strained to haul over the
Appalachian mountains and through four states to get to this porch, will make a roaring fire
to knit by tonight. If only for the comfort of the soul.
The radio brings in the Yankees’ pennant game from across the sound and I draw the tall backed
rustic rocker closer to the hearth. Herself has been draped across the day bed, reading since
supper. She requests a box of Chilmark Chocolates top off the evening. I pour myself
another glass of wine in the wake of my own gluttony and stoke the fire.

As the evening wanes our old lady bones settle too quickly into their sleepy states.
The screen is fit tightly to the bricks in the hearth. The empty chocolate box is tossed onto the
embers. The crackle of the seventh inning stretch is interrupted as the radio is moved into the
cozy bed closet. The pup is called in from her romp with the rabbits. A moment for the mistress
of the moon, and we are ready for bed ….. almost.
One last chore.
A glancing nod to the long standing fear. Herself checks the cookie sheet to make certain the
tape around it is securely fastening it to the chewed out hole in the baseboard. She turns on the
kitchen light over the sink and closes the swinging door.

It is only a summer cottage.
Sitting lonely by the sea.
But over the centuries of island winters. When the frozen winds blow in off the Atlantic.
Generations of wee beasties have followed the ancient trails to it’s shelter.
They have made it a temporary home as have I. And all are welcome to it.
I have taken to leaving the kitchen light on.
In the hopes that they will burrow deeper into the hollows of the house.
At least until the game is over and I have gone to sleep.

But back at home, as I write, the winter is harsh.
And tonight I am using up all of the firewood.