So you have stumbled upon me scribbling here in the scullery.
- Who is the Scribbler?
- Is that your real name?
Lucia Linkletter is the ink-veined alter ego of a drearier Lucia. We needn’t speak of her here.
- What is the Scullery?
Let us go ask great granduncle OED. We shall find him in his fortress of books, sitting in his emerald velvet wingback chair. He beds his cigar in its filigreed holder. Scullery? He flicks ash from the lapel of his corduroy smoking jacket.
- The department of a household concerned with the care of the plates, dishes, and kitchen utensils. Also the room or rooms in which the work of this department is carried on. Obs. exc. Hist.
- In modern use: A small room attached to a kitchen, in which the washing of dishes and other dirty work is done; a back kitchen.*
Thank you Granduncle.
Pish posh. Run along now, I am engaged in a serious study of nugacity. Come back after tea and I will tell you all about sclerotic aglets and gorgonized glaciologists and the Norman misericord and perhaps, if there are candied violets with tea, the runcible spoon.
- Why do you scribble in your scullery, Linkletter?
The time has come to tell you a secret. Hold on to your dungarees. There is no scullery. There is, however, this quiet little corner of the interwebisphere, which is what became of the quiet little corner of my kitchen after I sent it through the cybernetic binarizer. And when I send it back through my Victorian romanticizer, it comes out a scullery.
It is here, in this virtual scullery of mine, that I bake the fancies of my imagination, and word the images of my fancy. In this way I feed two birds with one seed, as one of my wise fairy godmothers would say. Writing and baking are the embers ever-burning inside me, my imagination heaps on kindling. Here in the scullery, let the pyrotechnics begin! If everything turns to soot and cinders, or if the embers stutter and die…at least we are hidden away here in the back room in which “washing of dishes and other dirty work is done.”
- And you are vegan.
I am very glad you asked, but continue reading only if your heart is open. My tears are real and if you do not wish to be present to them go in peace to the recipes where my food is love, not ethics.
In the beginning was the Earth. And the Earth was without poison and without pain. And the Earth was good. Then came the Animals and they lived each following the spiral path of the double helix.
Then came Human and Human was hungry. Human did not follow the path. Human had flat herbivore molars but Human wanted to tear flesh. Human was weaned from Human mother’s breast but Human wanted the milk of another. Human stole Animal’s babies and ravished Animal’s mother and poisoned the soil and parched the spring and choked the air.
And Human was still hungry.
Human eats and eats and eats but the food weeps tears of blood. Human hurts but Human’s ears block out the weeping. Human eats and Earth aches. Food becomes a weapon that turns Human against Animal, that turns Human against Earth. A weapon that turns against Human.
Human has a choice. Human can hammer the sword into a plowshare.
My food is plants and my food is love. Love for earth, air, and water. Love for all their children. Love for our bodies. Love nourishes. Love heals. Love brings peace.
* “scullery, n.”. OED Online. March 2014. Oxford University Press. http://www.oed.com/view/Entry/173851?redirectedFrom=scullery