Below…Below the scales is a row of stacked, ill-fitting casseroles, all proclaiming their age. None is less than twenty years old. Generally speaking, it’s better to be vague, as in Joe is a teenager; Mary is in her forties; my casseroles are seasoned. Depending on the company they keep, my plates and pots and pans may be youthful or ancient. Mountains understand this, as do nomads who carry their lives with them and, I imagine, have little desire to keep score. However, the day comes when count we must— but not today.
The putting off of the census is an important element in taking stock. Stealth is an ally as is poor eyesight; deafness too. If anyone really wants to know how old the scales are, for instance, they would have to understand a past life wherein the careful weighing of sugar, butter or nuts was essential to putting palatable food on the table, especially important when guests were coming. However, I have always found that the less guests know about the kitchen, and the age of its cookware, the better.
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