SpiceLines

The pale oak floors felt cool and smooth beneath my bare feet as I crept downstairs. The house was silent. But as I passed the gilded pier mirror, my heart leapt. There was an unfamiliar woman, puffy-eyed, spikes of red hair sticking up wildly, one pearl earning dangling askew. Green silk pajamas wet, not with blood, but with sweat and maybe a few tears. There had been a fight all right, but my wounds were psychic. I had not a scratch, not a bruise. The murderous dwarf was nowhere in sight. Just the latest bourbon-induced figment since Marco had …what exactly? Vanished? Disappeared? Left with no forwarding address?

I walked into the kitchen. The early morning sun streamed through the windows. The walls and cabinets were dazzlingly white. They nearly vibrated in the light. I shivered. It was cold and I was chilled right to the bone. I couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that I had actually murdered someone. I could still feel the glare of those malevolent red eyes as I… The dwarf seemed so real, so…fleshy….

I clicked the heat on. A moment later there was a distant whoosh and warm air flooded into the room. My head ached. Suddenly I was craving tea. No, not just tea. A cup of chai, spicy, hot and sweet. I turned on the flame under the kettle. Then I went to the pantry and flipped on the overhead light.

The pantry is the one place that truly belongs to me. Every other room in this perfect house is cool and severe, but in this narrow space, with its floor to ceiling shelves built to my design, there is a rich disorder which makes me smile. To Marco it was it was a mess, but, in fact, each item has its place. That’s why, standing in the doorway, I knew instantly that something was askew.

I scanned the shelves. On the left, jars of rice: basmati, of course, but also arborio, bomba, jasmine and red rice from Bhutan. Boxes of pasta, some made in a monastery overlooking the Adriatic, including, I couldn’t help but notice, strozzapreti, those cunning little rolls with a twist at one end known as “strangle the priest”. Precious oils from Huilerie LeBlanc in Paris: walnut, pine nut, olive, almond. Vinegars: white balsamic, 60-year old-balsamic, red wine, Spanish sherry and homemade pineapple vinegar from Oaxaca. Jars of mustard, bottles of fish and soy sauces, cans of coconut milk and tomato paste.

In the center, Mexican plates hand-painted with fruit and birds, their glaze so full of lead that I dare not eat even a piece of toast off them. Red and black lacquer trays, a Victorian silver teapot, a pale bamboo ladle for a Japanese tea ceremony, cobalt tea glasses from Morocco, a neat row of boxes holding all 90 issues of Saveur.

To the right—well, that’s where the trouble was.

Editor's note: Claire's journal entries will be posted weekly, usually on Wednesday--if she lives up to her part of the bargain. The first entry, Claire's Dream, was posted on February 1, 2006.