On a curving street, halfway up the mountain, sits a house with two kitchen windows. Real, honest windows, these, not artfully decorated holes in the walls. These are the big kind, with multiple panes, the kind that let in the light, the air, and the neighbors in time.

You have to be a grand kitchen to get [i]two[/i] windows. If you don’t have an oven, a counter you could sleep on, a cupboard for every bowl and pan in the house, a lake of a sink, and a respectable pantry to boot? You can just take whatever lets you remember there’s a sun and be happy with it. In a town like Beri, you have to be a special kitchen to earn [i]two[/i] windows. That’s a whole bunk bed and a half’s worth of space, you’d better not be using it to indulge in some frivolous spatula collection! 

For food? Food’s hardly a good enough reason. Take a walk around the bend and pluck some fresh fruit from the trees. Or run down to the beach and corner a crab in honorable combat before it scuttles away to its hole. Drink the water if you’re desperate enough, but preferably the springwater. Food is no luxury in Beri. 

But it’s a good walk to the nearest orchard, and there’s no telling if you’ll find enough ripe fruit in the first one you go to, and maybe all these trees are set aside so we’ll have enough juice at the festival, so it’ll be another good walk to try the next one. The ocean’s just a hop, skip, and a jump away, but it’s recommended to take the stairs, as not everyone can manage the landing. That’s a good fifteen minutes each way. And a crab hunt takes time to do right. 

Think a few minutes is a trifle in a sleepy town like Beri? Hardly! Maybe you left home this morning planning on a little jaunt to the beach, but then your neighbor’s roof is leaking and he needs you to hold a ladder, and then there’s the call to all-hands for hauling fresh stone from the quarry, and [i]then[/i] you get caught up in the riveting tale of what happened in the lower-left neighborhoods last night, and where’s your crab hunt now? The market for time is fickle, in a sleepy town like Beri. Minutes can turn into a luxury, if you’re not careful.

But don’t be alarmed, it happens to the best of us. On a curving street, halfway up the mountain, sits a house with two kitchen windows. Give a knock, and a wave, and ask the sheepish fellow inside what’s cooking. No need to rush, there’s always something cooking, and more than he knows what to do with, and if not, well! Leftovers from yesterday are just as good heated up today. Just wait a moment, and he’ll fetch you a bowl and spoon. No need to worry about payment, he was making a big batch anyway. Though, perhaps, if you’re bringing a lot of mouths to feed, you’ll have to worry about compensation then. If that’s the case, you’d best come prepared. Your best compliments to the chef, your brightest smiles, and he’ll be too bashful to refuse payment.

Come, and sit. There’s stools enough for a few inside, if your legs are too weary for standing. Not much for privacy, but where do you find that in Beri, eh? You’ll just have to take your meal and watch him dance between his pots and pans and bowls, whipping up whatever takes his fancy today. Or maybe you’ll have to pretend you’re too busy with your soup to notice the lioness calling him to the window for a bite of lunch and a bite of him. (Or do notice, she’s a smashing conversationalist, immaculate storyteller.) Or, most likely of all, you’ll have to enjoy your meal in the company of those short on minutes like yourself. Happens to all of us, sooner or later, and you never know the kinds of people you’ll meet around Dolce’s kitchen. Why, hang around for a month or two, you’d probably meet every soul in town! Even the new folks, the ones who turned up only a few years back. They never miss an excuse for some of their Dolce’s cooking.