Larder

My country kitchen larder was a proper one: a narrow, north-facing room with only a tiny slit in the thick wall, covered by wire mesh to keep the mice out and let the air in. Completely lined with ceiling-high shallow shelves on one side and deep ledges on the other, it was one of my favourite places in the house. The rows of pots and packets of herbs, spices and sauces were a constantly available palette of taste with which to create new dishes. The big preserving pots filled with cherries, plums and compotes were at once a reminder of summer sun and a reassuring stock of puddings for last-minute winter meals. I also kept a considerable collection of empty jars in all shapes and sizes for homemade confiture. The room smelled of apples, vanilla, potatoes and candle wax. It stayed at a kind, constant temperature and always seemed to provide the answer to any culinary problem which arose in the bright, busy kitchen on the other side of the wall. I could go in, close the door, think and find the answer, even if I came out empty-handed.