The Farmhouse

There is a farmhouse that lives only in my imagination. Like all imaginary farmhouses, it is remarkably amenable to change. Sometimes it is the tall and friendly, sage-green farmhouse of my childhood, with a porch on the front and a barn across the creek. Sometimes it is a thick-walled adobe, haunted by sagebrush, pine and the sun shining through gently rounded windows. But all of my farmhouse's myriad manifestations have two important things in common: first, a kitchen filled with light, and secondly, a well-stocked pantry.

Imagine, if you will. A huge and unwieldy armoire hides row upon row of preserves, jams, jellies, pickles and fruit. Spices lurk in shadowy corners. Beans fill orderly jars while oils and vinegars cluster in their slender bottles. Down below, in a cool, dark cupboard, grains live in bins, along with flours and sugars. The refrigerator is full of milk, cheese, cream and yogurt, with lemons for friendly company. Packages of meat, butter and breadcrumbs sleep in the frosty depths of the freezer. Outside (this may be the best part) a small stone root cellar guards more jars of summer bounty, as well as crocks of sauerkraut and baskets of humble root vegetables, maybe a bottle or two of chokecherry wine. And remember, this is an imaginary farmhouse. Dust does not exist. More importantly, neither do spiders. Neither do mice.

But I exist there sometimes, in my imagination, slamming the screen door, my apron full of eggs from the pristine, poopless chicken coop.