When I sat down in a chair at her table without asking, crossed my leg over my knee and began shaking my foot nervously…
"I'm going to make some chamomile tea. Then we can talk."
Martha moved around her kitchen like a woman who might have spent more time in there than she ever did in her bed. Pulling mason jars and vials of herbs - some dry, some not quite, some powdered - from an old wooden pharmacy cabinet.
Measuring a potent, dried version of the relaxing herb into an 'infuser' lowered into ceramic teapot. While nearby an electric kettle built up a slight noise of water bubbling from heat expansion.
Then soft thuds of wooden spoons against porcelain cups came as she turned her attention again from taking stock of herbs, for the device beeped that it was ready at the temperature she needed it. A glance at the digital display told me not quite boiling.
> There is more… math involved in cooking than I really care for, isn't there? <
