She followed the vines. The monkeys followed the smell.
Before the Door
“Have you brought the thyme?” someone called from above the leaves.
Grandma stopped on the wooden step. She had not yet seen the kitchen, but apparently her basket had announced itself.
“I might have brought flowers.”
“You said thyme.”
“I said I would see what was growing.”
A laugh came through the branches, followed by the scrape of a spoon against a pot. Grandma adjusted the basket on her arm and continued upwards. The vine beneath her fingers felt cool and rough. Somewhere above her, onions were cooking in butter.
On the next branch, a monkey lifted his nose.
“Yes,” she told him. “I noticed.”
He took a shorter route.
A Familiar Smell
Nora had invited her to lunch when she asked for the recipe. Grandma had said she would bring the herbs, then remembered a perfectly unnecessary errand she might do afterwards.
She had given Nora that recipe over the telephone. There had been questions about the onions, the beans, and what exactly she meant by “a little.”
Now, climbing towards the kitchen, Grandma wondered which answers Nora had believed.
The onions smelled right. Something sharper followed them, fresh enough to make her think of the lemon tree beside her own door.
She paused beneath the little landing.
There was no lemon in her recipe.
Above the canopy, the pale sails of an airborne ship moved slowly through the mist. Grandma watched its bow clear a branch, then looked back towards the kitchen window.
The smell had become more interesting.
Nora’s Pot
Nora opened the door with a folded cloth in one hand. A streak of flour crossed her cheek, although the recipe required none.
“You’ve been baking too.”
“Bread. It came out rather flat.”
Grandma followed her inside. Two places were set beside the window, one with a cushion she recognised from her previous visit. Nora took the basket and put the thyme beside the stove.
“I used the dried kind. I thought these could go on top.”
Grandma leaned towards the pot. White beans moved beneath a sheen of golden broth. There were the onions, softened almost out of sight, and the little pieces of carrot she always cut smaller than anyone thought necessary.
Beside the chopping board lay half a lemon.
“You added—”
“Yes,” Nora said. “Try it.”
She held out a spoon, then waited without explaining further.
Grandma blew across it. The broth was warm and familiar at first; then the lemon arrived, making her want another spoonful before she had decided what to say about the first.
She looked towards the flat loaf cooling on its board.
“Does that have a crust?”
“Quite a determined one.”
“Good.”
A Small Bowl
At the window, a monkey had settled beside the sill. Another hung from the roof edge, watching Nora lift the lid.
Grandma sat down and drew her cushion behind her back. From there she could see the doorway, the bright leaves, and Nora cutting the loaf with both hands on the knife.
“I thought you had an errand,” Nora said.
“It will keep.”
Nora reached for the larger ladle.
“Only a small bowl,” Grandma said. “I’ve come to deliver herbs.”
Nora served her and sat down opposite.
Grandma tore a piece of bread, dipped its stubborn crust into the broth, and tasted it again.
“The lemon?” Nora asked.
Grandma pushed her empty bread plate a little nearer the loaf.
“How much did you use?”
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