Nothing in this room is new, and that is the whole idea. The jars have labels somebody wrote by hand, the stove has been there longer than anyone in the room, and there are sixty years of well used things to put back exactly where a pair of hands expects them.
Hang the pots, then the herbs, then put the dough on the table and the pie on the sill. Everything you set down on something travels with it: move the table and the flour, the bowl and the rolling pin all go too.
The counters and the table are drawn at the same measured scale as the people, so a worktop really is worktop height beside them. Put somebody at it and the kitchen starts working.
Turn the evening on and the lamps do what lamps do in a kitchen at the end of a long afternoon.
Nothing counts and nothing ends. Three players have finished a kitchen here, one of them with seventy-six stickers in it.



















































