Cut into a slope behind my great-grandfather’s house, closed with a door you had to stoop to enter, sat a cellar that stayed cold into July. Nine people ate out of that hole in the ground for most of a year, and nobody in the family thought it strange. Sacks of wheat leaned against the wall in the dark. A crock of lard waited under a cloth. Jars of honey had gone the color of old amber, and a few of them, I suspect, were older than my mother. Not one container down there carried a printed date, and not one jar appeared to care. [Read More]
