Juniper trees shoot through the floorboards and flood the living room. The room parts into a varicose map of wood. Apart from the chests in the attic, Marlene can open many things. Cans of elderflower juice and doors to childhoods and sticky mouths. What sticks the most from her mother’s teachings is how to boil a man if needed. With the hot breath of a seven-headed baby dragon, Marlene boils her bathwater. Her mother always waits for whichever husband to fall asleep first then drags a chest out like a hidden grudge. Hidden beneath all the pots and pans, an omen. Men cook faster from the feet up, her mother explains in the darkness. This husband likes his food plain and compliant. Marlene collects pliant juniper stems from the dying room. Everything stems from property, her mother imparts, mossy and shadowed. Marlene practices proper etiquette: how to julienne onions and position cutlery and fold tablecloth and machete men without cracking a tear. She tears into each meal with warm teeth. At every housewarming the other women compliment their cooking, especially the piping soup. What’s the secret? Is it paprika from the witch down on 7th? Smoky raspberries? A tooth from an eye? Her mother always shares her homemade recipes. After dinner Marlene carries up the juniper chest, heavy with red. They eat apples for dessert.