The tupperware came to her kitchen from Moscow, Mombasa, Madrid, its colours as fresh as a paint-chart, each pot with its hermetic lid. These vessels she put in her cupboard, a cavity largely unlit, and she thought of them safe in that darkness, each lid with its hermetic fit. Her spatulas had golden handles, her cooker was clean as new snow, her fridge hummed a comforting carol her knives shivered through her gateaux. But leftover cakes need their storage, she rummaged for pot and for pot. Yet lids to fit pots, could she find one? I have to report she…