Ascent There is a stew, a simple meaty stew in the oven and the smell of it slowly makes itself at home. It drapes itself around the curtains, winds around the jar of wooden spoons, whispers to the piled dishes in the sink. The two dogs lie paralysed with desire for the goodness of it, their brains expertly analysing it within their limp bodies. The smell takes a last look around the kitchen, enquiring if it might climb the stairs …? Well, yes, that would be fine, and it grasps the handrail, an olfactory Midas, generous, spreading the promise of…
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