A self-taught chef, Aunt Tuula was equipped for gourmet cooking, and she was always trying out new recipes from the countries she had visited. Crystal and china were stored in cabinets with glass-pane doors. Above a butcher-block island, a suspended rack held gleaming pots and pans, dried herbs tied with twine, and a variety of ladles and spatulas and utensils I didn’t know the names of. A bright orange towel hung on a hook, and several salt-and-pepper shakers—all shaped like gargoyles—looked down from a shelf above the stove. Beside them, an elf figurine sat on a red-maple-leaf dish. A pan of cooling buns rested on an iron trivet by the gargoyle sugar bowl and the elf. Another pan cooled on the stove. The fresh buns filled the room with a delicious aroma, and my teeth ached to bite into them. “That was dazzling, Kerka!” Aunt Tuula exclaimed. She stood between the stove and the island, holding an icing dispenser. “Thank you.” I beamed with pride as I perched on a stool. The Kalis dance was the only dance I was better at than Rona, probably because it required as much speed and power as it did grace.
