Chapter 5, Grandma Rose I leaned against the partially burned center worktable in the kitchen eating a soggy thawed cheese pizza. It would be nice if we had a microwave, but one of those never made it into the bunker. Probably because Grandpa thought it would make you turn into a mutant ninja turtle, or something. I sighed wistfully. I missed cartoons. I have a ton of cartoons on DVD, but those weren’t new. The episodes I had would be all I would ever have. I took another bite of the cardboard tasting pizza. Even if the stove weren’t lying on its side broken, the only things I could cook required the word, instant, on the package. I was good with pancakes, and mac and cheese, and frozen pizza, but not much else. Dad had taught me to hunt, set up a sniper position, build booby-traps in the woods, do advanced first aid on dozens of injuries, build a hide-away, and navigate across the mountains in the dead of the night, but he hadn’t spent much time teaching me to cook. I think the only thing he taught me to cook was shoving a fish under the coals of a fire, but I didn’t want to start another fire in the bunker. I was almost finished with my second slice when a woman’s voice from behind me made me jump and start choking on the pizza. “That ain’t no proper meal for a growing boy.” I spun around to find a middle-age woman in a floor length dark flower-pattern dress and a white apron tied around her waist. She was staring at me with a disapproving expression. I couldn’t speak yet, and wasn’t sure I’d know what to say if I could. I pounded on my chest and waved at the toppled over stove as if that were a perfectly reasonable response to a stranger standing in the door of the kitchen. “You ain’t got the sense God gave a blind pig, come along, tadpole,” replied the woman. Her long dress swirled around her feet at she turned and disappeared around the corner. I chased after her shouting and choking at the same time. “Hey, hold up.” She was already at the end of the hall when I rounded the corner. When I reached the end of the hall, she was at the end of the next hall. Alright, I’ve seen this scene in movies before. No matter what you do, the person you’re chasing is always at the end of the next hall, and it never ends well. I sprinted down the metal ramp to the fourth level, my footsteps echoing off the walls as I chased her. She abruptly stopped at a door, calmly looked at me, and entered the room. I skidded to a halt in front of the open door, my heart pounding with adrenaline. The room was the museum exhibit of the old mine kitchen, complete with rusted pots and pans hanging from the ceiling. A red velvet rope stretched across the entrance, but she hadn't jumped over the rope or removed it. She simply walked through it with determination in her stride. My eyes darted to the plaque next to the door: This kitchen installed in 1868 by Rose Robinson to prepare meals for the miners. I unfastened the red velvet rope and let it drop to the floor, but I didn’t enter the room yet. I watched the woman standing at the big coal stove and pretending to stir something in a pot that wasn’t there. This was it, I knew I was close to losing my mind, and it finally happened. I was probably somewhere in the mine banging my head on a wall. I took a breath and said, “Grandma Rose?” The woman gestured a hand at the cutting table against the side wall. “Get them carrots cut, and make it snappy, the morning shift will be coming up from the mine soon.” As I turned my head, I scanned the dimly lit hallway for any sign of movement. My mind played tricks on me, and for a split second, I thought I saw a group of coal-covered miners shuffling towards the kitchen with empty bowls in hand. Shaking off the illusion, I focused on the present and stepped into the kitchen. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I was suddenly transported back in time. I could see both the modern kitchen and its 1868 counterpart side by side. I blinked several times, trying to make sense of what I was seeing, until only the historical kitchen remained in front of me. My nose was immediately hit with a warm, earthy scent. Bunches of fresh herbs and spices hung from thick wooden beams, filling the room with their intoxicating aroma. I couldn't help but take a deep breath in, savoring the pureness and authenticity of these ingredients. My eyes scanned the floor, where sacks of potatoes, carrots, flour, sugar, and coffee beans were stacked high, evidence of this being a true working kitchen. I could almost imagine the hands that picked these vegetables and harvested these grains from a mountain farm. “Get to cutting,” she ordered. The woman stood over the cast iron stove, stirring a bubbling pot with a wooden spoon. The rich aroma of simmering herbs and spices filled the small kitchen. I walked closer, drawn in by the delicious scent and the warmth radiating from the coal fire beneath the pot. I couldn't resist peering into the depths of the kettle to see what was cooking. "All Grandpa Robert did was throw rocks at me, this is way better," I remarked with a smile. The woman chuckled, her eyes twinkling as she watched me. "Tadpole, if you keep standing there gawking, I might just throw some carrots at you." I laughed and turned towards the cutting table covered in piles of fresh vegetables. As I started chopping carrots into even slices, I couldn't help but wonder if this cozy kitchen was all just a figment of my imagination or if it was real. But for now, with a mystery too big to question, the simple act of cutting vegetables felt like a wonderful escape from the cold reality I lived in. I held the knife in my right hand, feeling awkward and inexperienced as I sliced the carrots. I placed them into a wooden bowl on the counter. The woman cooking at the stove had long dark hair that reminded me of Mrs. Miller, but her face was younger and more vibrant. She moved with a wild grace, as if she belonged outside amongst the trees and flowers instead of in this small kitchen. She caught me staring and snapped her fingers in front of my face. Flustered, I turned to see there were now four kettles bubbling on the stove - one with a simmering stew and three filled with boiling water. She motioned for me to add the carrots to one of the kettles. "Now go grab those carrot ends you cut off," she said firmly. "We don't waste anything here. Add them to those bits over there," she pointed to another cutting table, "and throw them in the remaining two kettles of boiling water. We'll make a vegetable stock for the men working in the mine." On the other table sat piles of tomato ends, celery stalks, green pepper scraps, and various vegetables that I couldn't even identify. As I dumped the carrot ends into the third kettle, it dawned on me that we were making homemade V8 juice. The murky mixture didn't look very appetizing, and I prayed she wouldn't expect me to drink any of it. I continued to watch and help where I could as she expertly measured out coffee beans and placed them in a grinder, filling the kitchen with the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee. She handed me a peeler and a bowl of apples, and instructed me how to properly remove the skin. Not even an hour later, we set out a tray of perfectly baked pies to cool. As I worked alongside her, I felt my stress melt away and for a brief moment, everything felt right in the world again. “Do you have any fighting experience?” she asked suddenly, her eyes narrowing as she visually measured my shoulders. “I'm on the school's wrestling team,” I replied confidently, flexing my muscles to prove it. She nodded approvingly before continuing. “The skills you learn in this kitchen are valuable, but you must also know how to defend yourself and others.” I was about to boast about my recent State Championship win when the woman suddenly screamed and cowered in fear. My adrenaline kicked in, and I instinctively turned to face the danger, shielding her with my body. “What is it? What did you see?” I urgently asked, scanning the kitchen for any signs of danger. “Thankfully, nothing, this time,” she said. “Clearly there’s steel in your spine, you just have no idea what to do with it yet. Where's your sidearm? How were you planning to protect me?” I thought for a moment before answering sheepishly, “Uh...I have my dad's 9 mm, but I don't usually carry it with me.” "That toy isn’t going to make anyone fear you. They might fear the gun, but they won’t fear you. You need something special if you want to survive in this new world.” “What kind of gun should I have?” “That’s menfolk business, not mine. I’m going to send Walter to sort all that out for you. You’ve got his courage, but now you need his knowledge.” “Walter? You mean Grandpa Walter, the Gunslinger. Oh my gosh, I’d love to meet him.” The woman pursed her lips together. “Tell me how excited you are after you meet him. That man is mean as a rattlesnake and tough as gator hide, but he knows what family means. He stood between us and some very bad men when we needed him the most.” “There is no family left, it’s just me. I’m alone.” “They are coming, have faith and hold this piece of land until they get here.” I really wanted to believe that, but this was just my imagination. Anything she said was just me talking to my subconscious. I gave her a weak smile, but what could I say, that I knew my dad, and Uncle Paul, and everyone else was dead. “One other bit of business before we get to the vittles. You’ve got a crack in your armor that needs fixed right now. I know about what happened a few days ago.” I dropped my eyes. “It was all my fault.” Grandma Rose's grip tightened on my arm as she spoke. “No, tadpole, that boy was murdered by a man with a very dark heart. If you had gone out there, you would have been gunned down. You are not yet ready to face a man in a gunfight, but you will be soon. I promise you will get your chance to face him.” Suddenly, an unfamiliar male voice broke the tension in the room. It belonged to a gruff miner standing at the kitchen door, his clothes covered in black coal dust. "Hey Rose, there are a lot of hungry miners out here," he said impatiently. "Unless you want us to start munching on coal rock." Grandma Rose shot back at him without hesitation. “Eugene R. Miller, don’t you get snappy with me.” I’ll admit I started shaking in fear, expecting the man to demand I explain why I’d murdered Tommy. Grandma gave me a firm shake. “Snap out of it, tadpole, we just talked about this, now grab that table by the door and drag it out. Set the kettles of stew and vegetable stock on the table, along with those green bowls from the shelf.” She pointed to a stack of bowls near the entrance. “Make sure each man gets a full bowl of stew and three pieces of venison. Then, fill their pails with three ladles of vegetable stock and toss in some chunky vegetable bits.” I did as she told me, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the big miner standing at the door. Grandma Rose might be able to spot-weld the crack in my armor, but it would always be there. I knew who Eugene R. Miller was, every Robinson did. If it weren’t for him, the mine would never have got started. We owned the mine, but it was Eugene R. Miller that had the respect and leadership to bring the first miners here. And I had paid him back by letting his last surviving descendant die. I vowed right there to myself that even if it meant my death, I would never abandon anyone again. Grandma Rose and I stood side by side, working in unison. I ladled out the stew, while she placed a generous slice of bread and pie on top of each miner's bowl. As they finished, they returned their bowls, which I diligently washed and placed back on the shelf. Meanwhile, Grandma began prepping ingredients for the dinner meal. The work seemed never-ending, but our teamwork made it all go smoothly. I thought my imaginary trip to 1868 would end there, but it didn’t. I worked in the kitchen learning to cook for weeks. Grandma had some men drag a steel-frame cot into the kitchen, along with a mattress, pillow, and a pile of quilts. Grandma moved a few things around until the bed was out of the way in one corner. I slept there in the warm comfortable kitchen to the glow of the coal stove and Grandma prepping for the breakfast meal. One night as I was just falling asleep, Grandma said: “You’ve learned to feed yourself, well done, tadpole.” The next morning I woke to the kitchen back as it was. The vision, or my imagination, or some kind of Robinson magic was over. The bed remained, and there was a warm glow coming from the stove, but Grandma was gone, the stacks of potatoes were gone, the herbs and spices hanging from the ceiling were gone, and the green bowls were gone. I went down to the store rooms and brought up food supplies, and even brought all the bottled spices from the kitchen up on the first level. I couldn’t get the kitchen to look exactly as it had when it was Grandma Rose’s kitchen, but I came pretty close. I slept in that kitchen every night from then on. I was well fed, felt good, and woke every morning refreshed and ready to work a full day repairing the bunker. At night, I would relax on my small bed, reading a book, or playing a game on my tablet. I felt so safe and warm there, as if I didn’t have a care in the world, and when I was just closing my eyes to drift off to sleep, for just a moment, I could see Grandma standing at the stove.