On the back burner, lamb stew bubbles pearl barley like a thoroughly shaken snow globe, a thin layer of grease floats on top. It smells delicious.
Tall and erect with the hint of a stoop she wraps her cotton apron tightly around her, before patting the white curls permed on her pink scalp.
Mario Lanza pours out his heart from the radio, as she tips the milk into the jug.
Then sits and waits, darning socks for one of eight.