The Red Kitchen by Sarah Françoise Strange now to think back to those two chickens we made: the first one, we roasted on a wet Saturday in February, in my kitchen in Forest Fields; the second time was last night, in the red kitchen we have come to share. Though you are not here now, I can see you cutting old bread, a black ghost in the red kitchen. Arching a little under the weight of happiness, you remark that […]