With love and Herbs Abundant.

To answer the question ‘what do you want to be when you grow up’ but with a time machine pointed backward- I’d be a cook.

Not a fancy one in some castle for a king, but the provider for a busy home full of hungry mouths, toothy grins and red-faces flushed from the heat of the wood fire.

The thought is spurred by a mind dipped in fantasy, unable to shake the dreams of dragons even if I tried, so the timing in reality is uncertain- I’d say mediaeval for sure, but that's a span of a thousand years before the end of the 1400’s so it's tough to pick an exact date.

Two things I know for certain; I’d be well known for heaping roasted feasts, and I’d be subjected to claims of witchcraft.

The accusations would be based solely on an incredible herb garden and a ‘magical’ soup that could cleanse one of the common cold after a few spoonfuls.

In truth, the magic would be in the heavy amounts of chilli, garlic and ginger that would pester stuffed sinuses until they cleansed themselves in the most revolting, dribbling messes.

I’d wear an apron so often I’d feel strange without it, hair tied up in a messy bun with tendrils trying their best to resemble the bird's nest I’d raided earlier as I slathered their occupants with butter and salt.

I would have a pot for tea permanently on the stove for visitors and to anyone passing through it would seem like I am always kneading dough for fresh bread to accompany that witchcraft soup I’m always stirring.

I’d have a crush on the gardener or the guard that watched the front gate and the kids of the house would cherish the cookies I’d sneak them in the afternoons.

I’d wander the gardens with a basket collecting all the fresh things ripe with flavour, followed by a little helper who collects bugs more than things I actually want to see in my kitchen and I’d have a different basket I’d take into town to get all the things I couldn’t grow myself.

The hunter would cut me a good deal for the meat she butchers in return for fresh pies she would swear to share but I knew she never did. It was always apple in the summertime and brown-butter peach pie in the winters. I’d even churn fresh cream if I had the time or spare hands to borrow.

It would be tough work, honest work; and though some days would be bone chilling cold with nothing to stop the draft from creeping through the cracks in the masonry and other days the heat of the oven would be sweltering, I’d adore it.

The rumours of my witch-craft would be benign, murmurings mostly drenched in jealousy from the other houses or town gossips and the lord or lady that I served would ensure I never saw a flaming stake because they knew it was all just nonsense; or even if it wasn’t they couldn’t go a single winter without my stew so they were happy to turn a blind eye.

I don’t think I would ever have kids of my own, there would be enough in the house to go around and I’d see them all as mine anyway. I’d teach some how to help out with the cooking and others I would watch grow into their own skills with swelling pride and love.

I’d grow old with the home and the family who ran it, my greying tresses as nest-like as always as my kitchen duties were slowly reduced to stirring the stew and keeping a watchful eye on the new cook of the house.

It would be a long life. I would pass quietly in my rooms in the cold of winter and the next day the head of the house would find my final gift of thanks to them. A lovingly hand-written tomb of all my recipes they grew to love so deeply.

The very last page would contain the secret to that winter stew.