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Cooking in the servant’s kitchen of the ‘Big House,’ I am preoccupied with keeping a copper pot filled with potatoes continuously on the boil upon the blackened stove. Alongside peeling and slicing raw potatoes, I transfer those that are sufficiently softened into another pot. To these softened, fluffy, white potatoes I unceremoniously add a handful of small white wafers, Catholic Holy Communion, marked with the insignia of Christ’s crucifixion. A few spoonfuls of rich, fertile soil from the estate gardens and a dash of white milk spoiled with drops of my menstrual blood complete the ingredients. Mashed together with force this mixture is flung into a bright green plastic sandcastle bucket, greased with butter. I feed ‘the hungry grass’ by tipping this noxious mix out on a large circular patch of earth placed on the cold flagstone floor, around which Euro coins are scattered. Between my spread legs, I mold this mixture, beating and shaping it into various forms such as a female breast. I stretch these forms towards the black circular fan in the ceiling that mirrors my round patch of grass. I fall on my knees, crushing my ‘castle,’ squashing it into the ‘cursed ground.’ With my arms outstretched, I stare fiercely at the visitors to ‘my kitchen,' silently asking them ‘what can you offer me now?'

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