Nestled amongst green rolling fields, blanketed by early-morning mist, is a mansion. On the ground floor of this large, old but rather cosy mansion, is a room. Sitting in this long, underlit but tastefully decorated room, is a table. Resting upon this long, overly-polished but beautifully arranged table sits a bountiful breakfast feast. Half-hidden behind a very large, ornately carved and salad-filled bowl is a young girl. She is attempting to yawn and eat at the same time.
She appears about three years of age, yet sits with a grace and precociousness that somehow commands the room, the whole house and possibly the entire world. The salad bowl is slowly diminishing beneath the power of her careful onslaught. Plates of sauerkraut and boiled eggs tremble in anticipation of their impending consumption. A glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice watches over the entire ceremony.
A tiny hand picks up a buckwheat cracker, eyes rove the empty spaces of tablecloth between the dishes, searching. The desired item is not present, so a voice sings out to a well-dressed man standing stiffly in the corner of the room.
“Mister Lowkigh. There is no butter here on the table. Please go and have a word with the chef.”
The butler, apparently trembling just a little, clears his throat.
“I’m sorry Miss, but the butter has gotten a little lost again.”
The little girl harrumphs, jumps down from her chair, trots over to the French windows, opens them and strolls out into the misty garden.
Continued in Part II.