The Kitchen

Step beyond the Taproom, past the well-worn Staff Doors, and into the hallway that leads deeper into The Last Home. There, framed by a grand archway, lies the kitchen—always open, always warm, and wrapped in the quiet embrace of certainty. Within its walls, Mama Jori reigns, not as a commander, but as a presence—constant, unwavering, and exactly where she needs to be.

Unlike the Taproom, where food is a transaction, the kitchen is a place of purpose and care, where everything has order, everything has meaning, and everything is exactly as it should be. There is no chaos here. There is no door to close the world out. There is only the steady rhythm of the hearth, the chopping of fresh ingredients, and the quiet, absolute knowledge that if you enter, you are stepping into a place where food is more than survival—it is a promise.

A Kitchen That Shouldn’t Be This Well-Stocked

The shelves are lined with jars of herbs and spices—some common, others rare, a few completely unidentifiable. The stone countertops hold bowls of fresh ingredients, each placed with care, as if the kitchen itself ensures that nothing is ever where it should not be. Hanging from the walls and ceiling, gleaming copper pots, heavy iron pans, and countless utensils dangle in perfect organization, each within reach when needed.

Nothing ever runs out.

Nothing ever goes to waste.

It is a kitchen that should require constant resupply, and yet, somehow, it never does.

Mama Jori does not question this.

She simply cooks, and the kitchen provides.

The Warm Embrace of Mama’s Kitchen

If the Taproom is the beating heart of The Last Home, then the Kitchen is the motherly embrace you didn’t realise you needed. It is comfort in its purest form, a sanctuary where hunger is banished not just from the stomach, but from the soul.

At the center of the kitchen stands a great stone hearth, its fire never faltering, never dimming, radiating warmth that feels less like heat and more like presence. A brick oven sits beside it, where loaves of bread bake daily, the scent curling into the air like an unspoken welcome.

And in the heart of the room stands the table.

Massive, worn smooth by years of use, its surface is perpetually covered in freshly chopped vegetables, rolled dough, and the quiet, steady work of preparation. It is where Mama Jori’s hands are always moving, where meals take shape before they ever touch the fire, where the unspoken ritual of Mama’s Kitchen takes place.

This is not the Taproom, where food is business.

This is her space, her table, and if you are seated here, it is because you need to be.

No one asks to sit at Mama Jori’s table.

No one questions why they were seated there.

There is no bill, no menu, no choice—only what she places before you, and you will eat it, because you need it, whether you understand that or not.

Everything Has Its Place

The kitchen runs with absolute precision, though no visible force enforces its order. The shelves remain stocked. The knives remain sharp. If something is moved, it finds its way back to where it belongs. The smooth flagstone floors, worn by generations of steps, remain warm beneath the feet, no matter the season.

Even the large rocking chair near the hearth has its proper place.

It is Mama Jori’s.

No one sits in it unless she tells them to, and even then, it feels less like an invitation and more like a decision that has already been made for you. Beside it, in a small woven basket, sits a bag of knitting needles and yarn.

Mama Jori does not knit.

No one has ever seen her so much as pick up the needles.

But the basket remains. Because it belongs. And that, in itself, is reason enough.

A Kitchen With a Will of Its Own

For all its warmth, the kitchen is not without mystery.

It provides—but sometimes, it refuses.

A dish halfway through preparation simply ceases to exist, ingredients vanishing mid-process. A fresh loaf of bread may never leave the oven, and a stew left simmering for hours may never quite reach completion. The meal was never burnt, never spoiled—it simply was not meant to be.

There is no explanation.

No reasoning.

Only the quiet certainty that, whatever was being made, it was not meant to be served.

Mama Jori does not question this.

She simply moves on to the next dish.

A Place Best Left Unexplored

Beneath the kitchen lies the cellar, a place that should be a simple storage space and yet refuses to behave like one. Barrels of flour and casks of ale are stored there, but where, exactly, they are stored changes slightly when no one is looking.

To descend into the cellar is to invite mild confusion.

You will find what you are looking for, eventually.

You may also find something you were not looking for—something that should not have been there but has, somehow, always been waiting.

Once, a cook retrieved a bag of onions and returned with a single preserved fish, perfectly wrapped, labeled in a language no one could read.

Mama Jori does not question the cellar.

She simply retrieves what she needs and leaves the rest alone.

The staff, wisely, follow her lead.

Whiskers and His Throne of Softness

While everything in the kitchen serves a purpose, one exception exists.

A large, overly plush purple cushion sits near the hearth, its fabric molded perfectly to the shape of Whiskers, the ever-expanding drake. It is his domain, and nothing disturbs it.

Scattered around him are plush toys—some chewed, some half-destroyed—but one, a small, pristine teddy bear, remains untouched.

It is his night-time companion.

No one moves it.

No one questions it.

Because Whiskers watches, and Whiskers waits.

Final Thoughts

The kitchen of The Last Home is not just where food is made—it is a sanctuary of warmth and certainty, a space where order reigns, where the fire never dims, and where no one leaves hungry.

It is a place of work and ritual, where the simple act of preparing a meal becomes something greater than mere sustenance.

And at the center of it all, her hands always moving, her presence unshakable, is Mama Jori, ensuring that the Inn remains exactly as it should be.

Because if there is one truth the kitchen holds above all others, it is this—

No one leaves Mama Jori’s kitchen hungry.