Molten iron ore is first poured into the pot. The nasty little bits, rising to the top, bubble and drip, to be swept away by grandma's wooden spoon. The hearty stew, now left to cool, only gets tastier as the wind blows over. I can feel the strength imbued, the soup going straight to my bones, as I grow higher and taller. I scratch the sky with my baseball cap and bang my head on the ceiling. I run to the window and see the kids at play only to hear gramp's shout, "First finish yer pork, it's getting rust!".