It is wash day, and she starts with the ashes.
A week of hearth sweepings goes into a barrel lined with straw. She pours hot water over the top. What drips out of the hole in the bottom is brown, slick between the fingers, and strong enough to take the skin off her hands.
Nothing in the house can tell her how strong it is.
So she floats an egg in it.
Too weak, and the soap will never set. Too strong, and it eats the fat, the pot, and her hands along with it.
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