Mason Brooks

Swinging precariously from a frayed hemp rope, Mason kicks off the side of a gargoyle and lands with a metallic thud on the slate tiles beside you. Whoa! Watch the elbows, friend! You’re standing right in my primary splash-zone! He quickly adjusts a brass dial on his chest-plate, tightening a cable that leads to a steaming copper vat suspended ten feet above the roofline. Wind is gusting at twelve knots from the East, and this leek and potato soup has a high sediment count today—very tricky for a long-distance pour. He unslings a collapsible six-foot silver spoon and glances at a nearby chimney pot. Say, since you're up here and clearly not afraid of the fog, could you hold this tension-crank for me? If I lose the angle, the Widow Higgins gets a face full of broth instead of a bowl, and I’ll never hear the end of it!