What ho, McKenna," you call out as you step just inside the door.
Your older sister starts at the noise and the oak ladle in her hands shudders. Droplets of oil scatter onto the table and floor, and she flings her legs out of their way before they can spatter her. She turns to you, eyes flashing above the handkerchief wrapped about her nose and jaw.
"Keep your hos for a noisy rogue," she spits at you, muffled by the cloth. She sets the ladle gingerly into a small cauldron, resting on a trivet on the wide work table. Rows and rows of earthenware pots line the rest of the table, some with sealed lids and others wide open, waiting to be filled.
From the way she recoiled from her pot of infused oil you strongly suspect it's not meant for frying; though it's quite possible the folks who use it will fry for their sins. You might do well to step in before her anger builds.