If this really were their kitchen, this is what I would say about it:
Every morning, at 3 AM, I wake up and get the fire started in their pre-Soviet era stove. Sometimes we have wood, sometimes we don’t. On the good days, when we have wood, I sometimes have to jump-start the stove because the wood is wet. I use vodka to give it a bit of a kick. There’s usually plenty handy.
On the bad days, I have to get up earlier and - wrapping myself up in a greasy polar bear fur-coat - forage in the frozen predawn. Sometimes I find an abandoned hovel and pry off the intricate molding with my cracked and bleeding hands. When I can’t, I have to use cow-patties from a wandering herd of bovine on the city square, or maybe steal some boards from the neighbor’s fence. When all else fails, we burn cats. They are greasy here, so they burn well. Black cats burn best, just ask anyone.
After the fire is lit, we put a block of ice in a pot and pray to the saints that it will have melted by six o’clock. If the fire is dying, we throw on a cat soaked in turpentine for good measure. Once the water has melted, we wash our dirty faces and dress for the day