simply

My apartment smells like fried onions and potatoes. Remnants of the sliced onions and potatoes I made last night, at ten pm, when the craving finally intersected with a hunger intense enough to get over the effort it would take to make them. It was a pleasure, then, to slice the onions and potatoes, and as I stood over the stove, I found myself thinking, simply – how satisfying – a wood spatula and a cast iron skillet.

As I write this, now, onions and potatoes are frying, again, for my Sunday supper, to accompany chicken I’ll roast in olive oil with dried herbs – rosemary and lavender and thyme. Coarse kosher salt. And some precious ground pepper – my local grocery store has been out of stock for two weeks.

At last, we have had two days here warm and full of sunlight. I don’t know, dearest hearts, if it is the sunlight or the aroma from my kitchen that has helped me come out of a low mood that has stretched these past two weeks. Maybe it was sewing on a button, yesterday morning, when I found myself thinking, simply – how satisfying – the task of sewing on a button in the morning.

I suspect, though, it was the passing of time and everything else, too. The two gold finches in the neighbors’ yard. Maurice’s joy at rolling down grassy hills. The scent of lilacs almost everywhere. A spring love letter – in the form of a mixed tape – full of heart wisdom – full of yes, yes, yes: be this, be you, be here now.