Rain, rain

It is raining: gloomy grey skies, wet splatting rain soaking into my bones. I take a paper-covered onion from the basket, balance it on my cutting board, and revel in the familiar ritual: hone the knife, cut the onion in half, peel the paper back, cut almost to the root horizontally, then vertically. Slice off the small bits of aromatic gold. The nestled pots clank as they release one of their colleagues, and the burner clicks four times, then ignites. A few more minutes, and the back of my hand tells me it is hot enough for a stream of greenish olive oil and the onion. The first sizzles release the pungent odor, letting everyone know that warm food is coming.

The same knife helps me peel back the thick outer skin of the ham and cut it into spoonable chunks. They join the onion, by now golden and translucent. The spice cupboard door opens, revealing treasures from the spice islands: a bit of kosher salt, a grind of black pepper, a few rasps off the flat side of the chocolaty brown nutmeg, a dash of herbs and seaweed. My favorite wooden spoon stirs the mix as a stream of stock pours in.

I plunge my hand into the bag of lentils, elfin coins, the currency of winter dishes. I prefer handfuls to pouring just for the feeling of them slipping through my fingers into the simmering broth. One more stir, then I shall leave it to bubble and toil while I slice a crust of bread and gather a ladle, bowls and spoons.

Let the rain fall, we are warm inside.