Saturday Supper

The sound of snow, the sound of silence. A cold Saturday in early December. The sky, a murky, whitish gray. Undulating precipitation. Undershirts, overshirts, flannel and warm socks. Hot coffee, toast...more toast.

A fully stocked pantry. A trip to the market the day before will tide us over until Sunday farmers market. A late lunch of eggs over easy conversing with extra virgin olive oil, salt and pepper. A crusty baguette, toasted. A nap. Miscellaneous chores.

Conversation accompanied by waning daylight.

I say 'What about this?'

He says 'And this.'

I say 'You genius.'

He says 'It was your idea.'

I say 'Yes, but you took it over the edge with the addition of mushrooms and cream.'

Does one require a recipe? One does not. Neither does two.

We lead our empty stomachs to the kitchen. Rigatoni. Bacon. Garlic. Shallot. Crushed red pepper. Button mushrooms. Arugula. Cream. Toasted bread crumbs. Parsley. That requisite dusting of Parmesan.

My fretting...'I fear you're about to tell me something I don't want to hear...that we've finished everything...that there will be no second helping.'

His reassurance...'I think there's a little left in the pan.'

There's always a little left. We try to make less, but it never works out that way. We always make just enough, plus a little extra.

Espresso and maple cookies. Sated.

A cold nose. Cold fingers. A sweater missing a button. Snow rocketing to the ground. Shelter inside a collection of short stories, a cup of hot tea and a warm throw.

A cold Sunday to follow with the promise of polenta.