The rocking knife sliced uniform carrot moons, ribbed sickles of celery and cubes of Spanish onion. The onions stung and my tears coursed freely. I stopped trying to catch them with my tongue, letting them season the mirepoix instead.
I tipped the cutting board over the pan, shaving the vegetables into the bubbling butter and olive oil. They jumped at first and then settled into a sweat as I reduced the heat.
Making my version of lamb stew is an all-day event, or, that is, it begins early in the day so the wine can breathe and the ingredients can properly marry.
I poured myself a glass in a patch of sun on the counter. The velvet Bordeaux coated my tongue and throat and warmth blossomed in my gut. I swirled the glass, sniffed it and drank again.
After sliding the vegetables from the pot to a plate, the floured lamb cubes went in, searing in the oils lining the bottom. When the bottom became richly crusted and browned, I tipped my glass into the pot and inhaled the vapor. The hiss became a bubble. I scraped the flavor from the surface. The vegetables reentered along with cubed potatoes, a healthy splash of wine and a bouquet garni.
The doorbell rang as I opened a small can of tomato paste. I creeped to the window and peered through the slats of the wooden blinds. I saw a small white Ford with the Nicor logo. I opened the door. A young man stood before me with a clipboard.
“Your meter’s inside, ma’am?”
Shit. The gas meter lay practically hidden from view, sandwiched between the wall and the stacked washer and dryer.
“Sure, this way. Here, why don’t we grab you a chair? It’s hard to read the—“
Lightning struck my right temple. Why did I never before appreciate the comfort of my kitchen floor?
“Turn down … Turn down the heat, please …”
The dark-haired-boy-in-duplicate stepped over me and twisted the dial on the range. The stew smelled good already. I just hoped it wouldn’t burn.
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