Comfort Food

I love this time of year. 

The sweet. The sour. The hidden treasure.

The trees' warm hues take the edge off the crisp, sharp air as it swirls around me in gusts, seemingly dancing with a new batch of falling leaves. It never occurs to me that I am a part of this changing rhythm yet despite my layers, the chill always finds a way to reach in and ruffle my arm feathers. 

No matter how I close up the zippers and buttons, the horripilation of hair follicles stands at attention while the rest of me shivers to get warm. It's thrilling really.

I will make a cup of coffee just to hold it in my hands. 

The spirit of the season will soon be floating through the neighborhood wearing gossamer capes and yarn wigs and red light-up eyes. The small ones will have parents in tow and get the best of us. The older ones will see our worst.

After this, we won't see them again until it snows.

Our black cat will find her way to my side. She scootches in close and presses her flank into mine. Her paw rests on my arm. It is soft except for a single claw that she has attached to my sweater. Insurance I won't suddenly get up and leave her exposed to the cold.

I don't love that the dark comes for us sooner. Or that the laundry tips the scale with its winter weight. I don't love wearing long socks and heavy boots. I dread driving that first mile and a half in a car that refuses to warm up ... until we get to the vet clinic and finally feel the heat from the vents.

It is time for the comfort of food: For soups and chilis and pot pies made of thankful leftovers. For loaves of bread that proof on the wood stove as you leave the oven to heat. No one will complain about the stuffiness of the smell, all yeasty and reassuring.

Tonight, I have it in mind to warm up a summer staple and put a pot of water on the boil.

I have time so I use the slow burner. The one that made me realize I was now old and in possession of a least favorite heating element.

I will do the work to sliver up cabbage and carrots and bell peppers. Mix them with shell-shucked peas straight from the freezer. 

I'll turn my attention to peanut butter, warming up half a cup or so in a saucepan. Splash in some rice vinegar and soy sauce. Add a few squeezes of siracha and ginger ... (did you know they make a paste?) and a healthy dollop of minced garlic. I throw a little salt over my shoulder in appreciation for the gods of processed basics, but none into the pan.

The boy wanders into the kitchen, following the scent of the air. He pokes a fork into the pot and swirls the strands inside.

Twelve minutes ago I was able to put spaghetti in the pot. And now it's what my father used to call "al dente," but my son will argue it's actually a little undercooked. In a minute I'm going to need tongs so I can coat the noodles in sauce.

What did I forget?

The sweet! I would have added maple syrup, but I found the bottle empty. Maybe a pluck of brown sugar will do in a pinch. A few more tumbles with tongs and we'll know.