Listener (11:41)

Now.

Narrator (11:43)

You can buy them anywhere. But these particular peperoncini had been bought in a little shop in Mayuri by a friend and therefore had a special flavor that probably had more to do with sentiment than taste buds. I imagined her on her summer vacation with a floppy hat and giant sunglasses, stepping out of the bright Mediterranean sun into a shop with packets of spices strung on a hook by the door and remembering how much I like to add these to my soups and sauces. Taking one down for me when the pasta was cooked, I ladled it out into a bowl and carried it to my place. I pinched a few flakes of pepper in and stirred it through. The lentils had nearly dissolved and the surface of the broth was speckled with olive oil. The clove of garlic had gone soft and sweet as it cooked, and I spooned it into my first bite with a few pasta thimbles and a good bit of the tomato stock. This day, this meal, the time at the window with my book and pen, they were restoring me. It's easy these days to feel like you're under a microscope, over examined or scrutinized, and then to feel like you need a bit of time to be invisible to the rest of the world and with a lot of care and tenderness to simply mind your own business. That's what I would continue to do today, tend to myself and let the world revolve without me for a bit. All day at Home it wasn't the weather that kept me home today.

Listener (14:30)

Though.

Narrator (14:30)

There were certainly still drifts of snow banked beside the front door and a low gray sky that hinted at more to come. It was just that feeling when I.

Listener (14:47)

Woke.

Narrator (14:50)

The feeling of being a bit overexposed to the world, of needing a day of quiet to myself, that helped me to make up my mind.

Listener (15:06)

As.

Narrator (15:06)

I stirred my morning cup of coffee. I decided to stay home all day, to not go out unless it was to feed the birds or to bring in firewood, or to stand for a few moments in the cool air and breathe in the smell of. Well, winter air really smells like the absence of. Of growing green things, of movement and doing. I guess winter air smells like quiet and stillness and repose, and that matched my needs perfectly today. Once I'd decided that today was a day for retreat, I'd taken my nearly full journal from my drawer and my pen, my blanket, and went to the window seat that looked down into the small sloping valley at the edge of my backyard. In the summer, when I would sit here with the window open and let the bird song and the warm breeze in, I could imagine myself in a treehouse as all I could see were layers and layers of leaves. These were old trees, their toes dug deep into the rich, low land and their tops level with my window. Now I looked out at their bare branches spread like reaching fingers across the sky. Nests from last summer were suddenly visible as dark clumps in the joints of those finger, and I wondered where their former residents were at this moment, spreading their wings in bright sunlight, splashing in a friendly bird bath in a southerly backyard, or sleeping with a wing tucked over a head in a new nest somewhere warm. I spent a while sitting there, writing in my journal and looking out the window. I wrote about small things from the week, some that I wanted to remember and some that I was ready to forget, and putting them down on the paper helped me to do that. It gave them a place to live that wasn't my head. Eventually I set the book aside and I pulled the blanket closer around me. Sometimes from this spot I could see deer browsing through the trunks of the trees, dipping their heads and nosing the snow aside from a mouthful of berries. But today all was still everyone was staying home. Eventually I slipped my feet back into my slippers and padded down into the kitchen. It was a bit past lunchtime, nearly Two, in fact, and that made me think of the Italian way of eating a good sized meal at this time of the day. Something that would stay with you and nourish you for a good long while. I went to my cupboard and pulled down a jar of green lentils.

Listener (20:35)

A.

Narrator (20:35)

Tiny can of tomato paste and a box of pasta. Pasta con lenticchio today, a comforting pasta soup that was simple to make and delicious and satisfying. I tipped the lentils into a colander to rinse them and as they ran over my fingers I had a sudden memory of of being very young, maybe 4 years old, in a classroom with a paint smeared smock tied around me. There were bins of rice and grains and we could dip our tiny hands into them and feel the tickle over our skin as all the kernels and seeds collided. I remembered that I had liked the way it felt and had happily stayed there, just sliding my hands through the bins, quietly humming to myself. I supposed I hadn't changed that much in the years since. I still liked the pleasure of my own company and could easily entertain myself with simple, enjoyable things. I took a small pot from a shelf and set it on the stove. I measured in water and olive oil, a clove of garlic and a spoonful of tomato paste. I added the rinsed lentils and turned on the hobbit. As the water warmed and came to a boil, the smell of the tomato and garlic filled my little kitchen. I turned it a bit lower and let it simmer away for a bit to let the lentil soften. I liked a small pasta noodle for this, like ditali, which are short tubes and whose name meant thimble. I liked that thimble soup on a cold day. The broth had become a bit thicker as the lentils cooked and was a rich reddish brown. I dipped in the pasta and gave it a stir as it cooked. I set a place for myself at the table. A glass of mineral water, a napkin, salt and pepper, and a tiny dish of red pepper flakes. I was rationing them and had been doling them out in tiny increments for a while.

Listener (24:24)

Now.

Narrator (24:28)

You can buy them anywhere. But these particular peperoncini had been bought in a little shop in Maori by a friend and therefore had a special flavor that probably had more to do with sentiment than taste buds. I imagined her on her summer vacation with a floppy hat and giant sunglasses, stepping out of the bright Mediterranean sun into a shop with packets of spices strung on a hook by the door, remembering how much I like to add these to my soups and sauces.

Listener (25:25)

And.

Narrator (25:25)

Taking one down for me. When the pasta was cooked I ladled it out into a bowl and carried it to my place. I pinched a few flakes of pepper in and stirred it through. The lentils had nearly dissolved and the surface of the broth was speckled with olive oil. The clove of garlic had gone soft and sweet as it cooked and I spooned it into my first bite with a few pasta thimbles and a good bit of the tomato stock. The day, this meal, the time at the window with my book and pen they were restoring me. It's easy these days to feel like you are under the microscope, over examined or scrutinized and then to feel like you need a bit of time to be invisible to the rest of the world and with a lot of care and tenderness to simply mind your own business. That's what I would continue to do today, tend to myself and let the world revolve without me for a bit. Sweet dreams.