by Binh Nguyen
RECIPE The gunmetal look of the sky opens the scene to this late fall afternoon. Soon after, snow rushes down outside the kitchen window as if fleeing from the incurable grayness of the clouds. In here I watch the fire on the stove waving its tiny tongues wildly—like some ghost intent on telling it all in the confessional stall of the blaze. —Or like a devilish coquette who sticks out her tongue, flutters it, as a way of saying hello. The flame keeps reaching its yellow -blue tips upward toward the bottom of the pot, tickling the thing, making the soup I’m now stirring with this ladle to boil in no time, which I then serve into a small bowl, adding a sprinkle of salt and pepper—a light kind of supper for this type of weather.