The Alchemy of a Winter Kitchen

The steam rises in heavy braids, scented with cloves and the sharp tang of peel. Outside, the light is a bruised purple, failing against the frosted glass.

Copper pots hum on the blue flame, a low vibration felt in the soles of feet. The wooden spoon is a rhythmic anchor, circling the dark, thickening sea of stew.

We are gold-light and flour-dust, sheltered while the wind scours the eaves. Salt is the ritual, a pinch between fingers, transforming the cold into something we can hold.