The pumpkin sputters, hissing onto my hand. I suck at the burn and then stir in the lime juice, adjust the rice.
Brighid’s kitchen candle burns, merry and cherry-red in its square of glass.
I usually sing scales as I cook, followed by arias. The cat uncurls a white paw on the red couch cover. The curry wreathes the white-walled kitchen in warm scent.