Half An Onion: A Tale of a Small Miracle

The drive home took nearly forty-five minutes.

Forty-five minutes I'll never get back. Fatigue was too deep in my marrow for me to gripe about it. I was in a state of fugue. My eyes were open and I was driving safely, by all appearances. My mind was off somewhere else.

Apparently in the kitchen.

Arriving home, I quickly set my briefcase and lunchbag and camera down. I kicked off my shoes and slid into my bedraggled slippers, shuffling into the kitchen. I had no idea what to have for dinner. The kitchen god smiled, though, and opportunities fell out of the pantry and into my waiting hands.

Half an onion.

Two cloves of garlic.

Salt.

Small quantity of peppered bacon.

Half cup long grain rice.

Quart of chicken broth.

A can of pinto beans.

Bay leaf.

Pinch of dried thyme.

Fresh ground black pepper.

Quarter teaspoon smoked paprika.

Pinch of cayenne.

Two carrots.

A small smile tugged at the corners of my mouth, as I sliced the bacon into small pieces, setting them to brown in my trusty saucier. I held the onion and cut it into large dice. The bacon was getting fragrant.

A knot unloosened in my belly. I may have actually chuckled.

The bacon was crisp, so I scooped it out of the pan. The grease I spooned off until I had just enough. The onions hit the pan, and oh, smelled so good. I laughed. They fried gently, crispy brown on the edges. The garlic made nice with it, turning over in the pan. I was smiling broadly now. At that right time, in went the rice. I spooned it over and over, getting it good and coated. Just about the time it smelled nutty, that moment, I poured in the chicken broth to sizzle and bubble. A quick stir, and I tipped in the pintos.

I was whistling now.

A squall of herbs and spices: bayleafthymeblackpepperpaprikacayenne, mmm, mmm, so nice to get lost in THAT storm. The little flecks of goodness swirled around and around as the liquid came to the boil. I was hopping a little, almost...dancing.

On went the lid, down went the flame, and few minutes to simmer. I reckoned twenty would just about do it. At about the ten minute mark, I sliced the carrots medium-thick and put them in the simmering broth.

My kitchen smelled delicious. Somewhere, I heard the tinny clank of a rusty lock being slipped from the door to the cage. I growled softly, spoon in hand.

Cook 'til its done, that's the key. I pulled my big white pasta-cum-soupbowl-cum-allpurpose dish from the cupboard between the stove and the sink. My glass of iced tea stood patiently sweating, awaiting the reunion with the bowl of...soup? stew? I was about to ladle up.

Off with the lid, and a fragrant cloud of steam gently caresses my face and nose. Breathing deep, I feel slightly dizzy, uncoiling like a watch spring finally run down. I ladled up a big helping of whatever it was I just made, and took it outside to my humble patio. The tea gladly tagged along.

I sat down to my repast, joined by the soft whisper of wind and the rustle of leaves. I stuck the spoon in to bring a big mouthful of goodness to my waiting gullet. I paused. Sitting there, alone on the patio with book, bread and soup, I suddenly realized I was witness to a miracle.

Small, humble, but a miracle just the same. I put the spoon in my mouth, closed my eyes and sighed. Half an onion and some time had just made me human again.

For that, I bowed my head and gave thanks.