rice, snow.

The snow looks downright sparkly in the orangy streetlight haze and the blue christmas tree lights are reflecting back in the window pane, superimposing themselves in a triangle shape over my view of the quiet street. I walk to the kitchen and take the steamed up glass lid off a bubbling pot of future thai-like vegetable curry. It smells like coconut and dirt in there. I stir it and look at the fried tofu pieces in the frying pan on the next burner. They look dead in the still oil that was crackling a few minutes ago. Dead and delicious.
It's ready! Nate says, and I stop writing about it because I'm hungry.