Late July and the light feels unhurried. The kitchen is still, just the soft hiss from the pot and a slow breath of summer air through the screen. I wanted a light meal for lunch—something easy to carry the afternoon forward—and it came together without thinking: warm rice, a spoon of stewed vegetables, a few sharp coins of pickles.
The rice lifts steam like a small weather system. The stew settles into its own calm, tender and a little sweet. The pickles are bright, a quick green spark that wakes the tongue. Bite by bite, the plate becomes a rhythm—tang, comfort, warmth—simple notes that add up to enough.
Outside, the day lingers. 18:35 and the sun is still deciding what to do with the evening. I eat standing for a moment, then sit, and the room gets quieter. Funny how a small lunch can make space in a day, how a little bowl of rice steadies the hands.
Nothing fancy. Just a light meal that tastes like exactly now.
