Breakfast

It started with the tin.Old. Lopsided. Bent from years of being slammed shut one-handed while holding a baby or a bowl or a breath.I hadn’t …

The crust was already thawing by the time I realized what I was doing.I don’t even remember pulling it from the freezer. Just… there it …

The pie tin was the old one. Green Pyrex. Little chip on the lip where I dropped it against the sink back when Clinton was …

The kitchen was cold.Not in a dramatic way. Just the kind of cold that makes you wrap your fingers in your sleeves and keep the …

It started with the eggs. not the mixing, not the pan — just the sound of the carton cracking open.I hadn’t made crepes in years. …

The rain had that sideways thing going. not loud. just persistent. like it knew I wasn’t up for much. I wasn’t planning to cook. wasn’t …

The heat was already on. That’s how it started.Radiator clicking, not working. My hands were cold but the kitchen was warmer than the bedroom, so …

It smelled like the radiator was trying too hard again. that kind of dry warmth, where the air feels baked before the oven even turns …

The fridge was humming louder than usual and I couldn’t tell if it was the cold or the quiet that made me put the pot …

It was raining. not dramatic rain—just that Maine mist that wets your hair and makes the dog smell like laundry left too long in the …