Omurice

The electric stove heats uneven, so perfect is outof the question. Mom will call soon, it's just a matterof when she wakes. I've already run the usual route:farmer's market, the butcher, patisserie, then showered,scrubbed down my heels. In just a tee I google how tomake a demi-glace: dissolve a stock cube, heat butter.I dice an onion and blame my unsharp knife for slippingon the slick inner skin when I know it's my grip

that's cut me open. Saturday mornings go like this.This new circadian fully solar. I purchase foodto make my meals, squint at my phone—already bitsof veggies sticking to the screen—and cook. Solitude'sa small pan and the frozen spring onion's wilting hiss.The grand omelettes of the world would shun my crudeopus, but I am happy eating it. This portmanteauI've loved since mom started packing my lunch so

she could brag to other moms. Back then the eggs moresheet than blanket, and she drew faces with the ketchupthat got ruined in my backpack. Caret eyes restoredby a plastic fork I stole from the condiment cart upwhere the big kids ate. Today no faces, just the surevoice on the other end of the line—the phone pressed upagainst my shoulder—telling me: Helena, you need realfire for that. It makes a kind of difference you just feel.