To share: Chicken Soup

And the crumbs we left at the table.

Does anyone else wake before sunrise to see the sky turn pink?

We build a big life out of the little things. So go to sleep early, wake up before the alarm. Then pad over to the kitchen for some rich, dark coffee. I take mine black with raw honey and cinnamon—a custom I fell for while studying in Florence. One weekend in Venice, I met an old professor who told me coffee should never be rushed and that red wine with live music was made to make hearts smile.

il dolce far niente [the sweetness of doing nothing]

With my warm bevy in hand, I grab my penguin-level puffer jacket and step into the tundra—toward the water, or up to the roof. Poetry usually follows. Sometimes music. Sometimes a friend. Sometimes we hit snooze.

Recipes to share: A no-recipe Chicken Soup.

Food is another way to add sweetness and warmth to everyday. My friend makes chicken soup with no recipe—just muscle memory, practiced hands, and love. It’s the kind of glimmer that reminds you to slow down and pass things forward.

And since I love a goofy pun, this is the start of a two-course segment: a recipe—something I’ve made, found, or been fed—so we can swap ideas and build a big little life together. And then, a dessert course—The Crumbs We Left at the Table—a thought, a memory, a conversation to share with someone, like the last sips of wine, a warm mug between your hands, or dancing to the hum of a favorite song at the end of the night.

How to make a no-recipe Chicken Soup:

Start with a heavy pot.

Heat some oil and brown chicken thighs on both sides with a little salt and pepper. Take them out, and in the same pot, sauté onion, garlic, carrots, and celery in the rendered chicken oil until soft.

Pour in water, a little chicken stock, salt, pepper, and bay leaves. Let it simmer for about an hour, skimming off the bubbles and foam for a clear broth.

Add a handful of fresh parsley. When the chicken falls off the bone, pull it out, shred it, and return it to the pot.

Serve in deep bowls—with rice, noodles, or whatever you have on hand.

The Crumbs We Left at the Table

Over dessert, I’d probably ask if you’ve ever noticed how art historians always seem “shocked” to find first drafts or sketches under a masterpiece. Like the idea that great work takes practice is somehow unexpected.

We’re all quiet revisions, tucked beneath who we are today. Kind of chaotic. Kind of beautiful.

Your turn—ask me something.

Check plz!