I woke up this morning and went downstairs. I drank a cup of raw milk, almost salty, thick with cream, and yellow. The gal up the road must be milking her Jersey to have the milk so thick and delicious.
Then I made rice gruel, Okayu (お粥) which you can make with leftover rice, water, and an egg. To the gruel I added sliced leeks and toasted sesame oil. It’s something I used to make, when I had lived someplace for a long time. It’s a dish that feels like home to me.
I have been thinking about what makes someplace home. Home is a place that’s like being in water, but not having a name for water. Certain songs sound like this to me. But with any place there are things left out, and I think this is why it’s easy, particularly today, to be somewhere but think about elsewhere.
I found contentment years ago, but lost it. And today, as Anna and I rode along a black road dimmed by the strange orange light of fire season, with haze in the distance turning the mountains indistinct, I thought about what it would take to be content again.