A Kitchen of One's Own.
I rose from my writing table rather late this evening and found that the rest of the household had already dined. All the dishes cleaned and put in place, all the diners repaired off to their spicy burps and thickly drawn breaths, I had the kitchen to myself. Making my way through the clutter of the refrigerator I happened across a lovely piece of sole and the makings of a fragrant provençal sauce. I sautéed the garlic, onion, tomato, basil and kalamatas in some olive oil and sauvignon blanc, with a dash of dijon and butter, and nappéd it over the sautéed fish. I took it with a bracingly crisp glass of Frascati and then retired to the back yard with a hand-rolled and a Calvados. Tonight's meal was a pleasure.