The book contains only recipes for winter, when life is hard. In spring, anyone can make a fine meal.

Every hour or so, my friend turned to wave at me, or I believed she did, though the dark obscured her. Still her presence sustained me: some of you will know what I mean.

When the postcards stopped, I read the old ones again. I saw myself standing under the balcony in that rain of foil-covered kisses, unable to believe you would abandon me, begging you, of course, though not in words—