I like stew, the fatty meat, stubby bits of carrots, chunks of unpeeled potatoes, and the salty goodness of the soup. It’s the one thing I cook that is perfect for both my temperament and my culinary skill level; and the dish never suffers from my slothful moods or mental gridlock.

Too bad I can’t progress past self-editorializing (yes, I know that’s not a word, but I resemble it too much to change it) and navel gazing to drive to the grocery store or walk into the kitchen. Instead . . . I only think about stew in the abstract, and on clear days I remember the intoxicating aroma and simple joy of eating hearty fare.

I think of stew and breathe . . . first in . . . then out.