My mother once made us a tagliatelle with some market bought mushrooms. We all had really intense dreams that night
It was the brightest day this winter, yet a coat of snow remains on the streets. The night falls early in December, and now it's dark and silent. Someone walks in and asks for mushroom barley soup, and now everybody wants a bowl. The radio starts playing La Luz, and I finally find the last bits of carrots. The produce truck has been blocked by the winter storm, but it should come in a day or two, right before the pantry empties. I pour out the last can of Sapporo as the cast iron gets hot. Ah! The smell of seared oyster mushroom! I could finish a whole skillet of it, with a little salt and vinegar. Once the onion and garlic turned golden brown, I stir in carrots, potato, and pour in vegetable stock. And of course, the barley. I convince myself to put in less, as it'll soak up all the broth and puff up. The soup simmers, and I sit down next to Smudge, sinking into the muted chats around the bar.
My mother once made us a tagliatelle with some market bought mushrooms. We all had really intense dreams that night