The stew boils on the stove, the aroma of onion, garlic and a hint of cumin wafting through the house. The dog, sleeping under the table, twitches in the sleep-drenched excitement of the chase.
Outside, birds call and make their way through the trees, oblivious to the very human occupations of cooking and setting the table, perhaps slightly disturbed by the clattering of plates and silverware below.
In another pot next to the stew, rice slowly simmers, its dry graininess slowly absorbing the heated water, expanding to the plump texture so familiar the world over.
Perhaps at this moment, in pots throughout the world, fragrant stews and pots of rice simmer in preparation for the nourishment of their human authors and their families. Perhaps under other tables, other dogs chase rabbits through dreamscapes of lush foliage and soft grass.
Stew speaks of comfort.
(c) 2008 NurseKeith