There was half a cucumber, a cup of cherry tomatoes I was protecting from summer fruit flies, half a bunch of kale, three different herbs (mint, parsley, cilantro), a box of chickpeas, a handful of golden raisins leftover from the granola I baked two days before. To make the dressing, I reached for cumin, lemon, shallot, mustard, honey, oil.
In keeping with the theme of trust and instinct, I cannot offer a recipe. I've listed my ingredients, and I trust you. You know how to whisk a vinaigrette and add more honey if it's too tart. You know how to chop all the greens at your disposal, gather a pile of grains. I know the same, because I peeled, chopped, sliced, whisked. I tossed well, coating every grain, tasted for salt, tossed again, then stepped back from the counter, proud in some small way but mostly, deeply content. And grateful.
Grateful for a quiet house, for the light, for the dog waiting by my feet should a piece of cucumber spill to the floor. Grateful for what was to come in just a few days, which would be more monumental that I could have ever prepared for. Grateful for sustenance and skill and the ability to make something when required. Or not even required. More simply, when needed.