The beef looks like a ragout. It’s falling apart against the spoon and its juices are running into the creaminess of the porridge. Steam rises from the bowl, but I ignore it and dive in anyway.
It’s savory and salty, deliciously umami, with so much texture and flavor that I can’t help but moan around the piping hot mouthful of food. “Wow,” I breathe. “Where did you learn to make that?”
“She avoided it whenever possible. But when she did, this was what she made. It was her favorite thing to eat in the mornings. Or really any time she felt low. Which was… well, often.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Some people are destined to live unhappy lives.”
He doesn’t have to tell me twice. Look at my own mother, my father. They’d both lived unhappy lives, each one’s made worse by the other. I could
