One bowl of food

I was glad my kitchen included the large saimin bowls I'd found, and kept since Max and No'e were children. The sturdy restaurant ware held up with all the packing and unpacking of a lifetime with only minor chips. Like wrinkles I could account for every one of the nicks; a hasty washing, an angry morning of cold cereal and hot words. There were six bowls in all, I found two with no old wounds and set them on the drainboard. The egg noodles were nearly ready, just a second cup of cold water to cool them. I covered the old porcelain pot and dug in the frig for green onions.

"Can I help?" Max asked.

"Sure." I washed the tender onions and handed them to Max, noticing his incredibly large hands and thick fingernails. Not for the first time. He found a knife in the crockery pot where I stuck the cutlery and felt the edge.

"The sharpening stone," I pointed to the drawer. With long sure strokes Max honed an edge to that knife and all the others in the pot.

"Thank you," I kissed his cheek, and then added, "I have scissors that need it, too!"

"Don't do scissors." We laughed and Max finished trimming and chopping a cup of green onions in time to sprinkle over the now-drained noodles.

I served up a portion of noodles and green onions into our bowls, then ladled chunks of chicken, carrots, celery, and rosemary sprigs over the top. The aroma and the color of the stew warmed us and hid the rich noodles until we dug into them with chopsticks. Neither of us added additional seasoning though I had roasted sesame seed oil and a batch of freshly mixed Coleman's mustard. Max said a prayer of thanks, simple and quick. We ate mostly in appreciate silence, slurping the succulent stew until the last noodle slid slowly past our lips.

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