blómkál

Pouring rain, chill air. I am not surprised that it is chill inside too; it always is. I am surprised to find myself extracting a tired-looking head of cauliflower from the vegetable bin and thinking how pleasant it would be not to curry it with carrots and peppers, as any sensible person would do on a day like this, but to simmer it into a bland, milky soup. It is a very strange urge, this, the desire to recreate the taste of súpa dagsins as eaten at innumerable way-stops on Þjóðvegurinn 1. It is very suspicious. But today, I am too tired to fight it.