The smell of beef stew clung to Tanya's apartment like it owned the place.
A delightful smell of richness, savory, and heavy seasonings.
I sat there, cross-legged on her sofa, watching steam drift from a wide cast-iron pot on the stove. She'd left it simmering since morning, she told me, right before we ran into each other on that stupid bus.
The thing looked prehistoric, like a black cauldron rescued from some knight's dungeon, yet Tanya moved around it with this quiet, controlled rhythm that made the whole scene look… elegant. Quite precise, the knife against cutting board went. She used a spoon to scrape the sides, then echoed the clink of a lid when she closed it back. Tanya had sleeves rolled to her elbows and an apron tied over her shirt.
I don't think I've ever seen someone cook before, not since a million years, it was quite mesmerizing to see.
