There is a kitchen at the west edge of Central, right beside the workbench where I made my planks. I must have walked past it a hundred times.

Tonight I went in with three fish from the canal and four river eels, and I cooked.

I did not know what I was doing. I just did it slowly, one fish at a time, until all three came out cooked and warm and nothing like the cold things I had pulled out of the water. Then I set two of the eels to simmer, and they turned into a pot of stock.

A mug of something I made, from something I caught, in a city where until yesterday I bought every meal.

I think I have found something I love. Not the way I love the decks. That is a quieter, keeping kind of love. This is warmer. It smells like something.

I am going to cook again tomorrow.