The water bubbles with violence, curtains of steam rising off its surface. There is a brief eruption upward when I throw in the handful of salt. Every time, when boiling vegetables or pasta, my mind drifts out to the sea. Not to the friendly lapping shores of summer, but to its center. To darkness and midnight. To winter and distress. The wreckage of ships, torn board from board by ancient strengths and angers. My mind turns to peril. The sea’s never-still and roiling core, where waves – travelling thousands of miles – break atop each other in ancient collisions. Where scaled monsters, unknown to us, live blind at a depth we can’t conceive. The water rises and hisses in the pot, echoing against the metal, irritated for one instant before settling, changed, but calm again.
[Painting: Ships Running Around in a Storm by Ludolf Backhuizen, 1690]