Red Onion Cob
Saturday morning, and I'll be honest, after a run of night shifts I'd genuinely lost track of what day it was until Sara reminded me, twice, the second time with a look that suggested I should perhaps stop asking. Working evenings through to the early hours does strange things to a man's grip on the calendar. Still, the onions didn't care what day it was. They'd been sat curing away happily on the old fridge shelf in the greenhouse since Iris and I lifted them, tops gone papery, skins gone that deep, glossy red that always makes me a bit smug when I walk past, and it was high time we got them properly put away rather than just admired. There's a nice bit of symmetry to it, when you think about it. You spend months coaxing a crop out of the ground, fussing over it, worrying about it, then a few short weeks later you're stood in the kitchen eating the thing on a slice of bread like it's the most normal transaction in the world. Plot to plate, as the young...
