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Susan Bagel

French onion soup carries the beefy solace of summer into the cold, desolate winter. An onion is a biennial plant that is treated like an annual, ripped from the soil halfway through its life cycle. A pungent bulb protected by papery layers of skin which fall away to reveal fragile insides. They are the base of so many dishes.

I discovered a rare California onion - so few, since the flood drowned the Central Valley - at the farmer's market, and breathed its pungent, earthy scent. It cost as much to buy as it took to peel it apart. Mr. Bagel and I had California onions on our thirty-fourth date, our last one before the world as we knew it changed. He used the word "love" talking about the future of paperless faxing. I breathed in the fumes of that word like the onions in front of us.

I lay my hand on top of the blade and use my weight to slice the orb. The paper crackles as it splits, the knife thuds against the wooden chopping block. The bisected halves fall aside, weeping droplets of white. I breathe in its sweetly sulfurous compounds, and like the onion, I cry. Like an onion, I shed my layers and weep as my gaze falls on the woman on the can of beef broth. She's so happy. The onion soup is not just onions. It cannot be french onion soup until the onions have been joined by the stock. Until then, it is just onions in a hot pan, slowly wilting.

An onion must reduce. The mass of shavings billows steam at my ceiling. Their precious clean water returns to the sky, while I reach for the landline, but hesitate. Mr. Bagel's line is always busy. Maybe Amanda will pick up. His boss, I mean. I wet my lips as I pick up the receiver, my onions developing fond, and the dial tone murmurs back to me.

When does the stock join the onions? These half-finished plants cannot complete their life cycle in the warm soil, so they must be finished by the meaty embrace, if they will be made whole at all. I tip the can into the pot, and the smile on the broth woman's face remains plastered in place as I empty her contents over the onions. My thumb brushes her printed cheek. Another tear falls from my wet cheek and the bottom of the pan hisses.

Anyway, here's the recipe:

1. Halve an onion from a lost time.
2. Take stock and reduce the emptiness you find into nothing.
3. Serve with bread and cheese. Attempt to enjoy.