Waking-up to Onions

To my dismay, I woke up to the smell of onions in my bedroom this morning.

Last night, I made curry. I’ve been cooking more lately—partly to be more frugal, partly for the simple joy of making something tasty. And curry, in my opinion, demands onions. They bring life to a dish—sharp and sulfurous and unapologetically present. But they also cling—not just to the pan, but to your clothes, your walls, and apparently your pillowcases.

I didn’t expect the smell to linger. Just like I didn’t expect a conversation I had weeks ago to still be looping in my head. But here we are: trying to live in today while yesterday hangs around like it owns the place.

I like onions—especially when they’re part of something bigger, something bold and layered. But I’m realizing that if I don’t let them breathe, they end up in places they don’t belong. The problem isn’t the onions. It’s that I didn’t open a window.

So this morning, I cracked a few open. I breathed in some fresher air and let yesterday’s dinner quietly drift through. The scent of onions is still here, but less so. Fortunately, I’ve still got some leftovers.