Water-saturated San Francisco is visibly greening. Slant of rain on window -- eyebrows, diacritical marks. Each room feels like a library. A consequence of rain is fragrance.
Make soup, of course. Rough-cut vegetables. Plenty of garlic. Fistfuls of spinach added just before serving. Bowlfuls. Crusty bread. Company. Conversation not about weather. Perhaps, poetry. Yes, poetry.