The kitchen window was open this morning, letting in that particular March light—pale gold, still carrying a hint of winter's clarity. I decided to make shakshuka for breakfast, something I hadn't attempted in months.
The tomatoes went into the pan first, their skins splitting and releasing that bright, acidic aroma that somehow smells both green and red at once. I added cumin and smoked paprika, watching the spices bloom in the oil. Too much paprika, I realized a moment too late—the kitchen filled with a haze that made my eyes water. I cracked the window wider and laughed at myself, remembering how my grandmother used to say that a little too much spice just means you're cooking with confidence.
The eggs nestled into the tomato mixture, their whites turning opaque at the edges while the yolks stayed glossy and golden. I let them cook slower than usual, resisting the urge to rush. The texture when I finally broke one open was perfect: the white fully set, the yolk still flowing like liquid sunshine.