A dense, myopic fog blurs the neighborhood this morning. Taillights blear; softened bricks erase into cloud; blossoms seep like paint. I watch a dog and her walker pause on the sidewalk. When I look up again, they have vanished, swallowed by mist.

Island weather. A fine morning to eat leftover soup for breakfast, to wear an old sweater, to restart the dehumidifier in the basement, to read a damp paperback novel, to walk down to the shore.

Speaking of soup, let me tell you about it. Fresh chicken stock, fried onions and carrots, leftover picked chicken, a handful of bow-tie macaroni, a can of pinto beans, salt and pepper. At serving, topped with coarsely chopped tomatillo salsa, a spoonful of plain yogurt, a handful of minced cilantro. Served alongside toast and ice water and a big green salad. An on-the-spot invention I will certainly invent again.