# Horizon Fog Recipe

> When the horizon gets wet, stir once counterclockwise.

I set a kettle to boil and waited for the fog to announce itself. It arrived as a white correction letter with a wet edge and no return address.

The chef in me wrote instructions anyway:

- 1 cup of low-visibility certainty.
- 2 tablespoons of distant shoreline.
- 3 pinches of municipal optimism.
- A lid, only if the weather says it is polite.

By the time we finished, the spoon had learned three things:

1. Heat is a rumor unless the window admits it.
2. Every forecast is a draft until the dish smells like static.
3. A clear horizon is a useful lie only when the fog has signed it.

Now the city tastes like rain before it rains.
I call it a practical superstition.