Onion Gravy

There's a particular kind of Wednesday in late autumn when the light goes by four and the wind gets into everything, and you walk in the door already thinking about sausages. This is the gravy for that evening.

Onion gravy isn't complicated. It's onions cooked down until they've forgotten they were ever sharp, some stock, a splash of wine if you've got it, a shake of Worcestershire. But it takes time, and there's no way round that. You can't hurry onions into sweetness. They go when they're ready and not before. Forty-five minutes on a low heat, with the occasional stir, is the whole trick. While they're doing their slow work, the kitchen starts to smell like a proper dinner is on the way, and that smell alone is half the pleasure of cooking it.

I wrote this one down in the notebook years ago, with a note beside it that just said "the good one." I've not changed it since. A recipe is a conversation, not a contract, so treat the quantities as a starting point. More onions if you're feeling generous. A splash of ale instead of wine if that's what's open. A knob of butter stirred in at the end if the day has been long.

We're only making dinner. But this is the kind of dinner that makes the evening settle down around you, and the rain against the window stop feeling like a problem.