The sun is poking wanly through the lead carpet of clouds; the dog is out for a walk; and I am in a silent house for the first time in weeks. I am both relishing the moment and cultivating a melancholic mood that might or might not have to do with procrastinating.

I’ve got some good leftovers in the fridge: Belgian endive, blanched cauliflower and fennel from a book party last night, and a single breast of poached chicken that I thought might go into something for the kids but didn’t. They aren’t my ordinary brightly colored ingredients, but maybe they should be because they are all so lovely together in their plain, stalwart shades of winter white. I throw in an apple and some buff tahini dressing, and just to brighten flavors and the palette, a big pinch of dill. It’s a mellow salad juicy rather than jarring in its crunchiness, its monochrome matching the muffled beauty of the afternoon.