I love to cook. I just don’t normally do it. But with Francisco in New York, I’m left to fend for myself. Alone, my schedule and routine have become bizarre. I eat corn flakes at 4 AM while watching “Love in the Time of Cholera.” I make black beans and rice and eat the leftovers for lunch and dinner three days straight. Today, though, I decided enough’s enough. It’s forage and feast or fast and famine. And since I’m not too keen on the idea of hunger, the former is my only option.

I take an inventory of ingredients. I don’t want to go to the market. I love walking through the stalls piled high with fruits and vegetables, plunging my hands into burlap sacks of dried beans, and visiting the spice man, who dips into wooden boxes and measures out anything you can imagine on an old-fashioned scale. But it’s pouring outside and there’s a howling wind. I’ve got some basics on hand: two jalapenos, half of a red onion, some garlic I roasted for those black beans, mushrooms, wilting cilantro, and ground beef. I’ll use up these odds and ends by making meatballs. I’m feeling good; though I’ve been living like a bachelor (Make the bed?! Hang up the towel?! What for?), I can put together a decent meal. I stop the project I’m working on and head for the kitchen.

And that’s when the lights go out.

I hear Pauly knocking on doors, saying “Security. Tiene luz?” My neighbors either have lights, faintly, or none at all. There’s not enough energy, it seems, to supply the whole building today, but he can’t explain why. Some neighbors grumble about the energy problem, blame our situation on the politicians who have PEMEX (the Mexican Petroleum Co.) in their back pocket. Pauly knows better than to say anything. He just makes a note and raps on the next door.

The light coming in the kitchen window is weak, obscured by heavy clouds pregnant with rain, but I stick to my plan. That cilantro won’t last til tomorrow, and I hate to waste anything. Instead, I wash and chop and mix and then shape the meat with my hands. I set the albondigas in a pan to cook slowly on the low flame of the gas stove and turn to make a sauce: tomatoes, red wine, a little sugar to balance the acidity, half of a jalapeno I roasted. It all feels so good. It’s been a long time since I’ve picked up a knife and decided, based on its heft and sharpness, just how to use it. Forever since I’ve gotten my hands dirty. Que se joda la luz. The meatballs are a goldish brown now, crispy on the outside, and the sauce is bubbling, releasing a whisper of spices I added as a final touch. Maybe I’ll take Pauly a bowl later, when it’s all come together. For now, I pour myself a glass of wine and make a toast to this light inside the darkness.