I believe love is like a stew, best made slowly and over low heat, ingredient by ingredient, gathering flavors so nuanced and particular they’d be impossible to recreate the next time around. Recipe-less, intuitive. Seasoned by rash unmeasured shakes of spice (sometimes too much, sometimes not enough), all the flavors eventually evening out with time. I think good love takes a long time. And yet, and yet. Last Monday night, I’m sitting in a dim English pub across from someone who has captured my attention with his most restless mind and his most true heart, and I’m saying things like “let’s go slow” and “all good things take time.” And even as those words leave my mouth, my heart is racing on ahead of me, as impulsive and un-slow as it’s ever been.