Beautiful sunsets are practically the norm in San Francisco if your window faces west. We can’t see the Pacific from here, but we can see the mists and fogs over it, and sometimes those create blustery, Caravaggio-like effects of red and purple in the sky as the sun sinks. “Oh look. A ten,” either Michael or I will say, and we’ll both stand for a moment watching the colors blaze or fade.

Getting people outside to watch, however, requires a rare combination of factors. The temperature drops as the sun goes down, and the wind rises, and most Northern California sunsets are best enjoyed from behind a window. Last night was not Caravaggio quality, but unusual in that there wasn’t much fog, so the Golden Gate Bridge was nicely etched against a clear pink sky. No fog means it’s not as cold and windy, so we could see the distant silhouettes of people who had gone up to their roof to enjoy it.

During that long pink dusk we began hearing, close by, a playful beat on something metal. Our cat, always alert for any strange noise, ran to the living room window and crouched, peering out, and I joined her, expecting to see someone walking down the street tapping a tin drum. The only pedestrians were a couple, a man and woman deep in conversation who had nothing in their hands, but along with the tapping I could also hear distant hoots and cheers. Something was plainly being celebrated. The sunset? The mild night? A sports event? How could there be a sports event?

Had Trump resigned? Alas, no.

It remains a mystery.

I cooked a chicken chili last night, an old favorite I’ve been making for over thirty years. Back when I was in my South-of-Market, black-leather-wearing, white buzz-cut twenties, the go-to cookbooks were the Silver Palate series, now the most battered, food encrusted books on my shelf. Their chicken chili is not only delicious, but a comforting taste from the normal past and a reminder that life can still be good.