Yesterday, the chilly air and cloudy sky seemed to whisper, “Matzo ball soup from D.Z. Akins.” But, for the first time, the idea of Jewish penicillin did not seem as warmth inducing as it always had. I wasn’t convinced it would satisfy my craving for comfort. As David waited by the door, I rushed back to the kitchen, filled a small plastic container with some of my freshly ground dried hot peppers, and tucked it into my purse. At the restaurant, the servers walking by seemed to take special interest in my bowl, which had somehow turned red. It was the best matzo ball soup ever.