Earlier I wrote about the death of my neighbor D and the funeral and her surviving husband G and ... about my cooking and bringing over food.
Apparently, when I don't know what to do or say, I cook. Sometimes I bake. Sometimes I make casseroles.
Mostly I make soup.
Soup is super. It really, literally, does make you "feel better".
It even makes me feel better to make it.
Because of disease, disappointments and deaths, over the past several months I estimate that I have made hundreds of gallons of soup.
I have made old favorites like matzoh ball soup and chicken soup and potato leek soup.
I have made new discoveries like summer squash soup and sweet potato and chickpea soup.
Today, though, as I plan on making up some more summer squash soup and sweet potato chick pea soup, I am discouraged.
What has all this soup accomplished? Is the world a better place? Or is it just more dirty dishes and veggies spared from the compost pile?
I feel like soup is not enough. Not by a long shot.
Today, the sun is shining (at last) but my spirit is cloudy still -- even rainy..
Maybe I should *have* some soup.
1 comment:
Have some soup. Make more soup. Bring the soup. Soups are like words: sometimes more nourishing than we know, sometimes all we have to offer, something infused with the love we're trying to communicate to those we're feeding. It helps.
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