It’s a soup day. Well, okay, it’s 76 degrees outside on this August morning in Chapel Hill but it’s dark and dreary. The sound of the rain hitting the roof makes me think of soup. Thoughts of the warm aroma of Grandma’s bean soup and the sweet, earthy taste of Mom’s chicken soup, made with the bits of the carcass we modern cooks toss away, stir up memories. Soup comforts. Soup soothes the soul. Soup awakens the senses.
Lately I have been enmeshed in editing my book. And I’m losing ground in meeting my self-imposed deadlines. I should be writing but I’m making split pea soup instead. Both efforts are not entirely unrelated. Rather than searching for inclusion of the five senses in my story, now I actualize the experience.
I finger the firm half-moon peas searching for hitchhiking stones. The thick broth bubbles noisily on the stove. Its steam fills the kitchen with an earthy aroma. I lift a spoon-full of green soup dotted with specks of orange carrot. The velvety rich liquid satisfies my hunger and need for comfort. And reenergizes me to return to my edits.