It’s definitively soup weather… the mornings are dark and chilly and frankly a salad for lunch is not so appealing anymore.
The first soup was butternut squash and carrots, nothing fancy, but velvety and warming. And I didn’t take any pictures, because… I don’t know, I forgot…
This time though I made an effort and even though I don’t have photos of the final results I have some of the ‘during’… does that count?
Most of my soup (unless I do the famous ‘everything at the bottom of the vegetable drawer’ soup) comes from this book:
To start off I went back to the old classic:
Who doesn’t like this one? No 3 calls it ‘white soup’… probably a strategy to ignore the fact it contains a moderate amount of vegetables. Denial.
It’s a harmless soup, that’s for sure.
The other ingredients are an onion (I was crying, couldn’t take a picture) and some chicken stock. That’s it. Easy peasy.
This week is rolling on in a haze… the sounds appeared muffles. After a loss like we’ve just experienced it’s weird to realise that actually no matter how great is the pain, life just goes on around you. It seems a little insensitive… but actually it should be comforting; like a stable ground after an earthquake .
Cooking, soup, even banana cake help a little. I feel that doing something concrete, and physical almost, helps a tad.
I had the last of the banana bread, sliced, toasted and smothered with Nutella. Zero guilt.
and here’s a poem about soup… just because… that’s how randomly my brain works these days…
I saw a famous man eating soup.
I say he was lifting a fat broth
Into his mouth with a spoon.
His name was in the newspapers that day
Spelled out in tall black headlines
And thousands of people were talking about him.
When I saw him,
He sat bending his head over a plate
Putting soup in his mouth with a spoon.
Carl Sandburg ‘Soup Poem’