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I’m not certain what happened, but last Wednesday morning I awoke with the certainty I would cry or break something precious if I didn’t take a break from writing. See, for months now (my family would argue years), a good portion of my waking life has gone into learning about writing, actual moments of writing, anticipating writing, sharing what I know about writing, and critiquing writing. It got to the point we joked the black center of my eyes were no longer pupils, but periods. Then, for whatever reason, it was suddenly too much.
So I took a break and found it delicious.
I mean that in the literal, as well as the metaphoric sense. Turns out a remarkable thing happens when you remove your nose from a book or computer: not only do you come to understand how many significant things you’ve let slip in your absence, but also how many simple pleasures you’ve denied yourself merely because you’re unaware of them. Like soup.
I love soup, as does my family. There’s something about taking a hodge-podge of ingredients and converting it into something edible, that feeds my soul as well as my belly. Veggies a little past their prime? Check. Three jars of salsa, each with 1 Tbsp. of sauce in them? Check. Leftover rice? Check. Saute an onion, add stock, some herbs and spices and voila! Magic. A clean fridge, thriftiness, respect for the environment, health and creativity all in one non-stick pan. What’s not to like? It’s one of those simple joys that fill me with a sense of abundance.
Along that vein, will you do me a favor? If you notice I’m getting a little too serious around here, will you tell me to set the pen down and pick up a ladle instead? Please?
How about you? What’s your favorite soup? (Mine’s lemon lentil, and if enough people ask, I’ll post the recipe.) Can you make soup without a recipe? Do you suppose in Japan they make kanji-shaped noodles? What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever put in soup?