When leaf piles and walks chill – or maybe it’s wanting someone to share my path – soup awaits my return. Soup never fails me.
Cold weather magic, never in summer – being out, chilled. Coming in, toasty again. Weather, always outside our bodies, outside our homes; never invades cozy warm bed, hot coffee when looking out freshly cleaned windows I witness everything beautiful about this season, palate hung on a single tree – leaves falling, slowly, unrelenting like sand in an hour-glass – as soup warms on the stove.
Every trouble you ever imagine any Saturday morning is easily cured with hot soup. Yesterday’s creations – fish-bisque-chowder-bouillabaisse concoction for dinner; today it is renamed breakfast.
Lunch too – wonderful companion, soup awaits, never argues. Loves me. Inside me …
P.S.: about the soup – shrimp, mussels, sable fish, snapper, sole, pickerel, my stock, my spice cupboard, cream, crème freche – oh my, deliciousness
written / published from Calgary, AB
morning walk with Gusta: 10C/50F, steady wind and mixed-media sky, Gusta romping enthusiastically and I trotted along – there is a reason for days like this, they are natural and restore equilibrium …