Surprised by a squeeze from the transverse abdominis whilst dropping onionskins in a pot for stock. Could
be a result of rapid furniture moving or clambering loose-footed paths on steep
slopes; with a couple of prized deer bones gripped in hand; or wandering waist
deep in the slippery cold river, favoured bones slung makeshift in a scarf. But
despite the upper abdominal flinching, thoughts are focused on soup.
Soup is made of items found.
It is made when we are not sure what else to do for
nourishment.
It is best made slow.
It is best made with time to scent the earth inside each
mushroom as the knife slides through: to let an onion sting, to smile at the
orange flesh of a drab skinned sweet potato: to feel each density, hear the thock of knife edge contacting the chopping board: to see
the irregular, the pleasing collection, chopped and mixed in the old iron crock,
glossy with melted ghee: to feel the anticipation as it is set upon the Rayburn
hob with stock water and sprigs of garden herb.
The crock was found, as most things are here: close to
hand, just when we needed it.
(The deer bones, it should be noted, were not for stock: they are set aside for
making knife handles.)
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| Post river walking: how lovely and warm socks are :-) |
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