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Crock Pot Soup


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.)



Post river walking:
how lovely and warm socks are :-) 

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