Eventually, I suppose, it all comes down to soup.
Physically - I have always figured that soup is the stuff of leftovers. Last night I had to use some of the refrigerator overflow (the cabin had been shut down for the winter and we brought food home). Potatoes. Celery. Carrots.
In fiction - Alice's Adventure In Wonderland comes to mind. I always loved the mock turtle, but never more than when he was played by Gene Wilder. I loved how melancholy and absurd he is.
And I always loved the stories of Stone Soup. I like to think it's what my mom always meant when she said we were having boiled rocks for dinner. I like the idea of the rock "just needing a little..." to make it into soup. I loved liking the "bad guy" - the con man with only a rock and a story.
And the Dodge Poetry fest this year seemed to be all about soup - despite it's sunniness. Aimee Nezhukumatathil's "Fugu Soup" was a favorite. She was a general favorite.
And in the kitchen.
I think it's fairly widely established that I am no great cook. I can bake well, and I am terrific at breakfast, but "real food?"
I make reservations. I grab takeout.
As I am writing this, Chris is happily in the kitchen making quesadillas. They will come out wonderfully. I am certain that I would still be able to screw these up, easy as they are.
But I am good at soup. And I like to think that soup is important.
Soup makes your esophagus and belly warm.
You can't rush eating soup (at least, not my chunky soup).
Soup keeps the storm outside outside.
And it's hard to screw up soup. If it's too salty, I can add something. Too bland, I have a remedy.
And I beg you to look at people on the next cold and blustery day when they get soup. When their hands cradle the mug or bowl, there is a look of calm expectation.
Just because of soup.