January 18, 2013
A tiny mess of soup
A little while ago I made a tiny mess of soup.
I hefted my favorite pot onto the counter and poured a lovely bit of olive oil (with a blind eye, of course) into it. Then lots of celery and a bit garlic. There were red potatoes, a petite head of romanesco, and lenticchie.
I used water as my stock and bubbled everything down with generous cracks of pepper and splashs of salt to taste.
Nothing can be easier than soup. A homespun soup that fills ones home with layer upon layer of warmth and nose cradling perfumes. The steam wrapping itself around ones neck like a knit scarf. And what be can better than wrapping ones hands around a hot bowl of soup to warm them?
Soup is to be hovered over, to be devoured slowly at first and then with gusto as you tilt the bowl to allow the liquid remains to fill ones mouth or spoon one final time.