life is just a bowl of soup

standing here, dusk falling, twenty-three years on, stirring tonight's offering: the beginnings of a rainydaysoup. inhaling the sweet fragrances of olive-oiled red onion and parsnip, melding together in caramellygoodness, sprinkled with salt to sweat. the whiteness of leek, a three musketeer sort of start-up.

this time of year, the nostalgia of that big black thundercloud we got married under, stood under, stayed under. my belly not-yet-swelling, filling with beauty. fast-forward to nose prickling as the grapevine takes on a sour mustyness, leaves shrivelling under the late late summer's heat, still umbrellaing untasted fruit. five kids and hangers-on rendezvousing chez nous for easter jazz, a trio of boyvoices suddenly turned from soprano to rich tenor-baritone.

now adding thick wedges of roasted pumpkin with two litres of chicken stock that you've lovingly boiled down from a family roast and frozen for future daze, a dash of seasoning for international posterity, extra water to make it go around.

reminiscing all the years you've held my hand, held me up, held me in this balance of motherhood and teacheriness, of making babies and making stuff. it's quite insane when ya do the math (yeah, the americans have got to my grammarian sensibilities): we've lived together longer than we've lived apart. time stands still, heals all wounds, love makes the world go around.

soupyness is at the boil, turning down to a gentle simmer, summer. so thankful for your goodness in and around my entire existence, photomoments flashing in and out of my consciousness.

buzzer sounds, the moment has arrived. time for a spin, whizz the lumps away and serve with hot, crusty bread. butter dripping down wrists of offspring we've made. the marriage of soup and bread, sustenance of souls around the world.

still together: bound by the bonds of love, and nothing can track that.