A few feet away, there’s a steady sound. If you didn’t know what it was, you might picture a cauldron with something cooking. You’d envision steam and the constant movement of ingredients in liquid. And you’d be right.

Last week’s snow has nearly melted, no big project is calling my name, it’s Monday morning, so I’m making soup. A definite soup person myself, I was glad to discover our neighbor does not like to cook, and loves her veggies and meat in broth, too. If Lance gets tired of my concoctions–because it’s difficult to make just a little soup–our neighbor will help out.

There’s just something about that bubbling sound…quiet, nonintrusive, yet noticeable in the background, like white noise. Someone ought to add “soup boiling” to the list of white noises on those machines…what a comforting thought as you drift off to sleep. Even if you’re facing a rough night, somebody’s got the food covered.

Learning about the suffering of people during WWII always broadens me. Tens of thousands in Holland starved to death . . . Audrey Hepburn, an eighty-eight pound teenager at the time, ate tulip bulb soup with other desperate citizens.

What solace they would have gleaned in the reliable resonance of real vegetables and beef or chicken boiling in a pot. Such a simple item, something we take for granted. Delving into history often swells into gratitude–I have never known the sort of hunger they endured.

So today, I hone in on this wholesome, vibrant, homey sound.

Maybe it will usher in a new character…some woman cooking for her family. Perhaps she’s in a distressing situation. Perhaps not.

Hmm…images are starting to bubble up in my mind. (:

7 thoughts on “Bubbling…bubbling

  1. I’ve read an account of Dolly Parton’s life, supposedly written by her, in which she said her mother scrubbed a large rock and put it in the soup kettle so it would appear they had more food. We never had a food shortage because we lived on a farm, but I clearly recall my Dad’s actions in that regard. He enjoyed taking veggies past their prime but still edible to a specific place at dusk dark where he sat in shadows and watched the small animals eat them. One evening, he saw the man from the next house down the road gather the food and take it home. Thereafter, Dad supplied the best food as long as those nomadic neighbors lived next to us.

  2. I hadn’t heard that rock story. Thanks. And the one about your dad, what a great memory of his caring spirit! Hope you’ve written it somewhere.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.