Soup's On

The songbirds are at full throttle here in Bethel and all is lovely.  Last night we had dinner with Becky and Wayne.  Soup, french bread, and salad.  All served with the care and thoughtfulness Chez Trapp is known for.  The soup was a creamy potato with an altogether pleasant surprise of basil. Just enough zest but not enough to turn one's pleasure away from the always comforting potato.  And I thought slicing the basil lengthwise was an especially nice touch. Then there was the fancy french sheep cheese. Ohh la la Baa-la-la.

At one point I turned to Becky and asked if this was from her mother's kitchen.  No, her's and her's alone.  A few minutes later, at the other end of the table, Wayne asked if the recipe was her grandmother's. I thought about this later and decided the soup was so good that it was as though it had taken several generations to perfect.  I think someone should send her a great big bundle of leeks.  We would all be  eager to see what she would do with those.

Friends.  How we need them. How groovy baby the hours spent, eating bread and soup.  Listening to good music and recounting our day.  When I am threatened with becoming overwhelmed and maddened with the nefarious ways of our human world they bring me back.  Soup, good bread, and a salad set on a beautiful table, surrounded by friends.  It is surely the life Hemingway, on a good day, called a movable feast.