Up until a few weeks ago, I never made a good chicken soup. I am generally a really good soup maker. It’s always been my best thing. But all of my attempts at chicken soup could best be described as LAME. BLAH. HO HUM. This winter I’ve had a seemingly endless craving for the stuff and I’ve been buying some pretty good chicken soup from the “soup ladies” downstairs in my office building. I say “pretty good” simply because the broth is delicious, but it’s low on veg and high on macaroni, and macaroni and my waistline do not get along. So I decided to just get down to it and learn how to make a proper chicken soup of my own.
All it took was for me to think of the basic tenet to good broth: roast the ingredients first. So once week I’ve been doing this:
And I’ll be darned, at 53 years old I can finally make really delicious, nutritious and soul warming chicken soup. It’s a little labour intensive, preparing a roast chicken, then picking off the meat and adding the bones to the stock pot to make the stock, and then cutting up the veg and meat to make the soup. But for the simple pleasure of creating this…
…it’s time well spent on a cold weekend afternoon.
This morning I open my eyes and roll over to find I’m joined by a rainy day and the lull of its gentle conversation. As always I want to keep it to myself – I don’t want to have to share it with the mechanical goings on of the work day. I want to walk in it at my leisure and absorb its smell and energy into my body.
I want to watch it lazily from a window as it provides sustenance to the vegetation and washes the streets and sidewalks. I want to cook in the glow of the stove light while I enjoy the sound of it falling outside and the deepened, bluish/greenish atmosphere closing around like a protective hug.
I think of rainy day jobs and creative activities and the pleasure and satisfaction we find in those things because the rainy day has given us an excuse to stay in and do them. I think of certain past lovers and how we dreamt of rainy days together, lolling about, talking, sipping tea, reading the paper and those other things lovers do so well together.
There’s something in a rainy day that slows my wheels a notch – and as I head out the door this morning I’m wishing I could have this rainy day for my very own. Or better perhaps – to share with someone else.