It's been one week. One week of blowing my nose, tossing tissues into trash, taking pills, drinking water and coughing like a TB patient. Spring is arriving and what we have to show for it in my allergy-laden house is ... disgusting.
With that nasty picture painted, let me move on to comfort. Soup's on. Homemade, pulled from the freezer vegetable soup simmering on the back burner. Soup is my go-to food whenever I'm feeling lousy. The aroma of beef and tomatoes floats downstairs where I sit at my computer promising to wrap me up in comfort for the day. I'll ladle out a steaming cup of soup for my coughing husband and stuffy daughter and pop a hot cornbread muffin beside it. We'll all sit down at the kitchen table with big napkins and bigger spoons. And then, soup will do it's magic. The steam, the smell, the warmth.
My mom was a soup lover. From the red and white cans to the many pots of home made flavors, we ate soup on a regular schedule. Left-overs were made for soup and as a child from the depression, she knew how to use every scrap. I'm a baby boomer and although not as spoiled as the next generations, we boomers certainly didn't do without much. We teethed on television, had Barbies and GI Joes, parked the station wagon at the drive-in and asked for all the newest fads touted in commercials. I was in the generation whose parents pledged to provide a better life to their kids. And they did - with gusto. I was privileged and pampered, but never spoiled. And when it comes to soup, I can throw together a mean pot from just about anything. So, next time someone tosses you a bone - throw it in a pot and chop an onion. It's soup time!