It Is Just Soup

In the unquiet chamber of a kitchen, where brittle leaves of thyme and sage sway in unison, to the hot hum of convection crooning softly from a stove of iron. The guests hang waiting, by turns, for their moment in the simmering cauldron. Thick, steaming whispers of warmth curl around the herbs like a secret, as the ample arms of winter wrap the day, in a slowing cloak of comfort. The soup, a slower surrender of spinach, blooms in the broth—verdant and tender at first, then shrinking away, like sunlight at solstice. Wilted strings of greens tie memory in their tendrils, mingling with the earthy echo and unrushed tones of rosemary. Garlic, its own pungent alchemy, intrudes as a perfume, lingering like an unpaid mistress, an alabastered addition to the elixir, a liquid hymn, of patience. Bones simmered to capitulation, cradled spoonsful of succumbing, each sip an immersion into the gentle resignation of day. Ladle gently circles the pot and the world slows, even more, as though time, too, seeks refuge in the simmering depths of the ordinary, and the richness of the balm, in stillness, at the center of the supper.