My Grandmothers Soup

Sometimes when nightfalls of summer feel so cold, and everything seems dark, I turn to the heat of my grandmother’s soup. Life can exist within bone China or simple ceramic textures, savoring salt and spices, but when it becomes bland, we seek sentimental essences to ease our yearning. When watercolor sunsets break into warm saffron hues, I remember her soft smile that bestowed hope upon me, resonating ancient flavors seasoned from perfectly peppered zests of her soul. Crumbs of her cuisine seduce a dull skyline into gourmet tamarind twilight, as the warm touch of her culinary run through the hallways of my childhood home, like an aromatic epitome of hand cooked love, she sprinkles ingredients of faith, marinated in minced humor, with lemongrass and lentil lullabies, in a heart-shaped bowl of tom-yum testimonies. And now I sit here reliving a distant delicacy so close to the taste buds of my mind. I will always crave for the first course of my grandmother’s Friday feast, served in a tray of fragrant memoirs, garnished in laughter, cultivated with delight, amidst the wrinkles that reveal the recipe to unravel euphoric tales of her unforgettable kitchen.