Tomato Soup

I never liked tomato soup - that thick slurry of red in a white bowl - childhood winters, Friday nights with a menacing dark pressing against the window as if trying to get in. Tomato soup looked too much like blood poured out of that suffering pictured in the vivid imagery hung along the stations of a child's mind no matter if blest by grace. When older and wiser, I had lamb shank soup, clumped with celery, carrots and loads of gelatinous meat. Each heaped spoonful was a precious gift, a celebration of life.