©Evan Nichols
Comfort food for the soul,
medicine of mothers and grandmothers,
solace of sick children and weary
workers everywhere: Soup.
Flood the kitchen with color—
peppers red and green, celery and sage,
heirloom tomatoes, all the rage,
savory flavors bless the air.
Vegetable soup; eclectic, down-to-earth
as the streets we walk, people we meet.
Dice with your knife through stringy, tangy stalks,
add their pungent odor to the mix.
In the bubbling stock, round green peas trip and pop
like teenagers, while carrot sticks
in bright uniforms poke their way between
old men potato chunks and curling slices
of onion, pert cloves of garlic, to whack the peas
in a stovetop sport.
Some vegetables and fruits, bright to the eye
but acidic to the tongue, may be tempered in the blender,
transformed with cream,
into satin-smooth elixirs that glide
slickly over tongue and throat. Fresh herbs:
parsley, basil, rosemary and thyme,
mint, tarragon, oregano—and spices, too:
cumin and coriander, peppercorns and turmeric,
breathed through the steam of simmering pots,
heal by their very inhalation.
Seasonal soups, aware of the weather:
Gazpacho in summer, or cool Vichyssoise;
potato for winter, hearty green pea;
onion broth steaming, with grated cheese melting
on slices of French bread floated on top.
The sick and the poor and people of means,
princes and paupers, housemaid and queen—
all raise grateful spoons in honor of soup,
be it watercress, purslane, mushroom or bean.
©Vivienne Rowe, 2008
Vivienne Rowe lives and writes in San Francisco, and what more could anyone ask?
Rudolf's Diner 