Potage

One of those days when it did not seem possible to move from a lying-down position for a couple of hours after waking, and the view through wooden slats much the same as it was a couple of posts back.  Just to keep you fully in the picture.  After this, the only possible thing to do was to make vegetable soup.  In fact, I will go out on a limb here and say that When In Doubt Make Soup is probably good for almost any situation - as long as you are fit enough and able to remain in an upright, preferably standing, position for as long as it takes to make it which, as you can see, I was.  

There is some small fame attached to the pot, which dates back to the years of my first marriage and about which I once wrote a poem.

Steel Pot

This was my first wedding gift,

a steel pot with black plastic handle,

nothing showy, nothing to show

but empty space and a dull shine.

We made Russian toffee which

blackened and burned, I battered it with knives

and wire wool, I made my mark,

three days I left it in the rain,

It was gentle with eggs,

imaginative with lentils, kind to milk,

rice it loved best, it kept a little back,

a nutty crust we peeled and ate like bread,

the grains were patterned on its metal skin.

Steel is hard and true, people

come and go, my young husband

went north with a broken heart,

three days I waited, but

you can’t scratch marks from hearts

once you have burned them.

I walked into the wilderness,

a knife in my pocket and a wooden spoon.

The steel pot was my hearth,

I sang into its empty space

like my grandmother’s mother

who could (as they say) make soup

by singing into a pot,

and just as well.

I lean and look inside and still

it gives my reflection back to me.