winter comforts

I love making soup; there is something so ‘Mother Earth’ about it. I stand at the kitchen counter chopping the vegetables, half an eye on the birds at the birdfeeder, the other half on what I am doing. Seventies music plays in the background. It’s mindful in a mixed up way, birds and knife leave no room for any other thoughts. Then I fire up the instant pot and start sauteing garlic and onions (everything in this house has them). As each ingredient gets added to the soon nearly overflowing pot, my feeling of satisfaction increases, until, when the lid is finally twisted on, I have that sought-after ‘peaceful easy feeling’.

When the soup is finally ready - it takes ages as I use dried beans and lentils - the heavenly aroma of vegetable rich soup fills the house. I’m not a totally good planner as the giant soup is enough for several days so I don’t get to re-enact the ritual for a while.

Not all soups are vegetable/bean (minestrone) soups. Sometimes a curry infused lentil soup is on the menu. Or a tomato lentil soup (I can’t remember how I made it last time, but gosh it was good and I’d like to make it again…). For company I might make a mushroom soup with thyme and rosemary, and of course there is the potato soup… and… and… and.

Soup is perhaps the best thing about winter.

Last night Jo Ellen and Don joined us for supper. I made a hack job of the pot roast - it turned out dry but had good flavour. I’ve scoured the internet for more recipes and will try another method which uses more broth next time. All was not lost though - we had yorkshire pudding too :-)

In the last week or two Spike has taken to spending part of his day on the bed in our room. I can’t figure out why… is it too noisy in the main part of the house? There are rarely loud conversations during the day, and I don’t play music every day, so it is usually quiet. It isn’t cooler, but there may be more sun. Is it some sort of new anxiety that he’s developed? He is a strange one.

“Winter, then in its early and clear stages, was a purifying engine that ran unhindered over city and country, alerting the stars to sparkle violently and shower their silver light into the arms of bare upreaching trees. It was a mad and beautiful thing that scoured raw the souls of animals and man, driving them before it until they loved to run. And what it did to Northern forests can hardly be described, considering that it iced the branches of the sycamores on Chrystie Street and swept them back and forth until they rang like ranks of bells.”

~Mark Helprin