Confessions

As the years have ticked by, I've become rather shocked at the accumulation of secrets I have stashed away.  Somehow I once believed that grown-ups were much more unconstrained.  As a child, I suppose I had so many rules--endless, they seemed--that the fantasy of one day living in my own house, buying my own food, and staying up until dawn shredded the night with her glorious golden fingers....how beautifully liberating this would be!  Ahhh, at last as adulthood enveloped my world, I became well versed in the tango between freedom and responsibility.  These two dance partners swing you from one set of arms to another, back and forth.  One's embrace light and fragranced with violets and spring rain; the other's fevered touch makes your heart pound with possible discovery, the bouquet darker...a musk of surreptitiousness and clandestine thoughts.

That which we hide.  The silly and the desperate.  What you really think or feel, what you wish....though my mother's voice echoes in my mind, "if wishes were fishes, we'd walk upon the sea."  Expectations and predilections and longing.  Appearances and impressions and the battle for authenticity in an increasingly two dimensional world filled with photoshop and spell check.  Yet--I've found several friends who do indeed share all, tell all, reveal all.  There is a certain...missing.  These are the ones addicted to soap operas and talkshows well-stocked with melodrama and theatricals.  Perhaps lacking in their own closet space they seek out other's.....then again, perhaps I am merely unaware of how deep their closet goes. 

.......

I've recently acquired a nightgown that I love so much I abhor taking it off in the morning.  Some day there will be a knock at the door at noon and I'll pay for this.

I have gotten up after the house slept, crept downstairs and warmed a slice of brie....and ate it with a knife and fork.  Cheese enslaves me.

I fantasize about making love in an elevator. 

I paint to Damien Rice's "O" all the time.

I often eat ice-cream in the shower.  Something about the icy treat while under a scalding waterfall is a sizzling contradiction. (I've also been known to take a Guiness in--the perfect ending to an exhausting day)

I have extreme nail-envy of several of my close friends who have lovely, long fingernails....with no work at all. *sigh*

I was once mistaken as a boy in my young teens when I had short hair.  This has led to decades of long tresses, clogged drains, and wayward strands baked into cakes.  I no longer bake cakes.  And I will DIE with long, tangled grey hair.

Sometimes I think the most terrible things....they should make bleach for the brain.

I flip off my coffee maker when it's empty.

.......

The sunless sky mocks me this morning.  Whispering that it isn't nearly as late as the clock proclaims....that I don't have to get dressed quite yet. (mind you, it's not as if I'm lounging--I've stripped the bedsheets, done two loads of laundry, cleaned the kitchen, shooed children out the door with lunches packed and the appropriate paperwork signed and tucked into pockets, swept the steps, fed the dog, and set out the bread dough to rise...all while wearing my Marilyn Monroe nightgown.)

Secrets.....does confession change them?

Soup

Do you believe in magic?

Of fairies and hobbits I am unsure, but I wholeheartedly believe in the alchemy of the kitchen. That wonderland of taste and scent, the kitchen is where I long to be. I cannot turn water into wine, but if you give me six hours, I can turn it into gold.

The simplicity of filling a pot with water, the slight slosh as you place it on the stove. The click of the burner and the whoosh as the gas catches--a few of my favorite things, these are. For they are the beginning. And sometimes, beginnings are magic.

My fingers slide along the bones of the roasted chicken, peeling flesh from their ivory lengths, separating tendons and sinews and skin. The naked carcass sinks beneath the water's surface, somehow reminding me of a grand ship in a rather warm ocean. Onions and celery and salt, bay leaves, plump cloves of garlic and inky black peppercorns swirl along the surface as steam begins to fog the kitchen window. With a soft smile I pause in the doorway. I'm leaving a simmering pot of water, but will return in a few hours...

And there will be gold.

Liquid amber succulence. The limp remains of the vegetables removed, their essence bled into that which will delight. The bones have given up their marrow, their soul...perhaps this is magic indeed, for how else does water become so nourishing, so heartening? Now with piles of chopped onions and celery, ribbons of carrots and rosemary pulled fresh from the porch, leaving it's mouth-watering scent on my fingers as I watch it fall into the pot. Twenty minutes and in with the mountain of chicken, a cupful of corn and cream.

The house is filled. Not just with things...but with promise. With music and herbs and the delicious heat escaping from the oven where the crust of the bread is slowly darkening. And this...this is the magic that began with a cold pot of water and a dark kitchen.

I love soup. I've quite literally lived off soup at one point. When your body is weak, it craves the liquid meal; when your wallet is empty, you can fill bellies with the odds and bits found in the back of the fridge after they've been souped. (yes, that's a word...well, at least now it is) With imagination--there is no end to the soups one can make. You take what you have....and add love.

Isn't this life? The odds and bits that are here sometimes by choice and sometimes by chance, they may not add up to the designer menu we intended. There was a shortage of lobster. But with time and heat and a handful of spice, a dash of salt...and love. There is soup. Sustenance and provision. Nourishment for the soul as well as the heart.



May your soup be marvelous.