The scent of turkey soup fills our kitchen this cool afternoon in early May. The savoury aroma reminds me of post-Thanksgiving soup making and the many times Mama and I boiled and peeled and chopped; stirred and spiced and tasted the steaming concoction. Most often we were at the cottage when these magical episodes took place. Like dance partners Mama and I maneuvered about the huge kitchen each knowing just which utensil to wield in order to carve and chop and stir.
Today it is a solitary effort, my soup making. I am alone in a kitchen Mama never knew. The cottage has been sold and Mama has passed on. But she lingers. She lingers in my memory of her love...of Dad, my siblings and of me, my husband, my children...and of life.
Coming home from school was always a treat in Mama's house. The kitchen was chock full of freshly baked cookies and a wonderful meal simmering on the burner. Yes, there were times when I wondered if Mama actually loved me. We would argue; I was a teenager of course. But as I look back on the life she and Daddy built for us, I know that we were loved in abundance. Because I have learned that love isn't perfection.
To love is rather like making soup. It requires the delicate art of knowing which choice pieces to include and which ones to eliminate...as with memories. To make soup you need a large pot with room enough for all the ingredients to mix and blend, each one taking on a bit of the flavour of each other... that's what living together can accomplish. Making soup takes time...just like the building of a family.
I can only pray that now that my children are adults they can say they have fond memories of growing up...and of soup making.
Love,
Peggy
