Rita says she’d like some soup. It’s Christmas Eve, so my reaction is to ask her, “What kind of soup would you like?”
“Oh, let me see, something vegetably, maybe a bit potato-ee. You know, peas and carrots and lots of broth, a dash of salt, onions, and celery; a chunk of chicken, perhaps—something like that. Mmm, hearty stuff that sticks to my bones, warms my toes and fills my nose with memories of mother and father and sister and brother all gathered around the table many years ago. Just one big, happy family—filled with wonder, thankful for each other, hands clasped in prayer—the one now living in this photo album I’ve been thumbing through all night.“
“Can I see?” I lean in and begin to absorb the flavor of her memories as her fingers weave back and forth through the pages of faded imagery.
silent night . . .
the warmth of her feet
by the embers
I turn my attention to her kitchen and quickly realize I am in a bind. There’s practically nothing in the fridge—the shelves are nearly bare. The stores are closed, and the gift I brought her, a woolen sweater, is clearly not edible. Well, in the fridge, in an otherwise empty drawer, I find half of a raw potato. That’s a start, I mutter to myself. Carefully, I slice and dice it—skin and all—then back to the icebox to see what’s left to see.
Aha, a box of chicken broth tucked in the back, but wait, the expiration date, December 25th, 2022; whew, a bell’s jingle to spare. Back to the fridge, check the drawer again. Wait, what’s this? A stalk of celery. Hmm. Chop, chop, chop—into the pot. That must be just about it. But perhaps it’s worth another look. Let’s see . . . nothing in the freezer, but when I turn, there on a hook, a bunch of carrots like ornaments on a tree. Ho, ho, ho, into the stock, chunks of root go plop, plop, plop.
One more look in the bottom drawer, simply because I cannot seem to trust my tricky eyes. To my surprise, an onion appears. With tears, I peel and marry it with the soul of the stew.
Did I leave the freezer door ajar or did it just swing open ‘cuz the unit’s out of level? Hmm. A good thing either way, ‘cuz I wouldn’t have seen the chicken I missed on my first expedition through its wintry depths. The bird will have to thaw in the pot. I ease it in. The broth’s getting hot.
Pinch the last pinch of salt from the shaker; bring the aromatic dish to a simmer.
I sit at the kitchen table watching snowflakes twirl in the light softened by the frosty window. When the vegetables and meat are tender, I pull out a serving tray, arrange a bowl, spoon, and napkin, ladle a savory helping of soup, and decorate it with sprigs of celery leaves.
Carefully, I back my way through the swinging door from the kitchen space into the dining place.
As I turn to call out Rita’s name, I am met with a bewildering scene. On the table, fully set for a feast, sits the largest turkey I’ve ever witnessed. Surrounding a slew of holiday dishes and an unused trivet near the turkey’s tail, two kids sit with a pair of grownups—hand-in-hand—reciting the Lord’s Prayer. There is one unoccupied chair. They all look up together, and together they smile at me.
stockings filled with candy . . .
the sound of many hooves
prancing in the snow
