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Sam’s soup

Still in bed, but tonight I will get up and dressed and go to teach my class – because the show must go on. It’ll be fine – I know as soon as I’m there, all my instincts will kick in. I look forward to rejoining the human race. And then I’ll go immediately back to bed for another day or two.

This is a long slow nasty bug, mon dieu, the worst I’ve had in years. Nothing to do but get through it.

Silver lining department: my son. He came over to take care of me – also, yes, to watch my large flat-screen cable TV, he loves that, but he also loves his mama. He shopped, brought me tea, helped me change my sheets – and most of all, yesterday, he made French onion soup. It required a huge number of onions slowly, very slowly sautéing in my biggest pan while garlic roasted in the toaster oven – the house smelled like a French restaurant. And then – how does he do it? It took a long time and involved some Port I had in my liquor cabinet, probably from my uncle who died in 1997. Finally, hours later, he brought me a steaming bowl with Swiss cheese melted on top.

One of the best things I’ve ever tasted. Sublime – layers of rich flavour and soft, sweet onions, sheer love in a bowl. He also made enough to share with Carol my tenant, with John our handyman, two jars for his sister across town, and some for him too. And still, a few more bowls for me in the fridge. I just had some. Strength flows in my veins.

He told me about a time awhile ago when he went to the House on Parliament, a restaurant a block from here where he knows the manager, and had such a great time that after his meal, he went straight to a local place known for its wood oven pizza, ordered two large pizzas, and brought them back to the HOP as a treat for the staff. My son makes very, very good soup and is a kind man. He makes me proud. Not to mention that he’s responsible for my 15 seconds of fame: 140 of his friends and mine have now liked his video on FB of me dancing in the kitchen, and apparently there are the same number on Instagram. Not bad for an old bird whose lungs are also like Swiss cheese.

Unfortunately, I awoke thinking not about soup but about Trump. And what I thought was, Meryl had it right. All the articles, the analyses, the frantic exposés on TV and FB – not needed. All we need to know is that he’s a man who makes fun of the handicapped. He made fun of John McCain for being a POW. He is a cruel, heedless man without a single redeeming characteristic, and he has hired men just like him to run the most powerful country on earth.

Terror flows in my veins. Time for a nap.

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2 Responses to “Sam’s soup”

  1. theresa says:

    Your Sam sounds like such a lovely guy. Bless him! And somehow we will –must– survive that monster south of the border. Onward and upward…

  2. beth says:

    He is, Theresa – not without his issues, but he's fabulous. You have three lovely guys in your family, whereas poor Sam carries all the guy weight in this one.

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About Beth

I began keeping a journal at the age of nine. Nearly fifty years later, I started this online journal, sharing reflections, reviews, updates, and the occasional secret.

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Chris Walks
This blog evolves. It once was about travels. Now it’s a reason to be at the keyboard that I value.

Theresa Kishkan
Theresa Kishkan is a writer living on the Sechelt Peninsula on the west coast of Canada.

I walk on. With my feet, and in my mind as well.

Carrie Snyder
Wherever you’ve come from, wherever you’re going, consider this space a place for reflection and pause.

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