Saturday, September 10, 2011


Last night I made a pot of butternut squash soup in a red enamel pot. The sight of the orange squash in the red pot was so beautiful it filled me with reverence. Later I added some amber colored marsala wine and two green Granny Smith apples and it started to look like a Chagall. Just before it was done I stirred in a dark green head of rainbow colored chard with it's yellow, red and pale green stems and it almost did me in. I wanted to tell someone about the incredible beauty of vegetables but there was no one around so I told the dogs. They didn't really get it but I could tell they were enjoying the aroma of earthy sweetness in the air as much as I was.

As I stood over the stove I felt like I was at the alter of some great church -- the same way I used to feel when I was in the barn taking care of the horses or now when I'm hiking with the dogs alone in the woods. It's a happiness that transcends reason -- it's only a pot of pretty colored soup. Or a miracle.  

1 comment:

  1. Making soup is akin to making a fire, each take away the chill. Both seem like miracles at the right moment.