All posts filed under: soup

making the most of the end of the season | a raisin + a porpoise

souped up

I come from a long line of passionate fearcasters. OH, went the thinking around the fire in our ancestral cave, THIS COULD BE BAD. My people discuss risks and downsides. You could catch something! You could lose something! You could yourself be caught or lost! Fearcasting and its sister activities, catastrophizing and anticipatory grief, do lead to preparedness. I’ll say that for them at least.  If your people are these kind of people, then you travel with the prescription as well as the pills. You secure a paper copy of the records even though they are supposed to be transferred electronically. A double-envelope kind of existence is demanding, in lots of ways, but it pays off exactly often enough to perpetuate itself. Or rather, it bites you so hard when you operate outside of it–as in it’s the ONE TIME you don’t send the thing certified mail AND return receipt requested that they claim it was either mailed late or not received–that you double down going forward. You should not for one second confuse this …


launch date

When my sister’s firstborn left for college, she called me and wailed “but I’m not done!” I reassured her (correctly, as it turns out) that my nephew was a super guy and well-situated for a nice life.  But I was talking out my ear, as we both well knew in that moment, because in that moment how fine he was going to be was not at all what she was getting at. My own children were mere tots at the time that I was giving hollow reassurances to my sister, and as they get larger and more capable and closer to the door (one of them even got loose, I’m afraid–flew the coop for college in September while I had my back turned), I become more acutely aware of what I have and haven’t gotten around to teaching them, and how as a result they are (or aren’t) prepared for what will come their way.  I am fully aware, thank you very much, that efforts to prepare them undertaken by myself and others may have …

So many angles on tomato soup

The Tomatrix

The Pekingese notwithstanding, I have been a rabid fan of P.G. Wodehouse since I was a youngster.  In one of his most epic Jeeves/Wooster romps, The Code Of The Woosters, Bertie finds himself a guest at a posh country home, in a bedroom where the mantel is festooned with little china figurines.  As the plot thickens and various characters process their woes and frustrations, one by one the tchotchkes get dashed, passionately, to the hearth. At the end of the book, Bertie comments that the “rush of life at Totleigh Towers” has taken the ultimate toll, and not a shepherdess is left standing. It’s been a little refrain in my head since then, “the rush of life at Totleigh Towers.”  This has tons to do with tomato soup, as I will now demonstrate by deftly changing the subject with an imperceptible flick of my wrist. It’s the time of year when it must be accepted—in my zip code, anyway—that edible food will not be coming fresh from a patch of earth nearby for several moons …