Last week–during my horrible cold– my neighbors express their concern for me in. . . soup.
First came the hearty meatball soup with spinach and tomatoes.
Then, on day two, a bright orange butternut squash soup paraded in with crostini appetizers so delicious I gobbled six between the front door and my kitchen.
Day three? A classic turkey noodle elbowed in. The Italian Mama brought more the next day, escorted by bread and chocolate and a baked ziti that stole the show.
On day four, a minestrone humbly entered, warm and muted.
And the next day, when I had given up all hope that my body would heal, a creamy potato soup arrived.
Bowls and bowls of steaming broth, eaten right in the bed, nourished me in more ways than one. My body was healing, aided by neighbors whose soup loudly proclaimed: “We are taking care of you!”
This morning, word spreads that a family down the street is sick. My crock pot muscles her way between the toaster and the coffee pot, and I chop all the ingredients for a vegetable beef stew. I’ll deliver it late afternoon and find my place in the parade of neighborhood love in the form of steaming soup.
So loved did I feel by soup that I wonder why I don’t make it every day this winter and find a neighbor who needs it. Somebody needs soup today, and living with flair means I deliver it.