It is raining. It has been raining for a week or so. It is also cold and blowy.

I didn’t bring any umbrellas with us when we moved here.

So, it seems best to stay inside and have soup.

The stock pot at the back of the stove. Always simmering. A grandmother tosses in various bones and peels. The aroma is both bracing and soothing. Hints of garlic, maybe a little whiff of rosemary. Meaty. Grandma ladles some out, adds rice or noodles, and all are better for eating it. Afterwards, if any is left in the bowls, Grandma dumps it back in the stockpot with some carrot peelings and a half of an onion. She pours in a glass of water, and the pot continues simmering on. The broth just improves as the days pass.

OR, over here on the fifth floor, a grandmother walks over to the pantry, pulls out a can of chicken noodle, and calls it a day.


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