Not all soups are created equal

Everyone likes soup. Right? Well, not everyone, it turns out, but I’ll get to that later.
Personally, I love a bowl of soup on a cold, rainy day—soup that gets into your cells and warms you up from the inside out.
But not all soups. Oh my, no. There are soup rules.
I don’t care for vegetable soup; Campbell’s did me in for vegetable soup when I was a kid (the lima beans got to me).
I was particularly fond of chicken noodle soup, though, but I only allow myself two bowls of canned chicken noodle soup each decade. That because there’s at least 365 days’ worth of salt in a can.
Load the bowl up with crushed crackers and a bit of milk and the result is tasty. But you know; good health and all.
The best soup is that made by our very own hands. Squash soup is mine. I used to follow the recipe to the letter, but I no longer measure with the same vigour.
I throw stuff into the pot to clean out my refrigerator. And when I’m done, I run it through my Vitamix (which has enough power to launch the space shuttle) and it is transformed into a homogenous tasty soup.
I feel noble when I make this soup; I feel earthy and clean like cotton.
The recipe came from my dear friend, Allison, who only shares the best. That’s the wonderful thing about Allison—she’s out scanning the world for treasures, both past and present, and then like a scout she sends back word.
A good book. A perfect photograph. Cello music. The spurdle that is sitting in my kitchen window—the piece of history that Allison shared and is meant to, or was meant to, stir oatmeal porridge while wearing a kilt.
So the spurdle sits and smiles at me whenever I stand at the kitchen sink.
You’ll have to ask Allison for her soup recipe (I can’t divulge those kinds of things to just anyone). And besides, you may not even want soup but would prefer a sandwich or a hotdog.
The point isn’t so much what is in this particular soup, but how the soup makes me feel.
Now back to the rules of soup. The soup can’t be too thick nor too runny (I may have some Goldilocks tendencies).
Soup also can’t have scary things in it that will make me reflect on my childhood and my lack of a willingness to eat, and having to sit at the dinner table until my soup had long gone cold and everyone else had vanished into some hilariously fun activity out of my line of sight.
I sat at the kitchen table in my chair, feeling forlorn, hard done by, considering running away from home and not the least bit hungry.
There was an up side to not eating: it got me out of washing dishes. But eventually, I was old enough to be left with the entire burden of clean-up, which brought an abrupt halt to my stubborn eating habits (manual labour will do that to you).
My mother used to make homemade tomato soup when I was a child and even the thought of that soup makes me want to run for cover.
I’m sorry, Mom.
She made many delicious things, some of which should be in the Home-Cooking Hall of Fame. But this tomato soup of which I speak was not one of them, for me.
My dislike for that soup was so severe that I passed the disdain on to my children in my DNA and Laurie will not eat soup of any variety; not thin, not thick, not hot, not cold, not any.
In fact, almost all of her food must be crispy, though not crispy like celery (crispy requires unparalleled exactness).
Soup makes me slow down, allows me to exhale and relax and find a calmer pace. And Allison’s squash soup is restorative.
Absolutely healing.