Soup Club

Several years ago I formed a soup club habit. I had always winced at the thought of winter. The post holiday season feeling of isolation that draws out well into March. So instead of wincing I started to invite a clutch of friends over to swap soups.

Our soup club met again yesterday and I arrived, giggling, with the sense this was some red-carpet equivalent. My imagination flooded the scene with a zillion blinks from flashbulbs, and the shallow sort of E-Channel soft questioning.

I shook off the image until the group responded to the sound of the door with a loud bellowing cheer. Unwrapping from my coat and scarf someone asked after the type of soup I sported that day. The question, in my mind, comparable to “Who are you wearing?” I batted my eyelashes, struck a pose, and found a sultry voice to announce my companion as pumpkin soup with rosemary and lime zest.

The group swooned openly and I blushed under the gaze of open flattery. The warm air of the apartment was stinging against my cheeks. There is no cold winter, no pervasive sense of loneliness these occasions couldn't help remedy.