The smell of potato soup wafts up from the stove as I hold the seven week old baby girl tucked to my chest, rocking back and forth to try to get her to stop crying. And shivering. She is shivering. With my free arm, I stir and stir and stir the soup with the big broken metal spoon that I found in the cutlery drawer with a few stray spoons and forks and crumbs. The spoon grates against the pot with each pass through the thin soup. I can’t let it burn; it’s all there is to eat in the house.
I hadn’t thought of the family for years but they came rushing back to me with all the desperation and fear and hopelessness from so long ago. With a thick, creamy soup simmering on my stove; bacon, onions, potatoes, rich and creamy, I caught a memory as I lifted the lid to check and stir. Continue reading