Love is an Exchange of Soups

January is the season for homemade soup.  And nobody understands that better than John and Everett Cassel. While the rest of us are assessing turkey bones and ham hocks, wilted celery stalks and sprouting carrots, the whole winter garden is their larder.

This beautiful concoction of nandina berries, kale leaves, parsley and rosemary was enhanced by a generous sprinkle of dried basil leaves from my cupboard.

I admired the soup totally, especially after my place at the table was set with cutlery, napkin, and a glass of fresh drinking water.

When it appeared I was not actually eating the soup, citing nandina berry caution, John fished every one of the red berries out and stood there waiting for me to take the first sip.

It was important to know that I liked the soup. There was a whole five-gallon bucket of it waiting for me in the garden.

Later, with gusto, the boys ate bowls of my turkey alphabet soup, better known to the boys as “Soup ‘n’ O’s.” I watched them with a full heart. Truly, love is an exchange of soups.