Soup

Home lives in a bowl of soup.

Actually home lives in a countless number of small things and they are all individual. Perhaps the smell of a perfume or the texture of a blanket, for me, though, it's the taste of my mothers Borsh.

As if by magic a pot filled with the luscious soup appeared at my house the other day. My mom must be part house elf, appearing and disappearing just as quickly, leaving behind the fruits of her labor without a word.

That night, hungry and tired after a busy day, my family gathered in the kitchen, drawn there by the incredible smell of the warming soup. All smiled, drooled and paced in anticipation and, as soon as the Borsh was ready, raced to our seats.

The steaming bowls of the reddish liquid loaded with cabbage, carrots, potatoes, beets and pieces of chicken didn't need much accompaniment other than bread and butter and so the table remained fairly bare. But not the senses. As another spoonful made its way down, the feeling of home, warmth and peace spread through me and for that short dinner hour all was right with the world. There was no where to rush, no supplies needing to be picked up, no phone calls to make and no failed tests to discuss. There was just peace and happiness and as I looked about the table I knew that my family felt the same as I ... thankful.

Thanks Mom.