A Soup Story

“Dad?”

“Annie... err... it's... do you... I...“ He was standing in the kitchen, his eyes fixed on a small, worn out notebook. Onion, it said, in his wife's elegant handwriting. Onion, potatoes, sweet pepper, carrots, ginger... He had been studying the lines again and again, before picking up the phone and calling his daughter.

“Is something wrong with Mom?” Annie's voice sounded shrill and high-pitched. “Is she alright? Did the hospital call?”

“No, no, she's fine, I mean, she obviously is not.” … Vegetable broth, coconut milk... “It's not about Mom, well it is, but no...I doubt she can walk again yet.” Red lentils...that ginger thing... Bright sunlight was shining on herbs standing on the windowsill. Everything, every small detail, had his wife's touch. It was homely but empty without her.

“Hard to imagine her lying around doing nothing.”

“Yeah. Err... anyway, do you know... do you remember this soup Mom always cooks when –”

“I'll bring you something for dinner. It's no big deal.” Her voice was back to its normal, cheery and upbeat melody. “Mom would have thought of that.”

“No, it's okay,... well... I thought... maybe... I... That soup means a lot to her, you know.”

“She's gonna kill you should this, you know, go wrong again. You sure that's a good idea?”

“She chopped it? You shouldn't –”

“How much do you think I'll need? And... err... what do I do with it when it's chopped?”

“Dad, really, you – ” She sighed. “It's one onion, a handful of potatoes a sweet pepper and some carrots. As many as you like, see what it looks like and maybe add some more. You chop them, sauté them, and –”

Annie's doorbell rang. It was midday, it would be the kids being back from school and Annie would have to leave. He should have called earlier.

“Dad, I got to go. I'll bring you some dinner tonight. Call you later.”

“No! Annie! Wait! How am I supposed to know how many I like, if--” Well, well, well. Just like her mother.

The onion in front of him appeared to be some unknown, alien object that had materialized in their kitchen. He grabbed a small kitchen knife and took a deep breath. Ten excruciating minutes later tears were streaming down his face, his nose had started running, all for just a small handful of carefully chopped onion pieces. Potatoes hardly can be worse, can they?

He took a large potato and put it in his hand, then a second, smaller one, a third one. Well, I guess this is a handful, right? While peeling the potatoes he went over the other ingredients again. Sweet pepper surely only can mean one sweet pepper, right?

“For goodness sake!”

A tiny drop of blood glistened on the tip of his left pointer finger. Annie was right. This wasn't a good idea. Maybe some flowers and chocolates would have done. It's what everyone does, isn't it? She always had enjoyed them too, or had she? He looked at his finger again. The bleeding had stopped. It's just a small cut, things like that happen all the time, don't they?

Another hour of washing, chopping and deciding over the question whether to take two or three carrots later, three stacks of evenly sized, small vegetable dice graced the countertop. Coconut milk, seasoning, and red lentils stood in an orderly row next to the stove.

Let's see... Vegetable stock. The instructions on the back of the glass were written in tiny letters, forming foreign sounding words he didn't understand. Three failed attempts later a measuring jug filled yellow vegetable stock had joined the collection. Compared to five hours earlier it looked like he had achieved a small miracle. Everything was prepared and looked decent, the cut on his finger was hardly visible anymore, the kitchen was still standing. Not too bad, not too bad at all.

Just to make sure, he double checked his wife's notebook again. The ginger! No, no, no, no, no. Annie! His eyes flitted between phone and ginger root. No, I can do that! He broke off a large chunk of ginger in a swift motion. Ha! See. I'm getting there.

He heated the oil with a watchful eye. Stirring frantically, he added vegetables and ginger. Don't burn...Please don't burn. The vegetables were still raw when he filled up the pot with the stock and coconut milk a minute later. Not too much, they only need to swim, don't they? He looked at the package of lentils. As many as I like... I like lentils. He shrugged and poured in the whole package.

With his arms crossed he leaned over the pot and watched as bubbles began to rise. The mix slowly turned into a sticky paste. After chewing his lower lip for a while, he decided to pour the leftover stock into the pot and added the seasoning. A familiar smell filled the air, a smell that promised that everything would be ok, that there would be a solution for anything, even when it seemed hopeless.

Broth ran down the side of the pot and made hissing noises as it dripped onto the stove. Fine white smoke carried the strong scent of burned lentils and coconut milk with it. His heart began to race. He reached for the pot, hot soup was running over his hands. The pot began to tumble and he barely managed to pull it off the hotplate. Sweat was running down his face, his knees were shaking. Fate had punched him right in his stomach. The kitchen looked like a pigsty. Soup was running over the countertop and patches of black, burned soup stuck to the stove. The wall was sprinkled with small, red and orange stains that reminded him of the time when Annie had the measles. He had been so close.

He took a spoon, fished out the ginger chunk that's been swimming on top like flotsam and tried the soup. His face turned into a grimace. The soup tasted like salty dishwater, very very salty dishwater. His reach for the thermos flask was mechanical. He had cut his finger, burned his hands, turned the kitchen into a pigsty and now there was nothing left he could do. Maybe she wouldn't mind. He had managed to cook the soup, he had made it, it just didn't taste too good. Maybe she wasn't hungry and wouldn't even try it, or maybe she'd like it anyway.

He left the kitchen and tried to make his way to the lumber-room. Bags, skis, warm jackets and other luggage from their trip were still piled up in the hallway. He hadn't yet had the time to put things away after arriving back home two days ago. Everything had happened so fast, his wife's skiing accident, his departure, her surgery.

Their old picnic basket was hidden behind dusty boxes filled with Christmas decoration and memories. Back when they used to go picnicking, when they first met and later when Annie was still young, everything was new and different. A distant life of someone he once had been close with, now cramped into dented boxes in a dark lumber-room.


On his way to the hospital, he had picked up a bunch of colorful flowers and some sweets at a small corner shop. The hospital corridors seemed dark and endless. The last time he'd been here, was the day Annie was born. The guilt he had felt on that day never had faded. Sometimes he still could smell the fire. He tried to swallow down the bitter taste in his mouth.

A nurse gave him a contrived hospital smile: “Mr. Berry?” He nodded. “Your wife's over there, she's fine – already flirting with the doctor!” she laughed as part of her performance and led him to a door. “She'll be happy to see you.”

His wife lay in her bed, talking and laughing with a doctor standing next to her. The fading sunlight turned her hair into a golden crown. She looked cheerful and overjoyed, just like on the day Annie was born.

“Taking your wife out on a date? No wheelchair races, all right? Don't want to fix the other knee as well!” The doctor gave him a wink and left him standing in the room that now began to fill with his wife's light-hearted laughter.

“I...”

“Annie called a minute ago and already told me. She checked the house after you'd left. The kitchen didn't burn down,” she giggled, before adding with an impish smile on her face, "this time.”