Paleo Soup for the Soul

“It seems to me that our three basic needs, for food and security and love, are so mixed and mingled and entwined that we cannot straightly think of one without the others. So it happens that when I write of hunger, I am really writing about love and the hunger for it, and warmth and the love of it and the hunger for it… and then the warmth and richness and fine reality of hunger satisfied… and it is all one.”

― M.F.K. Fisher, The Art of Eating: 50th Anniversary Edition 

Last night, I dreamed of soup. I dreamed of mincing garlic, chopping onions, adding stock. I dreamed of the scent rising from the pot, a steam facial for my pallet. I dreamed of making something tangible out of nothing. I dreamed of being full.

This morning when I awoke, a calm sense of determination surrounded me. In the world of motherhood, calm moments are rare. There is a fine balance, the scale often favoring controlled chaos. But I was lucky to wake in the eye of the hurricane; sweet serenity encompassing my breathing. I didn't care that it was 7:34 in the morning - I had cooking to do.

Armed with my vegetable drawer and non-stick cookware, I set to prepping. I peeled, chopped, diced. I caramelized, minced, and shredded. I julienned and quartered. I hunted through cabinets. I roasted spices. I cooked with love, searching for comfort; seeking a concrete product to counter the dull ache of loss. That's what I'm feeding - not my bones or stomach,  but the grief I thought I left behind.

It's been nearly three months since the miscarriage. There hasn't been a single day I don't think about it. Inevitably, however, I know it'll become less raw. It's already happening. What does that mean when a day passes and Baby Borchgrevink doesn't cross my mind? What does that say if I can push the thoughts away from my subconscious? On one hand, the humanity in me wants to heal, to forget - to stop dwelling. And yet the grief inside my heart stamps their foot - they demand my attention because what sort of mother can not ponder their hopes and dreams? How can I not always carry the, "what if...." with me?

This is my offering. Broken for you. This is my act of love. This is making something out of nothing - concentrating on what I have and not what I am lacking. Focusing on the good, the pure. Reminding myself that a recipe, a plan, does not ensure perfection. This is me celebrating a simple joy in life, home made soup -this is me making due with what I have.