Chicken soup

I know I’m not the only one to get colds, especially in this wet clime, but my melancholic nature means I tend to wallow for a day or two before one of either two things happen: either I get so horribly miserable and cry, which believe me, does not help clear the nasal passages, or I luck out and encounter a bowl of chicken soup that melts the sinuses just enough to help me turn the corner to health.

It should come as no surprise that the weather has a great influence on this outcome. If it’s miserably cold and wet, I simply can’t get motivated to dig out from under the covers; I may even add a blanket and hibernate. But when the day dawns sunny, with Disney-like birdsong, I may not throw the covers off the bed and burst into a song-and-dance routine, but I do get up and get dressed.

Vacation does have the advantage of not forcing me to rise too early, for we can dispatch cello lessons during the week, and take an extra hour in bed on Saturday morning. This morning the sun rose, and I followed, albeit very slowly. I was quite unsure of how I was going to muster the energy to get through the day, let alone make Easter happen.

With all the boys in tow, we dropped Number One at his rehearsal, and headed to the University district. First stop for me was Weaving Works, on a quest to match yarn for Little One’s worn rainbow elbows. Darling Husband and Little One immediately disappeared into the neighboring fire station, so I could browse in peace, and I ended up with green and yellow for patching, as well as some electric blue silk that called to me from the shelf. I think it will make a fine little bag for summer.

Then we hoofed a short two blocks to the farmer’s market. Darling Husband wanted to make sure that I was only seeing Pete for his (perfect) toffee and Tiny for his aptly named apples, and Little One wanted to see everything. While I stood in line for some fresh lamb (shades of last Easter!), they circulated the market, meeting and chatting up Pete and Josh (honey) and Anne (truffles of the chocolate persuasion), and picking up their own treasures. I added garlic and a rosemary bush to the treasure, and pronounced I was done.

With a cup of hot cider someone had pressed into his hands, Little One said he was hungry, and Big One said he was going to pick up some bread (apparently sampling is an effective marketing tool, especially for the Tall Grass bakers pushing their chocolate loaf). That left me to navigate the concessionaires, which have swelled their ranks to four tents, adding pizza, and—oh, heaven—soup! Not just soup, but chicken soup, and, miraculously, with rice instead of noodles! My heart leapt. Little One was happy to sit, tapping his feet to the ladies with the washboard and mandolin, sipping his apple juice and nibbling a quesadilla, while I deliriously slurped soup. Between the fresh air, sun on my face and a tart rye bread I dipped into the hot chicken broth, the clouds in my head parted, and I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. How interesting that a bowl of soup—or was it just the soup?—should give me all that.

The odd thing is that when I got home, energized to bake, I realized I was out of staples like flour and laundry powder, so must head for the co-op if we are to have hot cross buns tomorrow morning. Maybe I’ll get a bit of chicken so I can have a wee drop of soup this evening. Some energy for all the hopping I want to do tomorrow.