November 16, 2005

The Soup by Rob Budde

make it quickly, without
speaking and use only what’s
at hand, chance is your ally
the pot, the colander without rim

—don’t drive anywhere,
ever, walk, write, or invite a neighbour
with the ingredients, never go
for flash or imports—keep it local,
simple, smell the bunch and you’ll know

it should be chilly outside but
no flurries yet; the words
diffuse ice fog, a suggestion of
spice but let the stock take it all

toss it together the timing and
root and juices and let it stew

tell a friend what’s in it and
how poetry is hearty, how
it cleans the blood

there should be no flourish or garnish
no main dish or dessert;
don’t let one vegetable dominate the dish—
variety is the strength, what keeps it going

the ladle and bowl should be plain,
well made and sturdy, they will
be scuffed and nicked with use—
this is a good sign

serve hot so it fills the room with its
energy, be assured it is a mantra, something
to believe in, something you’re part of

1 comment:

hardyf said...

soup, poem - great connection. simple, beautiful. culinaria is an art. buy from the hills, and walk home. the making of minestrone in culinary school is a serious task, drawing on both skill and the subtle creativity of taste (and fortitude in the face of a raging chef). i can smell yr kitchen - and the warm tension. thanks. although - it took to long. the post, that is, not the soup.