Good Soup

My lovely wife is an excellent cook.

     When I look into our refrigerator, I see nothing to eat. My wife, however, can reach into anyone’s refrigerator and come up with a feast. Her leftovers are better than a gourmet meal at the snootiest of restaurants. My dad agrees with me, but he has a backhanded way of serving compliments.

     One weekend, I was laid low with a nasty cold, so my wife made me a hearty stew. There’s no such thing as canned this or anything from a bag that with my wife. She loves to cook and cooking from scratch is the only way she knows how, so she prepared the meat, chopped up the fresh, carefully chosen vegetables, and dropped them into her favorite stew pot along with her unique blend of spices and herbs that Colonel Sanders would be jealous of. As the delectable concoction was simmering on the stove, the intoxicating aroma enticed my father from his chair in the great room into the kitchen, where he stood over the stew pot and, with his eyes closed, took an appreciative whiff.

     “Mmm...” he moaned, hungrily.

     “Would you like some?” my wife asked him, pleased that he was so taken with her food.

     “Oh, boy,” my father said. “You bet.”

     So my wife served him a bowl.

     She’s thoughtful that way.

     “Oh, yeah,” my father said after several spoonfuls. “This sure does hit the spot.”

     My wife smiled to herself at the rare compliment from my father.

     The spell was broken, however, when my father added, “Campbell’s sure does make good soup.”

 

 

Raising My Father

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