Fri., Apr. 3

If I can't make the same soup twice,
it hasn't been for lack of trying.
Measuring would help,
or any decent standard for
parceling out the ingredients.

Pinches and cupped handfuls are only part of it.
Sometimes I'm just in a basil and spinach mood,
other times oregano and crushed red pepper
drive my mental taste buds to pull down
off the shelf a couple canisters,
and shake with vigor.

I've cooked with wine,
made my stock, bought it, too;
sometimes it's just the leftovers
and their sauces and gravies
that drive the blend from salt to cumin
and beyond.

When it tastes just right,
I think: "I'd like to do that again."
I never do. Each soup is made up
of the occasions of the moment,
the temperature outside as much as the burner setting,
the flavors of the day more than the tastes tonight.

Each time I try to make a wonderful pot of soup,
what I'm trying to make is a potful
of Grandma's bean soup,
or the great aunts' chicken and dumplings,
or that restaurants warming bowl of something.
I can't, quite, but I keep trying,
chasing those remembered tastes around
and along the shelf of spices,
dash by pinch by pour,
simmered long.