It’s been oh-so-quiet around here lately. Perhaps, that’s what happens when I have too much to say, too much to do, too much to look forward to.
But last night, I saw the dark sky turn into fireworks. And I heard the thunder grumble. And I smelled the earth get damp through a window that has been open – if ever so slightly – for weeks now.
And I might have been half-asleep when that happened (so much for non-drowsy cough syrups) but it felt like the most beautiful dream. Only it wasn’t one.
It was there, around me.
Thunderstorms are a thing so rare in London they become treasures you remember like a first kiss.
And while I could tell you about how he made me forget everything I thought I knew, I’m here with a soup instead.
As a reminiscence of cold winter nights and unspoken words. As a celebration of the smell of rain, which we might disregard now that pims-and-lemonade days are ahead of us.
As my winter comes to an end – for good this time – so many other things do too. Bruises on my legs and cuts on my fingers; journeys over the Thames, late at night…
But I have the feeling you’re going to see a lot more of me these days.
To new beginnings!
Serve piping hot. Preferably with a drizzle of truffle oil, more-than-a-drizzle of crème fraiche, and some butter-toasted croutons.
And in front of you will stand a bowl of the soup that is not just a soup; but a concentrate of winter, and kisses under the rain, and goodbyes that makes your perfect eye-lined eyes get a little more grungy.