Eric Mayer

Byzantine Blog

Get Email Updates
Cruel Music
Diana Rowland
Martin Edwards
Electric Grandmother
Jane Finnis
Keith Snyder
My Incredibly Unremarkable Life
Mysterious Musings
Mystery of a Shrinking Violet
The Rap Sheet
reenie's reach
Thoughts from Crow Cottage
This Writing Life
Woodstock's Blog
Email Me

Admin Password

Remember Me

1482139 Curiosities served
Share on Facebook

In the Soup
Previous Entry :: Next Entry

Read/Post Comments (14)

A cold front moved through the other afternoon bringing with it fifty mile per hour winds gusts. Or so the National Weather Service had predicted. That can mean power outages, so we filled a big pan with water and saved our documents frequently as we wrote.

The day passed without so much as a leaf blowing by the window, let alone unsecured trash bins, tree limbs, power lines, small vehicles or anything else that we were warned could be affected by the gales. When early evening arrived, we gave a sigh of relief.

Which is when the lights went out.

Maybe we exhaled too hard.

As it happened the lights (and computers, well pump, and furnace) were only out for three hours, a minor matter this time of year when temperatures are above freezing. As it grew dark Mary and I discussed books we might or might not write. This is difficult because I invariably veer towards fantasy despite knowing nothing about the genre's modern form (except the few modern fantasies I've tried I haven't been able to read) and we both tend to be repulsed by anything currently popular, like a vampire from a crucifix.

There's nothing for working up an appetite like failing dismally to decide on a future project.

Night had fallen and the office was illuminated only by a scented candle when I said, "I'll make some soup. There's that packet of instant egg drop soup. I can make that without a lot of light."

Mary suggested I take the candle but I reckoned I could see well enough in the kitchen by the light of the gas burners. Actually I couldn't see down into the shadows of the saucepan but I could hear when the water started to boil. I poured my beaten egg and seasonings into the water, stirred for a minute, and then managed to get the soup into bowls without spilling it.

I carried the soup up to the office. A candlelight dinner!

"It has a very delicate flavor," Mary remarked.

"Yes," I agreed. "Excellent. Not too salty."

We slurped contentedly. (Well, I slurped. Mary has more manners, but then she's English.) Nothing takes the chill out of a power outage like hot, nourishing soup. We could almost imagine we were in one of those dimly lit hole-in-the-wall restaurants in some Chinatown or other.

We didn't have any fortune cookies, but we knew what our cookies would say: "You have a bright future."

Indeed, not long afterward the lights returned and I took the pan off the stove to clean it.

There was something lying in the bottom of the pan!

A gray lump. Like a drowned mouse.

No, not quite that bad, I realized, just before the soup made it all the way back up my throat. It was only an undissolved mass of flavoring.

"More or less the entire packet," I admitted to Mary.

"So what we ate was hot water and egg."

"It had a delicate flavor," I reminded her.

"No wonder it wasn't too salty," she reminded me.

"And it's economical," I pointed out

And it was. The next day we used the leftover seasoning to make a stronger batch of soup.

Read/Post Comments (14)

Previous Entry :: Next Entry

Back to Top

Powered by JournalScape © 2001-2010 All rights reserved.
All content rights reserved by the author.