So smooth and piquant then. Remember? Our love a puree of roots and bitters, quick peppered, swift boiled blobbed up and sulphurous. Melting the ladle, melting the ***, smoking the burner, firing the whole **** kitchen down.
Yes, it still stings my lips, ***** on my uvula, something never fully swallowed but scorched on a hard palate, peeling skin on the blistered roof of a recollection.
It was tough then, I know, making soup last for days, for weeks, for years. We were young then and fond of quick eats, grabbed before a cab and shoveled whole, gulped like a snake teasing eggs - unhinged and transient.
But savor these broths unclouded, love, clear to the windmills, blue and Dutch at the bottom of the bowl. Draw the spoon, gentle and away, lift and breathe softly, eyes closed, and take what remains, what lingers velvet on the buds and nourishing.