Making soup

There was always a batch of stock saved and frozen. The tall Ziploc bag filled with last week's chicken and onion broth would thaw enough if she plopped it into warm water. "Well then," reaching for the timer Dumpling turned it on its head. It was a small but significant ritual. Silly old woman she thought to herself. But not really, when the sand ran through she would have given herself to the lingering effects of grief ... her shoulders heaved, her chest pumped the sorrow up and out. Her face wet with tears she reached for her rag bag and pulled squares of soft, textured and familiar pieces.

Fondling and feeling the old denim jeans and turquoise corduroy jacket, her body softened, the grief moved. "We don't vanish when we die." What about the Alala in the cages? Their songs aren't heard in the forest anymore. But Eagles have made a grand come-back and Buffalo roam in some places, too. The sand had run through the tiny neck. Muddling in there the mismatched pieces of life in relationship to everything bumped through. Not simple, but there it was.

Alright, here I am pieced together again. 

Dumpling remembered the second scone.. A cup of Wild Forest Black tea and the Lemon-ginger scone would welcome the cheer back. Visions of a sturdy and pretty folding pouch wallet danced in her head as she headed for the counter. Setting the kettle for a boil, tucking the scone into the small oven, the request for a replacement wallet amused her creativity. The thought of the lean and lovely man who'd handle the wallet was a nice way to move the day into soup making. A bit of lusty fantasy always made delicious soup. From her side Spirit laughed, "Alright, all pieced together again."

It didn't take long for the kettle to sputter and sing. Her Thermos full of tea was still half full. She poured the scalding kettle water into a fresh mug to warm it, and left a bit of water in it. The morning's tea was still good and now it was proper hot. The day was filling with three of her favorite things: tea, scone and stitching. She was into a zone ... no interruptions for the next couple of hours. She fished into her purse and found her cellphone. It was one of the old burners, a small Nokia flip-phone. Pushing on the volume button she made sure the contraption was silenced.

Linda M was without question the best maker and baker of superb scones. Hot out of the oven and onto her plate the smell was the first clue. Dumpling started humming. The crisp outside of the fat triangle of pastry held a tender inside that was as good as sex. Oh my. Rather than bite into it Dumpling liked breaking small bits off and dunked skillfully. Then the bite. Yes, oh my! To make the treat last she set the scone down long enough to lay the sleeve of the faded turquoise corduroy flat on the kitchen table. Eyeing a wallet-size that would fold into thirds with a good seam she cut.

It was nearly 2:30 when the pieces of denim and corduroy were cut and the first row of thick embroidery floss stitched the rectangle together. The soup needed tending and at least one phone call needed to be made. "Then I'll need another nap." Thinking about the phone call made her tired, but, it was something that needed doing. And, maybe Jupiter's position in the heavens would lend her the luck she needed to have a good conversation. Dumpling crossed her fingers, just in case.