I'm making soup today. My nan always had a pot of vegetable soup in the fridge, or on the side of the wood stove. She called it vegetable soup, but actually it had meat in it as well, so not really vegetarian friendly. She used to bulk it out with barley as well. I have so many memories of sitting at the kitchen table, blowing noisily on the spoon to cool the hot soup. Today I'm trying to make something like I remember from those days. I took the remains of a lamb roast, some onion, carrot, celery, garlic and thyme. Nan wouldn't have put garlic in there, but I love garlic, so I have. I've added the beef stock and now I wait for the simmering to work its magic.
Yesterday evening a man died in the valley where I live. I didn't know him, but his death has me making soup to comfort myself.
He had been working on his tractor, dragging a dead cow away, and something happened and the tractor rolled on him. It's so hard because I can see it happening. I've seen my dad, my brother, my boss do the same thing. Such an everyday job. Loop the big drag chain around the neck, or around a leg, hook it up to the drag bar, and away you go. Who knows what went wrong, that everyday turned to never again.