Soup is almost always a comfort food and this one more than most. It was concocted from ingredients in the fridge and pantry: Publix Greenwise chicken breasts, fresh shiitake and dried porcini mushrooms, onions, carrots, celery, garlic, a splash of sherry, some wide noodles, and finished with just enough cream to make it look sinful.
Laura’s daddy had been dead for more than half a century. At 65, she was 13 years older than he had been when his big heart stopped like an old-fashioned watch whose spring exploded and flew away.
But time is elastic, and any time she even hears the word “fish,” her daddy’s deep Alabama voice is in her ear. “Laura-bug, if you want to catch fish, you got to hold your mouth right.”
“Oh, Daddy,” Laura whispered. “I’m still trying. Hard as I can.”
Written for WordPress Daily Prompt: Fish
The last time there was a Supermoon I stayed up way past midnight, leaving man and dog in the bedroom to take my camera to the clearing and photograph the poetry in the sky phenomenon. The photos were published in our local paper.
Last night, though, even though I knew the best Supermoon in my lifetime was going to be at peak showing, I neither stayed up late nor arose early. Instead, I sank down deep into the bed we call “the cloud,” pulled the soft gold feather duvet up until it touched my earlobes and pondered how it might be possible for me to unmemorize myself.
Sleep came quickly and I woke as usual at 6, just when the pup made her verbal plea for my ears only. My husband slept on, hearing aids on the bedside table, and yet aware of my exit from our warm bed. I knew he would turn into that warmth, head on my pillow, and dream for another two hours.
When the pup and I stepped out into the chill morning, I knew at once the thick cloud cover would have obscured the moon. And so I imagined it instead, smiling.
I never got a good solid grip on Heather Blakey’s creative wonderland known as Soul Food Cafe, now archived (though with a beating heart). Nonetheless, it fed me at a critical time when I was learning to think of myself as “writer” and to trust and value that. Faint footprints through wormholes in the internet let me to Heather’s space, While Waiting for Godot. There, I found a video link that hit me where I have been living.
Thank you, Heather, for putting this step-stone in my path. Dr. Joe’s concept of “unmemorizing” yourself flashed lightning in my orderly brain that so loves its long-established habits. After viewing the video — and downloading his book via Audible, I made all of my blogs under my “in real life” name private, and have put them on ice. They’re lovely, but they’re memoir. What I’m after is to finish the novel I began five years ago and to write from my hawk brain and ravenous heart, to write from that fever and strength, not the artful but sometimes minced words crafted for my siblings and kind acquaintances to read. Here I can write from a blank page, free to explore, to step outside my own self-imposed limitations.