Pumpkin Soup

There is nothing better to come home to in the cold after a long day of overworking your already exhausted body than coming home to a nice, warm bowl of fresh pumpkin soup. Not the packet type that you find in your supermarket, but the kind made from scratch by your mother, in the very hearth of your home.

Pumpkin soup is the most delicious type of its kind. It is just divine, its creamy texture separates in your mouth, spreading all over each tastebud, blanketing them, and then gathers together in the back of your throat where it slides down your oesophagus like a lump of heaven, gliding through to your stomach where it rests like a tired toddler, calmly and sweetly. Best eaten with a deep spoon from a round bowl, it enhances life after each spoonful, no matter the situation of the person consuming it. It evens out all thoughts and places the consumer in a haze of serenity, whereby no troubles can ever be thought of, until the soup is finished.

I just came home to pumpkin soup in all its glory, having been cooked by my mother, a professional chef who is not professionally trained according to contemporary society, rather she has inherited ounces of tradition and culture from every unimaginable corner of life and has combined them into varied recipes, allowing the consumer to feel from different parts of the world, through their hunger. Despite having tutored a child for four consecutive hours, and having to come home to a crowded house, crowded with the loud sound of the football blaring on the television and having to hear a commentary louder than my breathing about semi-nude men chasing a piece of rubber on a field, and despite making a nice toast only to have it fall apart and get thrown away, I am now soothed because I am consuming my pumpkin soup.

I am nearing the end of it, though, and when I reach the end I know that all my anger from the instances listed above will crawl back into my mind to replace the warm gap that the thoughts of the pumpkin soup had left behind, and I will be infuriated again. Life is simply bettered with pumpkin soup, especially if you have mild anger issues. It simply dispels them. Looking down at every spoonful, I notice that it is so flavoursome that it looks as though it has pores, just like if it were a living, breathing, being thing. It fascinates me so much so I almost cry every time I have to part with the vision of it in order to consume that spoonful. I am always left only on the verge of tears though because soon enough I have another spoonful to admire.

Maybe I am too obsessive about this perfect concoction, but one thing is for certain, my mother knows how to cook foods that transport me to places I will never actually experience. This is why I chose tonight, too, to come home to this soup rather than bring home a brown paper bag filled with fast foods that have been sitting around in a machine all day, waiting for some radiation from fast powerful microwaves to roast them enough to look appealing for both their low price and their low-paying customers. I admit, okay, I am obsessive over my mother's food. I will challenge you, though, I challenge you to come over one day and consume some of my mother's food, even her pumpkin soup, and dare to tell me any different. 

That challenge is real, I am not writing it for the sake of concluding this essay. I mean it. Come and try her food. Chances are, you can fit through the door on your way in but you will never fit on your way out.