A RECIPE FOR TOMATO SOUP

I cut my tomatoes into neat cubes and set them aside. I am not normally very picky about the ingredients I use to make my food, instead tending to use anything I find that I feel would give me the flavour I have been craving that day.

This recipe, however, stays the same, every time I cook it.

I only make creamy tomato soup on extremely hot Thursdays when it is least suitable to do so, biologically speaking. However, any ol' Thursday would be simply unacceptable. 

I spoon rich butter into the yellow pan, and watch it metamorphose from a cheery glob into translucent liquid. You adore watching butter melt, every time you put some in the pan for morning toast. I never did understand why you were fascinated by something so mundane as butter melting. Today, I think I begin to understand a little. Today, I think it looks like a little pool of sunlight. 

In go the chopped onion and slightly crushed garlic cloves, and I stir them absentmindedly, thinking of your antics as I often do, until my absentmindedness makes itself evident. I have forgotten to add one carefully picked out bay leaf. I internally chide myself. I must pay attention, this is an important task.

The onions start to smell sweet, and I know it’s time to place my beautifully ripe tomatoes into the pan. I picked them out at the supermarket today morning, with great care. It took me ten minutes. I sprinkle some salt, letting the aroma flood my lungs. Afterwards, I add a small crispy carrot, for no particular reason than that I added one the first time we cooked this together.

Ah, how I love it when we cook together. We bicker endlessly, and you argue about how I do not pay much attention to proportion, and how the ingredients should be chosen with better attention. I find your scolding irritating, and I mutter something about necks and you insisting on breathing down them. We go back and forth, arguing about small carrots and people who mutter, pausing in between to taste the ladle, then grinning at each other when the soup tastes wonderful. Oh, and it does, every time. It is in these moments that I am unmistakeably aware of the sweet fondness our hearts hold within, for each other.

I seem to be daydreaming a lot today. I glance at the clock in annoyance. The tomatoes seem a little softer now, as I poke them with the spatula. This is how I know it is now time to add fresh basil leaves. I let the contents cook until everything is very mushy. You love the smell that fills the room when I lift the lid. Why aren’t you here?

I remove the leaves, and I let the mushy mixture cool for a bit in open air, before I pour it all into the blender, add water, and give it three decent blitzes. Two blitzes are plenty, but you prefer to give it one more, “just to make sure”. I smile now, watching my hands move almost as if on autopilot, removing the perfect pureed mixture, and filtering it through the blue sieve and back into the pan. 

The sieve was a housewarming gift from your parents when we first got an apartment together. We shifted later, into this house, because you said the place didn’t have enough windows. That was one of our bigger fights. I had always loved that apartment and couldn’t understand why you waited until after we moved in, to decide it did not have enough windows. How many windows can an apartment have, anyway? We went without speaking for three days, until you finally gave in. You came to me and said we could stay if I loved the place so much. And so, we moved. I didn’t like that apartment much anyway.

Now, I cannot imagine us moving elsewhere.

Ah, yes, the sieve. You love the sieve because it’s the same shade of blue as your favourite set of pyjamas. You have very specific reasons for liking the things you like. You asked me out because I got you a blueberry muffin the first day we met, despite having no prior knowledge that it was your favourite kind of muffin. You believe in things like these, and call them little signs. I accepted because… well, how could I not?

Oh, no. The soup. I keep forgetting about it, letting my mind wander. My attention snaps back to the task at hand. I mix flour into a cup of warm water and stir it into the soup, slowly. You taught me that the best things come to you when you are patient. Before I met you, I rushed headlong into everything. I was the kind of person who would splatter half the soup while stirring it. I was afraid I would do the same to us and run out of affection a few months after I met you.

That never did happen. I nearly hated you when I found out you detested rabbits and refused to let me adopt one as a pet. Even my near-hate seemed to lie much closer to love than hate. A week later, you got me two rabbits for my birthday, a whole array of rabbit food and a mini rabbit barn. You always do the absolute most. The soup smells almost done. I add pepper, you like a lot of it. I stir until it smells delicious enough for my stomach to gurgle in response. I feel rather accomplished.

To my initial surprise, you never cared much for plating and appearance. You say that if the food is good enough, it does not matter if you don’t spend an hour arranging it. I disagree, I love plating food. I think if something looks good, that makes it all the more appetising. We debate this every time we cook together. Neither of us win, and we give up when the hunger demands our attention like a needy house cat.

Today, I do not garnish or decorate. I ladle soup into a wooden bowl and sit down to eat. I am right on time. We always eat exactly at nine, usually to my annoyance. I feel ridiculously happy that for once I do not have to be prodded to be on time. I’m sure you’re smiling too. Maybe. Are you?

I feel my cheeks get wet, but I pay little attention. I hate wet things, and rain. Winters are the worst. No more hot Thursdays then. They say the dead live on in the memories of those left behind. I shake these thoughts off. I close my eyes, and I drink our soup. It tastes like you. Warm, safe, beautiful. Comforting. Unforgettable.

I can never get enough of it.

As I drink, I can see you smile. I smile back, my eyes still closed.

I feel the warmth spread throughout my body, on this stifling Thursday. My craving for hot soup on such a day, years ago, had caused much debate. I sweat from the heat, the spice, the grief at the pit of my stomach. I sweat so much I feel like I’m melting from the inside, but that’s okay. As I sweat, I imagine my sadness leave my body for a bit, with it. 

I force myself to smile, and I drink another gulp of the soup.

I can hear you sighing with joy after every sip.

Every hot Thursday, I don’t have to miss you anymore.

I can feel your warmth, and I can see your head, bent over the soup, in the back of my mind. In a few years, I may not remember how you smell anymore, or which shoe you put on first. That’s okay. All I have to do to remember every second, is wait for a hot Thursday and pick out the ripest tomatoes.

That will bring you home to me.

I look at my empty bowl. I feel quite similar.

I hope the next Thursday is the hottest one I’ve ever seen.

I’ll miss you until then.

I close my eyes again.

-I’ll miss you too.