Snow, Soup, and Howard

The great snow of 2015 clipped southern Michigan pretty well. Locally, we got 14.1 inches and with the spirited north winds overnight, drifts hit 3 – 4 feet on the roads surrounding the farm. Tonight is a calm, clear evening silenced by a blanket of white.

Friday and Saturday, weather forecasts were promising significant snowfall – so adamant were the news reports that several of us expected another instance of more hype than snow. As it turns out, the hordes panic-buying milk and bread prior to winter’s blast were vindicated.

I too made a quick trip to the grocery early Saturday morning. Yes, bought milk but eschewed bread; I did, however picked up the makings for homemade chicken soup. Nothing counters a howling blizzard like a cauldron of soup simmering on the stove.

Starting with a proper mirepoix, I built the broth over several hours on Saturday adding fresh roasted chicken as the vegetables and herbs released their goodness . . . no egg noodles added until Sunday morning. In all, I estimate that the soup had 6 – 8 hours on the stove before serving. Did I add that I’m incapable of making less than 2 – 3 gallons of soup at any one time?

With all the extra soup to share, I jumped in the truck and busted through several snow drifts to deliver some still-warm soup to my friend Howard. His house was dark when I arrived, so I left the container and a note on his porch.

I called tonight to make sure he found it and he was very grateful and insistent that I stop by. We had a great visit.

An oxygen machine occupies the space behind Howard’s chair and he complains of both a constant aching and danger of falling (three times in January!). He repeats his frustration that he’s ready, but for some reason, God isn’t ready for him. His son from Ohio visits weekly and his local son is there daily (though, he told Brent not to come by tonight – he had soup for dinner!).

Howard tottered to his “hi-fi” to turn down a recording of Dr. Henry Aldridge playing the piano – Aldridge was the longtime chief organist at the Michigan Theater (starting in 1972) and was a friend of Howard from church. Howard recounted many visits with Henry and a talent he so willingly shared.

We kibitzed over his health providers, the cost of health care, friends that have visited him or otherwise stayed in touch, his coming 89th birthday, the cost of going out to lunch. Nothing philosophic – just a chat between friends.

He looked good and was, as always, a most gracious host. He vehemently insisted that I come visit whenever (I’ve resisted when I’ve seen his son’s truck in the driveway) and thanked me for coming by.

Soup, snow, friendship, hope.