The happy place

Hello I wanted so badly to write about the soup I had for dinner today!

Soup is a category of food which I typically don’t eat, but I have changed a lot lately, and I savour the opportunity to familiarise myself with myself again, and in so doing I have discovered and renewed my appreciation for soup.

There’s a bakery nearby. A French one 🇫🇷⚜️🇫🇷⚜️

I understand why many people love France and the iconic Count of Monte Christo, and the also iconic Eiffel tower, and that even though some fools have built higher towers elsewhere, they are mere copies.

They make levain beads in there, in the bakery: real French bread and baguette. Levian baguette which I can buy on my way home for lunch, and then I can just heat up some soup and eat like a king.

If you picture this, it’s easy to understand what a privilege it is to have what is a small portal to France just next block, where you could even get a croissant.

So back to the soup, I had one today which was very funny, because it was a type of Mexican soup which looked just like vomit.

Just like vomit.

With this rich thought in my head I went out into the evening darkness. There wasn’t one single star visible, and the cold autumn rain felt cold on my skin.

For whatever reason, a smell of sewage filled the crisp air, an overflowing septic tank somewhere? As I walked along the streetlights, past the bakery and onwards into the night I had a strong feeling of thankfulness for this beautiful world with soup and France, and a lump in my throat, a feeling of maybe having opened an old wound.

A feeling, maybe of sewage, or of vomit?

A release which stings the eyes. A strange duality of life.