Soup Story
I am standing over a sink in the kitchen. The kitchen is in a brown house with a blue roof, in a yellow house with a black roof, in a white house with blue shutters. I am peeling potatoes. On the stove, my dad is stirring
3 tablespoons unsalted butter
8 large leeks (white part only), cleaned thoroughly and chopped
until they are tender, but not browned.
I am cutting the
3 medium-sized potatoes
into thin slices. In the house I grew up in, there is one cat. Sammy is sitting on the steps that lead into our basement, looking for someone to stir her dry food and pet her while she eats. In the house I graduated from, there are two cats. Sammy is looking for a treat from my dad, but he hasn’t started cooking the bacon yet. Klaus is making herself a hindrance to the cooking process by attempting to climb my father like a jungle gym. In the house my parents live in, there is one cat. Klaus is attacking the sliding glass door in vain, attempting to catch the moth that had landed there for a brief moment.
We are listening to my dad’s music. In the house I grew up in, it’s a mix of the Oh Hellos and Coldplay. We are dancing and singing. In the house I graduated from, it could be Hamilton, or it could be Les Miserables, or it could be John Denver; and if it is we are belting along to Country Roads because it’s tradition on my dads side of the family to know all the lyrics and sing them as loud as you can. In the house my parents live in, it’s Noah Kahan, and I feel the same warm burn of pride in myself that I always feel when I realize my dad enjoys music I’ve introduced him to. We are still singing.
When the potatoes are done, I get to put them into the concoction on the stove, along with
5 cups chicken stock, vegetable stock, or water.
The sink is full of potato peelings and I scoop them into the compost while we wait for the mixture to boil. After it has begun to boil, the recipe tells us to reduce the heat and simmer until the potatoes are soft. This takes about a half an hour, in which time my dad has preheated the oven and put strips of bacon on a metal tray. In the house I grew up in, my mother is coming home soon, and my brother is playing with legos in the loft. In the house I graduated from, my mother is in her office with the door closed, pouring over medical texts until the information is burned into her brain. My brother is in his room, listening to music. In the house my parents live in, my brother is yelling at Destiny 2, and my mother won’t get home until it is very late. I ask my dad if I can queue a song, and he will either sigh and say yes like I’m pulling his teeth, or ask me to let YouTube shuffle work its magic.
My father and I are telling each other what we are writing when the half hour is up. Dad purees the leek-potato-broth mixture until it is smooth, seasoning with
salt to taste
1⁄4 teaspoon ground white or black pepper.
The soup has a good texture. My dad chops the bacon into bits, tossing them all in the soup and stirring them in as he reheats it a bit. In the house where I grew up, my mother is home and my brother is coming downstairs when my dad sends me to get him for dinner. Sammy is well on her way to staining the corner of a door frame with how often she rubs her head against it. She watches us while we eat. In the house I graduated from, my mother comes down the stairs stiffly, excited to eat. My brother stomps down the stairs on accident, not yet aware of how to maneuver his body because he grew six inches in the past year. Sammy is sleeping on my bed, curled up in the last bit of sunlight my room is catching before it gets fully dark. Klaus is still being a menace, and my brother and I are reminded not to pick her up during dinner, no matter how adorable she’s being. It can teach her bad manners! In the house my parents live in, my mother might not be home in time for dinner, and my brother takes a minute (or ten) to get off the computer. He decides to loom over me to get to the chocolate milk mix—because he’s somehow at least 6 feet tall now—and makes a funny face at the cat. Klaus is unperturbed by this encounter, deciding instead to sit directly in front of where everyone is trying to serve themselves food. I pick her up and kiss the grey spots on her head that make it look like someone spilled paint on her ears and forehead. She allows this for a short time before wiggling out of my arms and dashing to some other corner of the house to wreak havoc on an unsuspecting trash can.
In the house that I grew up in, and in the house that I graduated from, and in the house that my parents live in, there is soup in large green bowls that tastes like love and comfort. In the house that I grew up in, and in the house that I graduated from, and in the house that my parents live in, there is a family and we are fed.
Artist Statement
Soup Story is a reflection on growing up and the way things have stayed the same in my family and the way things have changed a lot. Its a way for me to look at a few specific points in my life and navigate the ever changing dynamics in my family as my brother and I grow up and our parents grow old. There is a soup recipe written in to the story from a Joy of Cooking cookbook that's been with my Dad since he moved out of his parents' house at least 30 years ago, and it's delicious.
Zak Struck
I am a sophomore at Bennington College and I'm studying literature and SCT. I've always been really interested in the ways people talk about their gender and a lot of my poetry excavates my own experiences with transness.