Every year on Halloween, she taped orange posterboard to the outside of her glass front door. In black sharpie, listed the soups. Two church tables set up in the middle of the living room were covered in purple and black tablecloths with pumpkins, friendly ghosts, witches in peaked hats sailing in the sky on broomsticks, orange and white candy corn floating by. Eight crock pots, each with its own ladle lined up next to mugs, soup spoons, folded paper napkins. There was butternut squash, minestrone, corn chowder, tomato bisque. Then some fancy ones, Sopa Azteca, mulligatawny, Thai hot-and-sour coconut, borscht. Soup, treats for us grownups as our costumed children ran about the neighborhood, their bags growing heavy with candies. “Don’t forget to put a check mark next to your favorite,” she’d say as we made our exits. There’d always be a favorite. The winner.
At the holidays she’d hang a forest green basket on the front door overflowing with candy canes wrapped in cellophane, beckoning us in. A table was covered in a red tablecloth with Christmas trees, snowflakes, Santa and reindeer readied to alight on roof tops. Hot chocolate in two crock pots, one with cow’s milk, the other sweet, thick vanilla-flavored almond milk. Mugs, teaspoons, folded napkins next to a short glass with cinnamon sticks, a bottle of peppermint extract, bowls of mini marshmallows and tiny chocolate chips, a brown plastic squeeze bottle of Hershey’s chocolate syrup, and a can of Reddi-wip on ice like a fine champagne. “Choose your own adventure,” she’d say. Electric candles sat on windowsills, and a menorah, blue and white, just to be fair.
She was married, her second time, to an older, bald, stout man. She had a son of her own. They got a dog together, a beautiful, silky bronze, unruly thing, with energy for days. He’d frequently zip out the door and be seen tearing through the neighborhood, gleefully, guiltily, like the scamp that he was. A funny one, that one. Too much for her to handle along with the son, and the crock pots and the husband.
One Sunday we ran into her and her husband at the new diner in town, advertised as
classic and comfort meet cool and chic, farm-to-table delights with blue light specials from days gone by. I didn’t know who wrote their ad copy, but I felt like they should have consulted me. On the other hand, come to think of it, we were there. Kids’ meals came in pastel cardboard cutouts of classic sixties cars. My kids were too old for them, both teens, but we all agreed we wanted one. Tiny jukeboxes hung on the wall, two plays for a quarter. When we slid into the booth, there they were, next to us. The son probably with his father for the weekend. They were on a brunch date all alone.
We turned to greet them. “What’s good here?” I asked, to make conversation, eyeing their plates stacked with pancakes, sunny-side-up eggs, sausages, bacon, home fries, buttered toast, and tall glasses filled with thick milkshakes, one vanilla, the other chocolate. I figured they’d share.
I ordered the seriously inventive field greens salad, with farrow, quinoa, snap peas, jicama, sliced mango and strawberries. Hold the candied pecans and Craisins. Dressing and gorgonzola on the side. The waiter’s eyes strained to stay put, determined not to roll in my face. His thought bubble easy to read — Seriously lady, you’re at a fucking diner. The girls came for pancakes, fluffy and sweet. “Like cake made in a pan,” they said.
When we got outside, one of them said, “Holy shit dude, did you see that? It was like a heart attack on a plate.” The other chimed, “Right!?!” I told them that was rude and they of all people know nobody likes the food police. In their defense, it was a popular saying, along with other more spicy ones they liberally peppered conversations with. Suck my salty balls, undoubtedly inspired by Chef’s chocolate salty balls on South Park. Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke, a holdover from my younger days, although like most things, music, sex, drugs and alcohol, they seemed to think they invented it.
Not long after that Sunday, on a balmy spring evening, he would die by surprise, the husband that is. My daughters freaked out. Sad, yes, but also, “Did we kill him?” I assured them that no, our words may have power, but not that kind of power.
Years went by as they are prone to do. The girls grew up, moved out, engaged in what they call 'adulting'. My marriage went south. I took it was an opportunity to do the same, landing in a small, beach community off the Georgia coast. I would go to the local shelter, get a black and white cat that purrs and rubs up against my legs, and a dog, a tan, thick-furred mutt with golden eyes that pierce straight into my heart. The three of us would settle into our forever home.
Kids don’t show up at my door on Halloween here. Most families only come in the summer. Back to the mainland when school starts back up, sadly for them, in August. Weekends only after that. Retirees and childless couples, DINKS I hear they’re called, straggle on in fall and spring. We’re a sparse bunch that hunker down for the whole winter.
At Christmastime, in the center of town, palm trees are strung with lights, a menorah, standing taller than I, next to them. It’s been years, and although we were never close, it’s then that I think of her, the soup lady. Her husband gone, son grown, dog long since surrendered to the shelter, does she still make soup?
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