Potato Soup: unwrapped

It's cooler now, autumn has arrived and I embrace the shift in seasons with with a pot of soup in my arms.

Not any soup, though ~ the perfect soup, the comfort soup, the creamiest, butteriest, and quite possibly yummiest of all soups.

Potato soup.



And this evening, as I sit peeling, my baby belly busting and music softly humming, I think of my mom who prepared this same recipe while I grew.

It never failed to please.



Served with toasted garlic bread and shredded cheddar cheese, her potato soup tastes like a family gathered around an oak table, spoons in hand, chatting, laughing, living.



I slice the onion, add the water, garlic, and salt and set it all to boil. A tub full of potatoes steams soon and so I add the butter and sour cream.



This night I'm years and miles away from the oak table. None of my sisters or I live in the same city. My parents, retired, eat low-carb, so potato soup rarely makes the menu.

And here am I, hot bowl in hand, unwrapping the gift of memory and belonging and living.