Work Text:
It's just soup.
We'll have a house full of hungry people here for Michael's memorial and a hot bowl of soup should be welcome on an early November day.
His sister Lea asked what she could bring. I didn't know what to tell her aside from something Michael would have liked. She specifically asked if she should make solyanka, but I told her I was going to do that. Lea's a good baker; maybe she'll bring a couple loaves of crusty bread or some cookies.
Kaidan wants to make pies with the last of the late apples. He said he wants to teach John, since he always enjoys them so much when they visit.
Anyway, I know there'll be plenty of food for all the family and friends.
As I chop the vegetables for the soup, I can almost see Michael's Ukrainian mother teaching me how to make it. Passing on a treasured family recipe to her Singapore-born daughter-in-law.
The first time I made it on my own, Michael smelled it the moment he came in from the orchard. Little Kaidan was watching from his high chair, banging spoons on the tray and calling to Dada. Michael wrapped an arm around my waist and dipped a spoon into the not-quite-done soup, tasting it eagerly.
He kissed me, tasting of soup, and told me his mother would be proud. He didn't need to tell me that he was too.
I stir the diced pickles and onions into the simmering broth. And wipe my eyes. It must be the onions.
It's just soup.
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