It’s cold out, and my throat is rough. Seasonal sickness stopped our festive plans, so I lingered a little longer at home. Rain taps the windows and the house grows quiet as the sun dips into darkness. I stand in the low light of the kitchen, gaze soft. Tossing the chopped-up, leftover vegetables from the fridge into the steaming tomato broth, my mind wanders.
Running through the crispy, dry fall grass, I turn the corner into the non-descript, concrete building at a sunny river-side park in Ozark, Missouri. My Grandma Mary brought 5-year-old me and my 7-year-old sister here for a kids’ cooking demonstration. The skill of the day is making “seed soup.” It is the classic vegetable soup one can make with just about any mix of vegetables, meat and/or legumes on hand.
As a living member of a Depression-era, share-cropping farm family, my grandmother knew every way to stretch a meal, and she would pass it on to us. My sister and I stand on the weathered picnic table benches alongside other kids, attempting to peer into the copper pot as the white-haired teacher stirs.
During recess following this class, my little friends and I dig shallow holes at the base of trees with sticks. We fill them with seed pods, grass, seeds and other flora fodder we find scattered. We invite others to join our makeshift kitchen, pouring endless, invisible bowls. Somehow, we are enthralled with this soup.
The onion-scented steam brings me back to stirring, and I look down into the pot. Green peppers, onions, broth, tomatoes, corn, carrots, white beans and peas fold over and over again. Quiet is a luxury at the year’s end. This week’s numerous canceled plans brought more stillness than expected. This soup is always a fallback for failed meal plans, but today, it is just what we seem to need.
Paired with every New Year is a new beginning, or so they say. Blank planner pages, a fresh year to scribble into the date line, anticipation of new possibilities. Some embrace it as a fresh start, others — more skeptical, perhaps — just take it as any other day.
Where once I felt compelled to chart ever-expanding horizons, this coming year, something calls me inward. The chaos of military life can leave one feeling rootless, and it can take work to scrounge through the dirt of where you are to carve out your own, grounded place.
At some duty stations and in some seasons, that might mean reaching for every offered opportunity and invitation. It might mean leaping beyond comfort into briefing rooms, kid co-ops, day trips and boardrooms.
And in other seasons, it might mean slowing down long enough to let things simmer. It might mean quiet coffees on the porch, margin in the schedule and falling asleep earlier. Instead of charting new ground, it might be easing into the simplest of passed-down treasures, paying closer attention to where you’ve been and where you are.
A new year is a forest resting dormant before spring. Sometimes it takes courage both to go and to stay. This year, I hope you pick up everything you need most along whichever route you choose. Wherever you find yourself foraging this year, my hope is that you can carve out a quiet place to make your best seed soup.
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Editor's note: As part of CityView's commitment to filling gaps by providing reporting and information for the Fort Liberty community, our HomeFront initiative features two columnists who will write regularly about issues military families face.
Aria Spears is a writer, communications professional and civic leadership enthusiast. With a master's degree in nonprofit and civic leadership, Aria can be found exploring cities, persuading people to join local civic boards and sharing her book "The Community Mapping Journal." When it comes to active-duty military family life, she believes that joy makes us strong.
If there's a topic you'd like for our columnists address, let us know at talk@cityviewnc.com.
