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Once I was making a soup. Although I didn't yet know what kind of soup it would be, the base of it was made from beef bones and a few pieces of meat attached to them. Standing by the stove and looking at the liquid bubbling in the pan, I thought how boring and poor that soup would be if I didn't put at least a few ingredients into it. Just a broth. A clear soup.
In order to make it more interesting, I added a little salt, a few whole seeds of black pepper, a bay leaf, one root of parsnip, a few leek leaves, celery root, a few small carrots and a piece of browned onion. And soon, the whole kitchen was filled with an aroma that pleasantly irritated my nostrils. After twenty minutes or so, I put into my soup some more ingredients: green peas, cauliflower and potatoes cut into lumps. Now the soup was rich, full of flavor and full of joy. It was a great pleasure to watch all the vegetables spinning around in united rhythm. The ball in the pan. In time with the hot music. Green peas danced with carrots, potatoes with parsnip, leek embraced cauliflower, onion cuddled black pepper... The music was hotter and more frequently dancers changed their dancing partners.
The soup was almost ready. There was only one thing left for me to finish that art of cooking. I had to season the soup with a little of browned flour and fine chopped dill.
Sitting at the table over the plate full of steaming soup, I thought about how life in a small town resembles that soup.
It just so happens that I have been living in a small town for some time now - a small one but very attractive, especially during the summer. The rest of the year, spring, fall and winter are like my broth. Monotony. The streets in town, shadowed with many trees on both sides, are calm and silent. There is almost no traffic on them. The stores are open, but there are not many customers willing to spend some money in them. The shop assistant at the clothing department lazily shifts hangers from one rack to another. The barber, sitting on the client's stool, reads a paper and from time to time peeks at the door, checking whether anybody is coming to get their hair trimmed.
Although I live in America now, the sleepy atmosphere of this town reminds me of another town - the town from my childhood. I remember sitting with my friend on the bench near the main street of our town. It was Sunday afternoon in the middle of summer. We were sitting and waiting for something to happen. At one moment my friend nudged me, saying: "Look! A car!" We looked at that vehicle passing by and disappearing around the corner. The great event of the day. Boring and poor. Like my broth. A clear soup.
A few thousand miles from the town of my childhood I don't sit on the bench. I drive a car. And I drive into the summer. Comparing to my soup it was like putting a pan on the stove. The heat began to stir up the town. The "ingredients" that make this place interesting have been flowing like lava from volcano. The barber doesn't have time to read his paper anymore. His shop is full of clients who want to get their hair cut, trimmed, and washed. The shop assistant at the clothing department complaints that customers have destroyed her neat work: all the outfits, hanging in harmony until now, changed their places. Peaceful and almost empty streets are filled with a colorful crowd. A huge party in a small town.
Mr. Salt with Mrs. Pepper, encircled in their arms, are strolling together. Mr. McCarrot, gesticulating widely, is trying to explain something to Mr. Parsnip. Mrs. Von Leek is hugging Mrs. O'Celery; they didn't see each other for a long time. Doctor Potato is discussing a new disease with Mrs. Cauliflower and Mr. Pea... The town is vibrant with life.
I have finished eating my soup. The only thing that I left on the plate was the picked beef bone. A recollection of something delicious, full of flavor, rich, not boring.
The town is empty again.
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