SOUP

 My version of a classic theme described by a dear friend, many years ago:

A very good friend of mine had a grandmother, who was everybody’s idea of the definitive Jewish housewife.   She was, a matriarchal figure, flowing with the milk of human kindness.   Having experienced hardships in the old country, she was active in alleviating them here.

She spoke heavily accented English, but even after thirty years she still spoke perfect Russian.   Whenever an interpreter was needed to help an immigrant, she was the person they came to.

   “Aicht!” she exclaimed on seeing the thin pale threadbare bag of bones, in his sixties if he was a day.

“My name is Isaac” he began in English, but then reverted to the mother tongue, “Do I have the honour of addressing Mrs Ruth Kalmowitz?”

“Call me Ruth!” she replied, “welcome to my house sir, how can we help you?”

“Mrs Kalm…  Ruth, let me first apologise for descending upon you without notice, I am in such dreadful straits for I have forms, from immigration, to be completed before I can apply for a work permit.   My regret is that I have no money with which to show my gratitude.

My friend watched as his grandmother expertly completed the forms, laughing and joking with their visitor, to make him feel at home.   At last the work was done, envelopes addressed, sealed and stamped.   She poohooed his protestations and promises of reimbursement.   They sat for a while, drinking tea and eating fruit and cinnamon biscuits.   He was complementary of her cooking, using wide gestures and flowing words, beyond my friend’s limited understanding of the language.

Finally, the old man rose and announced that he really could not leave without adding something to their lives in return. 

He thought a moment then announced that he would make for them the finest soup they had ever tasted, to accomplish the task, he would employ magic.

“Could I perhaps have a large pan of boiling water?” he asked.

It was no sooner said than done.

With a flourish he removed a stone, the size of a golf ball, from his pocket.  

“This!”  He announced, holding it up for all to see, “is no ordinary stone.   It is the most wonderful, and magical, stone you will ever set eyes upon.   It is one of only three in existence.   One is owned by a cousin back home, the other is the personal possession of the Tsar of all the Russia’s.”

“What does it do sir?” asked my friend respectfully; a naïve child, totally spellbound by the story unfolding.

“A very good question, young gentleman, it is a soup stone.   With this stone I can make the most wonderful soup the world has ever known.”    With a theatrical flourish, he dropped the stone into the boiling water, and began to stir.   After only a few minutes, he took a little on the spoon and tasted. 

 “Mmm not bad, not bad, at all,” he said nodding his head appreciatively.   “But, perhaps it needs just a little salt,” he said voicing his thoughts aloud.

Ruth handed him a cake of salt, and he brushed it lightly with his index finger, sprinkling scintillating salt crystals into the cauldron, after a little more stirring he tasted again.

“Better!    But, I want for you kind persons to taste only the best.   Possibly the addition of a few vegetables might lift it a little – a potato, some carrot, maybe an onion, a turnip perhaps, to do it justice?”  

Ruth handed him a bag of vegetables.

At the next tasting he nodded appreciatively; his enthusiasm getting the better of him.   Everybody gathered round expectantly, seeking a better view of the proceedings and the wonderful concoction.

“Yes!   Now we are getting somewhere,” he exalted.   Then in a whisper that could scarcely be heard over the bubbling of the cauldron he spoke his thoughts aloud.   “All it needs now is a few scraps of meat; mutton or beef perhaps?”

A path was cleared and Ruth brought him choice cuts of the finest stewing beef.

An hour later he tasted once more, wrinkling his nose, his countenance taking on a visage of mortal agony.   “You know, there’s still something missing,” his voice transmitted his disappointment to his audience.  They felt their own spirits flag.  

Then his face burst into a smile, as if the sun had come out from behind a cloud, “a little pepper perhaps?”

My friend handed over the pepper mill his grandmother had passed to him moments earlier.

“Be seated everyone!”  He announced.  

 Then he proceeded to serve the very best soup my friend, or any there present, had ever tasted; before or since.  

When they had all eaten their fill, Isaac removed the stone. Carefully, he wiped it on his handkerchief before placing it in a wide patch pocket, together with his completed immigration papers.

“But, you know the most wonderful thing of all?” he asked as he stood to leave, “it never wears out!”   He smiled, kissed his benefactor lightly on the cheek, and bade them all a fond farewell.