The way Little Miss Perfect tells it, you'd think I was head of a gang of street thugs when I was a kid. We weren't thugs, we were twelve. All we wanted was some prize money, or at least a bit of ... [+]
A large, green pot rested on the stove, with heat rising off and warming my nose as I took in a deep breath of steam and starch. Potatoes – a five-pound bag of plain white potatoes turned into the meal that could cure all ailments and broken hearts. Each one caressed by Mom's soft hands while the peeler shaved off the bruises. Slowly the potatoes became thick and creamy, salt and peppered, and showered with toppings. A pan of bacon sizzled behind the soup as it bubbled, each strip soon to be lovingly crumbled into a savory garnish. Chives then rapidly chopped after a quick rinse in the sink. Cheddar cheese toppled into a Ramekin, awaiting the tiny fingers that would sprinkle a little too much into the bowl. The cure to a skinned knee, with each swallow pushing tears back inside. After my tonsils left my body, the soup soothed my healing throat, each warm spoonful calming my raw wounds. A toasted loaf of sourdough bread to accompany the lumpy, beautifully yellowed mixture. Potatoes from California, Ecuador, Barbados – it didn't matter. Potato soup is potato soup, and it is the fix to everything.