A pot of soup

Sunday afternoon. The chicken carcass is on the stove, boiling with its vegetable buddies. The chicken, before becoming a carcass, was dinner, with roast vegetables, and Irish soda bread I baked Saturday morning as a break from the usual pancakes. I didn't have to go to all the trouble to roast a chicken whole, carefully tending it so that the bird was neither raw nor dry, basting it with olive oil and herbs. An easier meal could have been had and, more than likely, would have been appreciated as much. Boiled hot dogs. Instant potatoes. Crock-potted cut up chicken rendered down to mush with a can cream of chicken soup reminiscent of countless church recipe collections and "easy meals for the hurried and harried homemaker." Such food would have been eaten with about as much bother, and would have given necessary nutrients for the day, sufficient calories to feed the internal fires of human life. But I didn't. I took the more rigorous way and, before you give too many accolades to the love and care of family demonstrated by such devotedness, I did it from very selfish motives. I did it for me because I like to eat good food, food prepared, (nay, crafted) to taste a cut above the average. I cook for myself and my family sort of tags along with what's set on the table. My dislike of the mundane drives me to do what may take a bit more time but tastes so much better. And this is why the carcass is on the stove being recrafted into chicken stock. Thanks to a modern gas range (and not hot coals on the hearth) the task will be accomplished without much help from me. Let her simmer! Let her steep her flavors into the water, magically changing Fort Wayne tap water into something delightful. Not quite turning water to wine, but still delightful.