It’s the day after Thanksgiving.  I stepped out onto the front porch at 4:30 this morning to catch a few breaths, and noticed Orion, prominent in the West – undaunted despite the orange glow of a streetlight in front of our house.   

I’d already been up for a couple of hours, but the sky was incredibly clear, so I stood outside a little bit longer, then went back in to brew a pot of coffee.

Now it’s a few hours later, and I’m hip-deep into three big kettles of soup stock. 

It’s a known fact in certain circles, that I plan on making soup stock every year on the day after Thanksgiving. The family pitches in with turkey carcasses, and my wife and I scrounge up every mushroom stem, onion skin, and vegetable scrap that isn’t composter-worthy.  I also collect the juice from most of the meat that I cook, and strain it into ice cube trays.

Each year, preferably on this date, the entire mess goes into as many kettles as necessary, and what follows is a process that’s best described as equal parts alchemy and chaos.

When it’s simmered long enough, I strain everything into a single kettle, and render it down to somewhere between two and three gallons.

The ingredients vary from year to year, so it’s always a mystery until it’s done.

My wife affords me plenty of space, which is either deep consideration or a keenly honed sense of danger on her part.  Truth be told, it’s probably a little of both.  The first time I cooked in our kitchen, she took one look at my mandala of spices and oils, and an army of bowls filled with various ingredients – all laid out in the order in which I’d add them – smiled, and said, “I’m just going to walk away now…” 

It’s been years since then, but as I write this, I’m thinking the exact same thing:

“God, I love this woman…“