The Soup of Life: Tales of the Sleeping Cook

Pangs of hunger swirled in my stomach, another familiar lurch called my name.

Onions…Mushrooms…a hint of Worchestershire Sauce? Zachary—you have outdone yourself this time!! MMM…MMM…MMMM.

“Sounds delicious…”

The words came tumbling out, my lips pursing in celebration.

What now? What was that? Who was talking…was it me?

It didn’t matter now— the smell of something wondrous filled the air taking over my senses—making my body burn with a sharp hunger to devour whatever it was. I let the wafting aroma lead the way, but what, to where was I going? Who would be cooking at this god-awful hour—I was the only one home. Just me and my assortment of potted plants, an aging dog and a purple-finned beta-fish; besides, I didn’t cook, I couldn’t.

Maybe the neighbor was at it again; I’d have to remind myself to ask her to share next time…what was her name? I’d have to ask that too…I jolted awake with a start, my eyes still groggy from sleep as I ran down the old creaky stairs—my heart iced with terror when I saw the sight before me. Amidst the normally dreadful and unused kitchen was the most mouthwatering of sights.

Cinnamon…basil… garlic…oregano…a dash of wine maybe?

There it was again—that voice. Where was it coming from—the ceiling…the wall? I walked around, no one was there—I swatted my curtains with the nearest thing in arms reach—a splintered baseball bat; nothing, no one. It couldn’t be—I must be dreaming. I absolutely must. There’s no way I had made all of this food.

“I’m not crazy,” I whispered—giving Cecil—my ever-loyal companion a quick head-rub. He would have barked, alerted me if someone had come in—wouldn’t he? His sad-eyes drooped lazily as he watched me pace around.

“You think I’m crazy—don’t-cha boy, I’m not…I swear I’m not.”

I stopped, blinked a few times and shook my head. Nope, it’s still there—a large pot big enough to fit a small chair bubbled aromatically from the burner. The smell of a savory red sauce simmered while piles of used pots and wooden cutting boards sat unwashed in the sink still freckled with remnants of chopped and diced vegetables—shards of white onions, tangy green peppers and pungent scallions. And to think, before this morning my only option was cereal—plain, boring cereal.

“That’s it!” I felt the same burning anger welling up in me; someone had been in my house, my kitchen—I’m sure of it; I had to get to the bottom of it, once and for all.

“Where’s my phone boy, have you seen it,” I whispered, hoping Cecil would point the way.

I felt my way around the mound of mess until I found my phone—dialing the same nine-digits—“Hello…Bob…it happened again…no…I think you should stop by and see for yourself.”

A few minutes later Bob came in through the door—he wasn’t what you expected from a land-lord. His salt-and-peppered hair stuck out in all directions, much like the same pair of dusty black denim jeans he always wore and the worn-out gray shirt with the lone stretched pocket he kept his phone in—very handy and easy to reach (as he liked to say). Today he wore a denim long-sleeved shirt to cut out the cold. It didn’t seem like he could move like he used to, his hands appeared swollen and stiff, his arms rigid and he even walked with a pained grimace.

“Have any of the prior tenants ever complained about…” I didn’t get the words out before Bob let out a hefty gasp—“I can’t believe it…I can’t believe it…my word…it can’t be…”

“Can’t believe what,” I whispered nervously—Bob’s face was star-struck, he surely didn’t seem to share my same concern.

“It’s a gift my boy, a true gift,” Bob whispered as I led him around my kitchen. “I’ll have to round the troops…might not need to with the way this smells. Could smell it up the block; I haven’t smelled this smell…well since…Al and Marjory lived here…” Bob paused, a tear forming in his eyes.

“Gosh—he’d be so proud to see this kitchen now…where’d you learn to cook like this…”

“Bob…I didn’t…I woke up and this is what I woke up to…I already summoned the police…”

“Why?” Bob whispered, “Well…that’ll be fine, the more the merrier. Hope its Jones and Rollins; they will have their socks knocked off…”

Sure enough, a few minutes later two officers—much older than expected showed up.

“This looks delicious! Can I try some,” the slimmer of the two officers asked—dipping a spoon into the bubbling pot.

“Rollins—I swear if I didn’t tell you, you would think Al was here cooking…” Bob began; a deep guttural laugh filled the air as the men took seats around the table—“good times.”

“Yeah, sure were—hell, if you squint your eyes and tilt your head a bit he sort of looks like him too…” Rollins mumbled amidst a mouthful of hot soup, scooping several helpings of the saucy chili into a bowl as he began to pass bowl-after-bowl around—“Help yourself— there’s plenty more where that came from…”

“Zach’s just missing a chipped coffee mug and the old spectacles,” Jones said, pinching off a piece of French bread and dipping into the meaty sauce.

“More’s coming, saw a handful of the neighbors heading this way…get the bowls, and cups ready, whatever you can find.”

I stood unmoving in the middle where my living room arched into the kitchen as my long kitchen table filled with person after person until the soup finally trickled down to bare bones.

“Saved this for you,” Bob whispered, handing me a brimming bowl of chili.

“Last scoop is the best—as Al always said. Good job, fantastic soup—enough to feed the neighborhood. Hell, you even met a few new people, some old…” Bob added, winking.

“Bob…” the words barely leaving my lips. “Do you not see how this is a problem, I don’t remember cooking—maybe someone came in and did all this…”

I must have looked a ragged mess, my arms flinging about as my point got lost in his disbelief.

“I still don’t see what the problem is; it must’ve been you—had to have been you; who else could it be…maybe you don’t remember? Slept too hard or something, whatever it was—keep it up.”

My back was starting to ache, sore from all the congratulatory pats that were thudded against my tired frame. I scrolled aimlessly through my phone—sure enough, the grocery charge was there, front and center—one-hundred and forty-seven dollars and fifteen cents. That was the price I had paid, or maybe someone else—yes, maybe someone stole my card.

I fumbled in my pockets—no—everything was there, right where I left it—cards and all; my cash still wrinkled and molting in the liner of my wallet. So what could it be? Had I slept-walked? –no—that’s not right, not at all. I had no history of that sort of thing.

But alas—here I was with no other way to explain what I had witnessed—simply magic. It felt good having everyone here; it felt sort of like family; a feeling I missed, dread. It sucked being all alone but this, this took the edge off.

Bob, Rollins, Jones, my neighbor Susan, Jim, Eddie and a few others sat long after the soup had waned—talking, laughing and playing cards. I even joined them; the commemorative sound of black coffee dripping in the pot signaled the start of another hour late into the night. Bob was the last to leave as always—“Same time next week?” I felt a pat on the back as Bob came round.

“Estelle’s doing the dishes, not much for you to worry about…we left something on the table for you, a thank you and some help for next week…”

Sure enough—at the middle of the table was a bubbly hollowed-out glass jar—the same one I had housed my beta fish Sammy in before moving him to his own aquarium some weeks before. Now it sat brimming to the bill with fives, twenties and fifties. I had never seen so much cash at one time.

“It’s like the old days…” I heard one of my neighbors’ whispering as they stepped onto the dimly lit front porch, the knot of tears welling in his throat as he wiped his clouding glasses. I didn’t know his name but his sentiment filled me with warmth.

The clanking of bowls and spoons resonated in my ears long after everyone left. It was a wondrous sight, even more beautiful than before. Neighbors from far and wide were in my house—seating themselves on every empty spot, my house was full—for the first time ever; even Cecil lapped up the attention—smiling as Bob handed him a small helping of meaty soup over his dry dog-food.

I thought back to all the day’s festivities—unable to shake the smile that spread across my face. Bob and the guys told me all about Al, the man who’d lived here well over fifty years. He’d lived here as long as he’d been alive—him and his wife Marjory would sit up all hours of the night and cook these wondrous meals. When she died he stayed in the house and cooked in her honor—every Sunday like clock-work; neighbors gathering, cycling in like the weather.

The old man was something else—you know the kind—blue and green flannel shirts, a cup of old coffee reheated twice in the microwave. Faded gold rimmed glasses and silvery hair slicked back against his aging tan skin. He was everything you would want in an elderly neighbor. A good guy, salt-of-the-earth; his bristly mustache and the same quiet terse lips—the sort of man that didn’t speak unless he had something of substance to say; he was someone you would have loved to know—well missed.

It was a breath of fresh air to be likened to Al. I sat on my recliner with the television cranked low as I drifted off for a bit—picturing Al sitting here late into the night—flipping through the channels waiting for the next Sunday to come so he could invite the city into his empty home wearing only his Sunday best.

Lamb…diced onion…rice…datil peppers… a dash of allspice…this is the heartbeat of the Neighborhood…

There it was again…that voice…I lurched forward, my eyes peeled wide open—the house was empty. Talk of spicy, savory, deep-fried lamb resonated between my ears, was this recipe for meat-balls? I could have sworn, absolutely sworn someone was talking, telling me what to cook, making me hungry…but who, where was this voice coming from?

I paused quietly, a sleepy haze taking over me when off in the corner I heard two voices—a mans and a woman—I remained still, stifling my breath to hear—“Yes, my dear…you want to knead the meat like this, keep it chilled; now roll it in the seasoning like so…that’s it, perfect!! The oil should be at the right temperature; you ladle the meatballs and slowly slide them into the grease—one at a time as to not allow any popping splashes…”

The woman’s voice was calm, tempered, and motherly.

“Marjory…he’s awake now…I’m pretty sure he’s awake…”

“Oh hush Al; he just fell into a deeper sleep…besides, we’re almost done with our Monday Meatballs…”

Al? Marjory? I must be dreaming…that’s it…All the hubbub of the day must have made way into my dreams. I went to roll over, to pull the blanket over my head when something cold and slimy hit my face; my eyes shifted, adjusting focus. A mountain of tightly rolled meatballs dotted a silver serving tray; the last of the meatballs—yet to be cooked had fallen on the floor, waking me up.

There I stood again, standing all alone in my kitchen with a mounting pile of dishes and a full tray of freshly cooked meat-balls—three to be exact, just enough to feed the neighbors.

*tap-tap-tap*

The sound of a slight tapping roused me from my confused thoughts.

“Yes…” I called, “just a moment…”

I ran over, yanking the door open.

“Bob?”

Behind him stood the same line of people as before, some with wrapped dishes, others with bowls of salad, plates of cheese and crackers, fresh fruit, frosted cookies, cakes and brownies; others clung to bottles of uncorked wine. It would seem the neighborhood was gathering again.

“To Al and Marjorie,” I cheered once everyone had grabbed their food; the sound of cups and glasses and plated meat-balls clinked fastidiously against each other.

“To Al and Marjorie,” the crowd chanted as I gave a slight nod and smile to the now-silent kitchen wall—it seemed to be beaming with delight at the life teeming inside their walls once more.