Potato Soup

There are few things in the world more absolutely inspiring than a paint-stained mug full of homemade hot chocolate and more whipped cream than necessary.

That, along with spontaneous comfort food and old Hitchcock movies, accurately sums up my impression of a college social life:

October 2011. Not quite Halloween. 

            “It’s a lot like whistling, except with movement.”

            “Gah! Look, no one knows what you’re talk –”

            “Tap dancing?”

            “YES!”

            Click. Next word.

            “Okay, if this person were a tap dancer…”

The impossible game of connect-the-Catch-Phrases continued for the next hour, uninterrupted except for a quesadilla break and a brief analytical discussion of the chef’s impressive eyebrows.

I sat closest to the pantry, my back to a chilly glass door, my feet in socks folded awkwardly beneath me, my weather-cracked hands cupping a Christmas mug. It was raining that horrible Southern [melted] snow, but the kitchen was bright, cozy, and happily disorganized.

            “Babe Ruth likes to eat…”

            “Popcorn?”

            “No,” she replied shortly. She looked at me expectantly with a bright green, unblinking stare. I looked around, helpless.

            “How should I know?”

            She continued to stare, unrelenting, unmoving, daring me to guess correctly. By the stove, my roommate shook her head in exasperation. Wiping her hands on clay-smeared jeans, she made one of her typical, astonished-at-absurdity faces and sat a fourth mug on the table.

            The mug sat there, unnoticed.  Its owner was busy whittling the handle of an old, #2 pencil into the shape of a tiny ‘D.’ His albatross eyebrows furrowed with concentration. Nothing else existed.

            There was a moment of silence, then a sigh of infinite disappointment.

            “Bread pudding. Babe Ruth likes to eat bread pudding.”     

            Click. Next word.