Soup was for the poor, or so Clara Smith always believed. She would wrinkle her nose in disdain whenever old Mr. George, her neighbour in the shared house, tended his saucepan. The gentle old man treated his soups with genuine careslicing his vegetables with loving precision, shaving the meat and pork into paper-thin wisps, humming to himself as he worked. Sometimes, Clara would tap her temple with her finger and roll her eyes while Mr. George, busy stirring, would softly mutter to the bubbling pot:
Boil gently, little potatoes! Dont let me down, dear cabbage!
Somehow, Mr. Georges soups always looked wonderful and were even better to eat. Hed smack his lips and close his eyes in satisfaction as he tasted them.
Clara would float past his door, regal and disapproving, holding a tray of her latest creationperhaps a dainty salad or a plate of pineapple with roasted chicken.
What can you expect from him? Pennyless, stuck with his soup because he cant imagine anything finer. Not like me! I dream up delights. My guests are always impressed and I enjoy it, too! Clara would boast.
But of all Mr. Georges soups, his beetroot broth was the one he cherished the most. He had some secret, no doubt, for it always came out astonishingly delicious.
Then one stormy week, Clara fell ill. She lay in bed, unable to rise, her hands thin and translucent, her skin as pale as moonlight. An old friend would visit and bring the finest delicacies, but Clara found herself unable to eat even a bite.
Mr. George watched with bright, thoughtful eyes from behind his wild eyebrows. One evening, he quietly appeared in her doorway, carrying a small bowl.
Clara would have sent him away, but strength had left her. The kitchen was filled with a living fragrancesomething warm and inviting. Suddenly, for the first time in her life, Clara craved the very soup shed always scorned.
Now then, my dear neighbour, said Mr. George quietly, Let me feed you. I know youve never cared for soup, but your tummy needs warmth. This heres chicken broth, with a hint of mint. Youll be on your feet in no time.
He gently helped Clara to sit and spooned the soup into her mouth, ever so tenderly.
And so he came each daypea soup, a tangy pickle broth, sometimes the beetroot one. Clara found her strength returning, day by day.
Some said it was the medicine. Most believed it was Mr. Georges soups. After all, how could anyone live properly without soup in England, especially on a rainy day?
Now, Clara always makes herself soup, and never dares call it poor mans food again. Mr. George has taught her the secrets of true beetroot broth.
And there they sit, two neighbours, slurping their soup with pleasure. Their spoons tap the bowls, and laughter fills the kitchen as the English rain quietly drums against the windowpane.
