Real Soup

On Commuting the Outback

Rushing into town in this out of season Spring, wending my way around the ruts and caverns that make up our road, I am, despite the frost-ferns on the windshield, already spotting the chartreuse and velvet haze of new greenery along the shortcut.

By the time I get to the highway, I've caught the mountains and they come flying with me, past the scrim of trees, keeping pace with my car as usual, heading for the spot where they will settle until the time comes for them to frame the sunset and glow under the sapphire tint of moonlight.

Today the sky is white with no weather.

A large cat climbs a small tree.

A conference of ravens, impervious to greetings, discusses the porcupine which lies in flattened pieces at their feet providing breakfast.

The countryside is cheerfully dotted with newborn calves, curled up in the sun while their mothers search the pastures for early grasses, tender treats after months of tedious hay.

I have lived here for a long time. I consider it middle ground between the solid car nation that California has be

come and the true outback of my previous home, which was so rural that it seemed, at first, like another country, maybe another planet.

Where the people spoke another language and seemed to think I was amusing because of what I said with my twisty and terse city vocabulary.

We planted our seeds, we would say in the Spring, and they were uproarious.

Those milk cows are fighting, I would report, and they would roll their eyes and embrace me.

Turn in at the big tree, they would instruct; it's just across the gully. Wait a minute, I would have to say, wishing for landmarks I could relate to, such as blocks and stoplights, printed signs.

I first learned to drive on the freeway, where one feels like a corpuscle surging through a great, raging stream of similarly metal-hulled, soft-bodied components hurtling through the veins and tubes of an organism too big and r

ank smelling to love or comprehend.

Scenery blurred by, buttoned down by a constant stream of lively, often vulgar commercial messages for more sincere cars and sensuous politicians, faster food, gleaming solutions to an array of personal hygiene dilemmas; excitement and indulgence in any forms are endorsed and encouraged, priced well beyond value.

People on this track who are just simply going somewhere are probed, pegged, taunted and picked on, solicited, ingratiated, curried, simpered over, their alter egos coldly identified and bombarded with the predatory good humor of a lineup of con artists greeting their new best friends, who could be described as anyone having money and hopefully no common sense.

As a student of the world, I love such advertising. It is so quick and deadly. It is a boisterous, functioning readout of our society as assessed by those who will gain substantially from being correct about the trigger points of the collective psyche.

Country driving offers none of this. Instead of a calculated, visual assault by hyped-up consumer programmers, we are treated to more subtle scenes.

The enduring junipers carving late light into shafts when the dust is raised; lovely, dainty white-tailed deer pic

king their way across the curves at dusk; long rows of mailboxes leaning in toward each other, and on the backroads, neighbors stopping where they meet to exchange news and be friendly.

In tribute to this lovely place, I offer you Paradise Spinach Soup. It is strong and green and full of flavor.

Wash, remove stems, and cook gently until tender in the water that clings to the leaves:

2 pounds fresh spinach

Drain and squeeze out as much moisture as possible. Puree in a food processor or blender with:

1 C. chicken broth

1 1/4 C. half and half or whole milk

6-8 ounces cream cheese or grated Gruyere

In a saucepan, melt:

4 Tbsp. butter

Add:

4 Tbsp. flour.

Cook for two minutes, stirring constantly. Don't let it brown. Add a clove of garlic, pressed, to this if you like, removing it before the final blending to keep the flavor subtle. Slowly add the pureed mixture to the roux, stirring well. Season to taste with salt, pepper, grated fresh nutmeg. Thin if necessary with a bit of milk.

Serve nice and hot, topped with a thin slice of lemon.

It brings depth and contrast, and the innocence of fresh spinach to the table