Real Soup

On the need for crocuses

Blazing off into the sagebrush where patches of brave new grass are poking through the earth, slick and spikey, looking trimmed and oiled like a trendy new hairstyle.

I place my feet slowly, every step considered.

Cotyledons of the monkey flower huddle together near protective warming stones. They scout the tone and timbre above ground with their little grey ears. I'm alone, so I can greet them.

An advance guard of brilliant mosses have appeared in odd places; they are safe with me.

The wind carries ice, but the sun is generous, beguiling, filling in around it; complex weather suits my mood.

I'm searching for crocuses.

One of last year's dry leaves blows right into my hand. Ceremonially, I cast it away, high, on top of a reachable current, and watch until it is gone before carrying on with my quest.

Blue blackbirds cruise the neighborhood trees for leftover berries among the same juniper trees where they learned to fly. Some day I will speak to them about this.

Magpies, always so dressy and neat, are nesting in the bushes across the road, their wings flashing joyously white-silver as they advise the clattering, newly arrived pinon jays, picking around their feet in the tufted mounds of wakening greenery.

I seem to be the only one who feels unready for this early Spring.

In spite of frosty mornings, my children want to wear shorts to school. They have dug out their sandals and have taken up batting practice in the frozen yard.

Bicycles have been exhumed from the chicken coop.

The winter broom-making business, which has involved an entire room as well as a whole, new, thick spool of duct tape and the cumbersome stockpiling of a number of long odd-looking branches, has finally moved outdoors. For this I am grateful.

I am one who is behind schedule. I still want dark snowy days and cold nights. I want to get up before dawn; maybe I just miss the credits that accrue for people who make pancakes before daybreak.

But I have not gotten to make my annual snow chicken on the side of the road where a fortuitous boulder provides a perfect and winsome nest.

And I have not skied off the porch yet, reliving my moment of glory a few years ago, when, with aplomb but no skill or intent, I managed to ski partially onto the porch of my dear neighbor at the bottom of the hill nearby and to then hang there blushing, giddy with luck and survival, suspended in the low curve of my despairing skis which drooped deeply over the staircase, pinned upright with my poles, while she came out to chat with me, politely not mentioning my odd stance or predicament, serving refreshments on the spot.

I need something. I feel wistful. Mentally feverish.

To discover crocus points moving through the garden soil and in the scattered outland regions where my whim has placed them, where they will push, with their mild urgent speed toward the light until they are coaxed into disclosing their most delicate secret hearts - this is the undeniable signal that the deep clock of the earth has advanced into Spring and that I must go with it.

I will yield then, swayed and inspired by their spunky colors and impetuous timing, because they also serve as the accurate harbingers of local crops of watercress, which provide such a lovely peppery tonic, attuning one insuperably to the season.

Such watercress is free. How wonderful! Be sure to use it soon as it is fragile even when put into a low tray of water in the refrigerator. Once it is cleaned and free of roots and heavy stems, it is ready to be added to mayonnaise and served with fish, or to be added to one's deviled egg recipe, or, perhaps the ultimate mood elevator, made into Clear Watercress Soup.

This is an open formula. Procure fresh watercress and revel in its fragrance. Bring to a simmer:

5 C. chicken stock

Add:

1-2 C. chopped watercress

1/4 C. chopped scallions

1/4 C. frozen peas

1/4 tsp. dill weed

salt and pepper to taste

Stir together and cook very gently for just a couple of minutes. The watercresses should remain bright green. Quickly stir in:

1 Tbsp. fresh lemon juice

1/2 C. cooked rice, optional

Adjust seasoning. Serve hot.

If you want to make this a version of egg flower soup, just beat one egg in a small bowl, add about a cup of the broth to it slowly, while whisking with a wire whip, then whip this mixture into the main broth. Serve immediately.

My scouts have found crocuses, incidentally, they also report a young rough-legged hawk courting his sweetheart in the easy, glowing air over our house.

I am overruled. Completely.