How wonderful the soup is when one is tired to the bone of the cold and the rain and the sometimes snow. The winter has stretched out now as if it had a mind to stay forever or take us with it wherever it goes. I have cooked the potatoes in salted water and drained them, returned them to the pan and put them back over the heat briefly to dry so that they will absorb the cream that I will be adding next. Shallots have been sauteed. I thought about mushrooms as well but didn't feel like cleaning them. Winter is a time of indecision, holding out for weather that is worth doing things in. Not doing is nearly driving me crazy but I can't imagine braving this greige cold wind. This is the season of idle talk. Tongues twist and turn in mouths that move and move and move. Lips burst and suck on letters. Teeth shine like little threats veiled behind bursting lips and twisting tongues. I look at the mouths and listen but can make out no meaning. All these words have been repeated so often that they have worn down to nothing, but something new may soon be said so I hold on watching and listening...I taste the soup for saltiness. I added salt to the potato water and don't want to over season now. At times I will add some basil or oregano to my potato soup and juice a lemon in as well. A la Grecque you might say. Not now in this weather, that would be like telling an obvious lie. "No, No, it didn't hurt my feelings I am just trying to understand what you said that is all. Just forget about it. Let's not make it a thing." No this is a winter soup made from old roots from the cellar. The garlic has nearly gone too old to use. I thought twice before simmering it in the cream and butter. I laid my knife over it and squashed it down with my fist until I could pull the skin off. (Garlic skin always makes me think of the paper used to write old love letters.) It was beginning to go green again at the tip which could mean bitterness and had lost it's firmness. If I was going to be eating it in the end product I would have thrown it out but since it was to be removed before adding the cream to the potatoes I popped the last of it in and wrote it down on the grocery list. The young cat rubs against my leg as I stand in front of the stove taking in the heat now more than actually cooking. I know that if I reach down to pet him he will run away so I just give him a "Hey buddy." and stir the pot unnecessarily. I think that one shouldn't cook in this mood. The butter has separated on top of the soup into little droplets and now stares back at me like fathomless frog eyes. They seem wary and yet uncomprehending like distrust is a primary instinct. I resent being considered a threat and stir them back into the pot. Pepper dammit, I forgot to add the pepper. I like to add it early so that it and the cream and the milk make a pepper tea and add a heat that is pervasive but not sharp. Oh well plenty of time. This soup needs to stew awhile; to sit on top of the stove until the blandness of the potatoes are enriched by the cream and the shallots, the pepper will mellow the whole thing will meld. This soup made from the last of the cellar vegetables will sit with me at the table near the window looking as grey as the sky, potato chunks will float in the grey broth surrounded by slicks of melted butter. No frog eyes now as I spoon the porridge       
out of the bowl and into my waiting mouth. The butter slicks the top of the broth like arabic and the potatoes left behind bob about like fat men at the Turkish bath. The pepper hits the back of my tongue, the fatty cream spreads out in my mouth, the heat transfers itself down the core of my being. The bowl is gone quickly and I consider another but decide to let it simmer. Elsewhere in the house I hear chatter but clarity has come and so having made my decision I climb the stairs, close the door and pull back the covers joining the two older cats in the bed. And I, like next years crop of vegetables, do not want to come up until spring.