Soup By Volume

By Lisa Southard

A collection of eccentric, pragmatic, imaginative encounters with everyday life, from the Wishbone Soup Cures Everything blog. Wishbone Soup is a real dish and the epitome of finding happiness in a variety of circumstances. Not the blank happiness of owning stuff: the deep real kind that people need if their lives are going to mean anything. Through the medium of everything, from a bright red kettle to the discovery of a vomiting tree, moments of brilliance are revealed. This is a diary, a bunch of opinions, a description of many kinds of weather, a writing journey, an enchanting, eclectic jumble, a strong, flexible body of work.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lisa Southard
• Release date: Oct 13, 2012
• ISBN: 9781301223961

Lisa Southard

Writer, Illustrator, Tae Kwon Do InstructorRents a small cottage with a big gardenPlans world domination but hopes to keep it low key

Book preview

SOUP BY VOLUME

Published By Lisa Southard at Smashwords

Copyright Lisa Southard, 2012

'Living Is The Most Important Creative Process'

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold

or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person,

please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did

not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to

Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work

of this author.

On The Menu:

WORDS FROM

2011

Chapter 1: SEPTEMBER

Chapter 2: NOVEMBER

Chapter 3: DECEMBER

2012

Chapter 4: JANUARY

Chapter 5: FEBRUARY

Chapter 6: MARCH

Chapter 7: APRIL

Chapter 8: MAY

Chapter 9: JUNE

Chapter 10: JULY

Chapter 11: AUGUST

Chapter 12: SEPTEMBER

Full list of titles

Why Soup?

I had been writing a long solitary time, and for much of that time the internet was invented and even available. I don’t recall why I eventually thought to sling my words into a blog, only that I had the idea and the title popped up in my head joyfully clear, like something that’s been trying to get my attention for a while. I called it Wishbone Soup Cures Everything; that’s more than a title, that’s a bold claim and a solid directional framework. The first year was mostly poetry, a separate project that will follow (1,000 Miracles In One Day- you can always wander to the blog for a look at this work in progress) here I have canned up the best of the prose, with a few poem slices.

Why By Volume?

Most of this is available free to those who can make the effort of reading the blog, of course, but that’s not always convenient, and that's why I made this first step in epublishing. It took some time to organize, and that's why I am making a modest charge. Which brings me back to the soup metaphor: this is a convenient form of nourishment, warm, soulful, worth a few pence.

Chapter 1: WORDS FROM SEPTEMBER, 2011

'It's a real soup'

Wishbone Soup

It's a real soup. It's also a state of mind, which if by cure we mean 'make better,' does cure everything. To explain, here's a brief autobiographical tale. Once upon a time there was a wonky cottage with a tiny open fire and an impressive collection of cold damp draughts. There was no telephone, no internet, TV reception depended on the weather, and whether they could afford the electric bill. Living in the cottage was a growing family with a shrinking budget. When the gas bottle ran out they cooked on the fire. It was impossibly picturesque, so don't feel sorry for them, and most weeks they could buy a chicken from the supermarket. It was one of those value chickens; kept in crowded filth for a short miserable life; its bedraggled body injected with water to give an impression of plump health under glossy cellophane. Not the happiest purchase available, just the cheapest. In death, the sad straggle of bird was greatly appreciated. Roasted with lots of cheap potatoes on Sunday, Chicken Pie on Monday; cheap flour, thick pastry; by Tuesday there were only bones left. The feasting was over. The bones were simmered into stock, and called Chicken Soup, at first. It raised expectations beyond stock and the cheap potatoes: it created disappointment. So, the wishbone went back in the pot, and the soup was renamed. Now, it had a prize in it, an actual wish. Now, it made them laugh. Eventually, the laughing became more important than the wish.

We Really Should Tidy The House

One winter's day, instead of tidying the house as planned, we wedged body boards in our armpits and trekked out to hurtle down a bumpy snowy field. Then we came home with cold wet limbs, dramatising our bruises into near death experiences while the espresso pot bubbled on a dirty hob.

There was an element of pride at the mess the house was in, with some simultaneous revulsion. It's a lively mess, because we are always busy. I like it as long as it's lively. When it gets stagnant then I get cranky and start to tidy up. There needs to be a process, so we can keep seeing that this is a reflection of how we have chosen to live, this is what the mess represents. This mess is important to me, is specific to me; is the splendid dirty funny dance of my only life. Living is the most important creative process.

A Brief Explanation Of Why I Would Be A Brilliantly Intolerant God

‘In so far as you may be aware, you have this one life. It is an exceptionally precious gift, though I say so myself, and I stayed awake for six consecutive days and nights, knocking back enough espresso to kill a minor deity, creating the earth and heavens so that these freely given lives could be played out under the wide sky, under the variations of sun, cloud, mist, moon, stars, eclipses, meteor showers, rainbows and weather systems that give each day, each season, each year its own particular feel, to make each life specifically different. Don’t just look up; the terrain under your feet, the horizon around you, the subterranean rock textures, the leaves on trees, the light configurations in a block of high-rise flats are just as variable. Don’t just look; use every sense you have. Hear it, taste it feel it: every moment you have is unique. But are you paying any attention? Have you looked at the sky in the last 24 hours; have you noted the clouds, or the breeze or the fineness of the rain? Have you looked at the ground, observed the grass that has dried out in the sun, or the reflections in puddles? Have you held another person’s hand, smiled at someone, patted a dog, have you ever saved a toad from being run over? 

I’m watching the news and tapping my fingers on my coffee table. All of that spectacular distinctive unique amazing creation, huffed off in favour of what?! The next rainbow I make will have a sharp edge, and I’m going to twirl it round the earth like a pretty nun chuck, because you are wasting my time and space.

Find something to marvel at before I get mad. You have 10 seconds.’ This was, admittedly, quite an ambitious job application, and I haven’t heard anything back.

Return to menu

Chapter 2: WORDS FROM NOVEMBER, 2011

'the dolphin played to the crowd…'

School For Dolphins

(Designed to be read aloud, to be mildly amusing, to promote independent learning: because sometimes it's a relief to do something obvious instead of leaving little inky clues.)

Miami Phil was solidly fat and he always wore a gaudy shirt with shorts and sandals. He wasn’t necessarily American, but because of his girth, because he was rich and flashy, everyone called him Miami Phil. He introduced himself as Miami Phil, so he must have been happy with the name. He liked his name, his food, his shirts and his money.  He also had a particular liking for islands, the tropical hot sort with white sand and palm trees, not the craggy cold sort with puffins and moss on them.

So it wasn’t really too remarkable that when he bought a tropical island, he also decided to build a luxury house there, for himself, and some villas, where people could pay him lovely money to be on holiday and look at his big house and admire it, and wish they had an island with such a luxurious house to live in.

Miami Phil was always thinking about making more money. Even if he was mainly concentrating on something else, like chewing a steak, part of his mind would be idling over ideas for maybe buying his own chain of restaurants, or marketing a brand of wine. So, while he was judging his steak as a little underdone he was also concerned that there were lots of places people could go on holiday, lots of other places they might take their money. He needed something on his island that would make it better than other places. He tapped his fingers on the table and thought about it. The cutlery jangled. He had a good idea.

His island, which he had re-named ‘Little Miami,’ was home to a natural harbour. This harbour curved in from the sea, a wide curve with an hourglass waist like a 50s girlie pin-up. The water was sapphire blue and frequented by dolphins. It was a fantastic feature. People are crazy about dolphins, they will pay excellent money to see them play so close to shore. This would make Little Miami better than other holiday islands; more than better. He waved the waiter over to order some champagne, and send back the steak. Little Miami, the dolphin paradise, that’s what the brochures could boast.

While he was taking the lift up to his hotel room, he had a further idea that was super-clever. Guaranteed dolphins are the most profitable kind. No guest would be left disappointed, kicking their feet in the white fine sand under the palm trees, because the dolphins hadn’t turned up.  He called a marine engineer right away.

Under the tropical sun, in the deep, clear water around the island, the dolphins got used to the people fidgeting about in the harbour where they liked to play. They were in full frolic, leaping and rolling, when a high net was pulled up across the harbour neck, and they were cut off from the sea.

They swam to the net at first, looking for the way out. They circled the edges of the water, then swam in agitated circles in the deeper water. Maybe they thought they would be killed, or would starve here; they can’t have thought anything good would come of being behind a net. Outside the net, the construction of a wall began. The dolphins swam up and down and around, and then huddled together. The engineer phoned Miami Phil to report the success. Ten dolphins neatly corralled and the wall in progress. No reason why the dolphin trainers couldn’t start right away, and get some crowd-pleasing tricks ready for the scheduled opening celebrations.

The trainers were allowed to stay in the first of the finished villas. That way, they could also report on any problems with the buildings, like if the pipes clanked or there was too much sand blowing into the hot tubs. That was the kind of attention to detail that got you repeat business, and good recommendations, although it would be the dolphins that gave Little Miami it’s main advantage. Guaranteed dolphins. It seemed like there were two main ways of training a dolphin, so Miami Phil had hired both sorts of trainer.

One school of thought said it was best to be strict with the animals, to give them a sardine if they got something right, yes, but if they got it wrong, to prod them with a stick. This works because dolphins don’t like pain, but they do like sardines and they work things out pretty quickly. The other school thought kindness was best, to give lots of rewards and make the tricks seem fun. This works because dolphins have a natural sense of fun, so they like to perform tricks, for the fun of it and for the sardines.

The trapped dolphins were wild, not used to being told what to do. They had lived together in the big open sea and jumped when they felt like jumping and nobody but themselves had ever told them what to do. It was true that they didn’t like pain, that they liked sardines and that they could work things out quickly. It was true that they had a sense of fun and performing tricks could be fun, especially when sardines were involved. Whether the trainers were nice or nasty, they all brought fish. The dolphins may have been suspicious, anxious and confused but they appeared to appreciate the food.

Of the ten dolphins, six seemed to adapt easily. They understood that if they jumped through the training hoops they would get fed. Sixty percent is a fine result for wild dolphins, the trainers assured Miami Phil, especially in the given timeframe for the scheduled opening celebrations. He agreed that six dolphins could make an acceptable show. They agreed to keep trying with the difficult four.

The difficult four stayed obstinate. They would not join in, not for kind words, not for the hurt of the stick, not for sardines. They were sectioned off by another net. Miami Phil did not want them released. Even if they couldn’t put on a show, they could still be exhibited, people would still pay to see them.

After a few days of this segregation, one of these four outcasts stopped his frantic pacing, and started to imitate the tricking dolphin routine, as though he’d changed his mind. He wanted to learn. Miami Phil was really pleased, because this was the dolphin that suddenly became his star performer, that did the most incredible leaps and tail balances. People would love this. This dolphin would be the one on the t-shirts in the gift shop, like a mascot for Little Miami, a living, leaping, good luck, money-making mascot. He would get his marketing team thinking of names for the dolphins. Maybe Team Miami and the Miami Star? Shame about the difficult three, being stubborn, or stupid, or whatever. Everything else was going to plan.

Miami Phil approved of the finish on his luxury house.  The trainers had tested out the villas; no pipes clanked and the hot tubs on verandas did not get sand-logged. The steak he ate in the restaurant was pink in the middle, not red, the chips were crispy and fluffy. The seats for the Open Air Oceanic Extravaganza, and the ticket booth and the gift shop had an island rustic chic, lots of smooth wood and straw. The light and sound rigging was minimal and modern. Everything was ready for opening night. Holidays and tickets sold out really quick, and lots more money went in Miami Phil’s bank accounts. He had himself a new shirt made, just for the opening night, orange dolphins and big silver stars on a pink and purple background. You couldn’t buy one of those in the gift shop.

The synchronised team of six went first, of course, and everyone loved the show right from the start. They leapt in groups of two, then three, then all six together. They kept time with the music and the lights made the splashes all rainbow coloured. They started with simple jumps then built up the tricks, the audience was making all the right appreciative noises. Then the lights dimmed, the dolphins were still. The announcer told the crowd that the star performer would now show off some amazing skills, that, unbelievably, this dolphin had been a slow learner at first but had made inspirational progress, from the bottom of the chorus line to top billing, this dolphin was a symbol of a life turned around. Miami Phil liked the announcer’s pitch. Pretty clever stuff, he thought. Inspiring symbols always sold well, that’s why so many little Buddha statues decorated gardens.

From the netted sides of the pool the other dolphins watched. From the stalls the people watched. The head trainer climbed a ladder and held out a hoop that looked impossibly high. The drum roll began, the lights