Soup

I was once given soup as a gift and I don’t mean the chunky kind. I mean a dry packet of soup mix. Really, its not even soup. The way I see it, a key ingredient to soup is soupiness. Dry mix is in no way soup. What I received was a pre-soup mass. But it has to be okay; the gift was from a child.

It was Christmas and I was with friends. They’d had a tough year. I hadn’t. They were struggling to buy their children gifts but had somehow given their children (two of them: one boy, one girl) money to buy me something. Their daughter, fourteen or fifteen at the time, gave me a lavender journal; which I still have; and their son maybe nine or so… somewhere in that gawky, hyper childhood kind of range; gave me a tin containing a bowl and a dry packet of soup mix. Soup. Mix. Once again, NOT soup. It’s like dropping a load of lumber on a lawn and calling it a house. Soup should not require assembly.

That day we were doing that Christmas thing where everyone takes turns opening a gift. You go. She goes, then him. Then her… and her, now him. Now its my turn. I’m sure you’ve been there. If you’re not a Christmas-celebrator that’s cool but please juxtapose any gift-giving occasion over this one and I’m sure you’ll get the basics.

So, we’re opening gifts.

My friend opens his. Books. His wife opens hers. Something lacy and not even a tad practical, except for him; and I can’t figure out why he didn’t just give her an empty box and ask her to model it for him… for that matter I’m struggling with why he let us in on the gift. I’m a little embarrassed but just for a moment because then I get imaginative and I’m really embarrassed. I put a cushion on my lap.

My god-son opens his. Did I mention that he was my god-son? I got him a Playstation 2. To be fair, it is used but I’ve included six games. He yells. His parents say “thank you” but I can see that they are ashamed. They are ashamed because I gave him this gift and they did not. They are ashamed because, by the end of the night, it is the only gift with which he will have been happy and they know that this will be true. They try to look grateful.

My god-daughter opens her gift. I’ve given her a gift-certificate to some music-store. It’s worth fifty dollars. She nearly poops herself. Again, my friends are ashamed and they say “thank you”. I can see now that they are grateful for having a reason to be ashamed.

It is my turn. Before this round of gift opening I received the journal, bought at a dollar store, from my god-daughter and a twenty-dollar gift certificate to a book-store from my friends. My god-son, wide-eyed, hands me his gift to me. It is a box about the size of a child’s football. I can feel through the paper that it is a tin box. I peel away the paper carefully and reveal the box. It is blue and has a teddy-bear on the side. I slip the lid off of the tin and inside is a small bowl and a packet of soup. I stop for a moment. I am stunned that I have just been given soup. I want to laugh but I don’t even though I have just been given soup. I look up. He is staring at me. They know I am stunned. “Thank you” I say. “Soup. Cool.” I should not have spoken. They know I am stunned.

Now I am ashamed that I was not more grateful for the soup.

One year later, out of curiosity, I eat the soup. It is just soup. But I am grateful for it. I should have been grateful when I opened it. It should not have given me pause. Next time, if ever again I receive a gift of soup from a child, I will not look surprised. I will not think of its assembly and I will and I will not care that it is no chunky.

I will smile and I will run to the tap and I will make the soup. I will eat it and say thank you. One year later I will call the child and thank them for the soup and tell them how I still remember their gift and how good it was.

Soup is a good gift.