Ah, bundling up in layers until I look like a stuffed meat pie or the Michelin Man.  Shoveling snow from the area between my parking space and the alley in short bursts, so I don’t have to face a backbreaking stint when I have to drive my car.

Swearing under my breath when my programmed thermostat brings the temperature in my home down from 69 to 65 at night when I’m not yet ready to curl up under the covers.

These types of things spell winter for me.

And, of course, there’s soup.

There’s something fortifying about ladling out dinner into an over-sized bowl from a covered pot that has been simmering on the stove for most of the day.

It makes me feel like I can get through whatever the day brought.  Small trials seem to melt away in the savory steam that hovers over smooth white crockery.  It’s a sacred atmosphere, the three inches above a bowl of soup. It like the oxygen-nitrogen blend of gases that encircle earth.  Like the ring of gases makes the earth habitable, soup makes winter bearable.

Yes, I have my favorites.  I make several variations of lentil soup.  Some have extra veggies like spinach or celery.  I season one with cumin and honey.

Of course, I make chicken soup. Like my mother, I have no recipe.  I follow no rules about proportions.  Rather, I throw things in the pot based on sight and feel.

Here it was a snowy Saturday.  I had no place I had to be.  I wanted to take care of myself, and I wanted to fill my home with aromas which would be impossible to leave.

But I felt in a little bit of a rut.  A soup rut. I wanted the familiar comfort of dinner served from my blazing red Le Creuset, but I longed for something fresh, too.

I started searching recipes on the Internet, a process that can be both enlightening and overwhelming. Then I scanned a few of my cookbooks.  I decided to make pear-parsnip soup with fresh rosemary, a recipe I found in my slow cooker book.

After a crazy drive through the snow, which was getting deeper by the minute, to get two pounds of parsnips (Once I had decided on what to make, I was not going to be stopped by not having all the ingredients in my fridge), I followed the recipe.

It was simple, you put all the ingredients in a crockpot.  Cook them for 7 hours, then blend the mixture in small batches and add cream.  Simple is good.  And the smell of the onions and rosemary, chicken broth and pears simmering in the crockpot for hours filled my heart with joy!

After blending the magical concoction and adding the richness of half and half,  I ladled out my first bowl.  I consumed half of it standing over my counteer.  I was so eager to try this new soup; something I had never tried making before.

Ahhhhh. I declared it a winner!   A little sweet.  A little savory.  Creamy, but not heavy.

After it cooled, I filled a few small plastic containers and put them in the freezer.  Winter comfort in storage.  I placed my red pot, now only about one third full, on the bottom shelf in my fridge. I expected to consume the remaining contents over the weekend.

I was happy with the adventure.  I was happy with the results, the way the soup tasted, especially considering how easy it was to make.

But I was really boosted, and grateful, by the experience of wanting to try something new and starting to look for possibilities in my immediate universe.

I considered how lucky I am that I don’t fall victim to boredom.  Sometimes, I’ll get lazy and rely on the television for entertainment, but I don’t recall feeling limited by having nothing to do.

Here, I was, yearning for the simple comfort of hot soup on a cold, snowy day.  I ended up treating myself to a great reminder of the infinite possibilities of tastes, of things to do or try.  The ideas for starting something I’ve never done before are all around me.

Trying a new recipe is no small thing.