When Mr. Moon came in (doe-less) and smelled the broth cooking he said, "Oh, I have been thinking about a turkey soup. With noodles."
Now I don't make turkey soup with noodles because after one reheating, the noodles become mush so I said, "Dream on," or something of that sort and moaned and groaned about all the laundry and turkey-bone-picking I had to do and said, "I don't want to cook anything."
But then I started thinking about it. This man. I love him so.
And then I made a little pot of soup with broth and meat and vegetables and...noodles.
Because, why not?
How hard was it to cut up a few vegetables into the broth with meat and throw in a few noodles?
How hard can that be?
Not so hard.
And it was thirty years ago on the Friday after Thanksgiving that my friend Sue babysat for me and I went out to a bar wearing her blue angora sweater that would not stay on my shoulder and this man asked me to dance with him and before the evening was over, tried like hell to get me to invite him back to my house for turkey sandwiches and I refused him.
But two days later, he came over and I made him turkey flautas.
Thirty years of having a very hard time saying no to this man and then eventually giving in whenever I did try.
The soup was delicious.
So were those flautas.
And here we are.