“It can’t be more or less. It’s not like cooking up a kitchen-sink soup.”
Blood Magick
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At home I often make a variation called Kitchen Sink Soup, where everything but the kitchen sink goes into the pot to simmer away. What doesn’t seem like much to begin with can add up to something quite satisfying.
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On impulse, she got out a pot. Then minced, chopped, poured, tossed in cubes of herbs
she’d frozen the summer before. With a kettle of soup simmering, she went back up to
finish her orders.
An hour later, she came down to stir, then glanced toward the window as she heard a
car. Surprised, pleased, she hurried to the door to greet Jack.
“Well, hi.”
“I had a meeting, and managed to wrap it up early. I left my jacket here again, so I
thought I’d swing by on my way … You’re cooking?”
“I took a walk, and it started cooling off, which put me in the mood for kitchen sink
soup. There’s plenty, if you’re interested.”
Bed of Roses