the ocean always dreamed blue dreams

Camus said "In the depth of winter, I finally learned that there was in me an invincible summer." This is, really, the tale of how two vastly different cultures came together and in the depth of winter found for themselves their own invincible summer one unforgettable Sunday afternoon.

I have a cold and I am telling my boyfriend about it. "I ate Ramen last night," I say. "It sounded good-hot noodles and chicken broth."

"French onion soup," he murmurs.

I do not feel an accompanying accord, although I would like too. A friend of mine once ordered it regularly and I always wondered why. It was just broth. And that bread and cheese thing floating on top which looked so difficult to eat.

But on Saturday as we are shopping he picks out two yellow onions and then asks me to get a can of broth. I do so agreeably, but a smidge of my former indifference hovers at the outside of my conscienceness. I don't acknowledge it.

At home he pulls out a saucepan; I slice the onions. They are too thick and I am once again disappointed in my lack of culinary skill. He grinds a little pepper in the broth after first putting in the onions. "How long does it take to cook?" I ask.

"It's one of those things where it could cook for thirty minutes or all day." He shrugs.

I am dispensed to the internet to see if there are any other spices we should include. A quick glance tells me no, but I am stunned by the complicated choreography of ingredients and processes. My head spins. "The onions are supposed to be caramelized," I holler. Not that I care. After one last hunted look I wander back over and stand, watching intently. He is caramelizing the onions, after quickly rescuing them from the broth. A fragrant cloud of oniony steam makes it's way to my nose. I feel as if I have never smelled anything before. "Oh my God!" I cry. "That is the most delicious thing I've ever smelled."

I watch with wonderment as he deglazes the pan, warms the french bread. Then he serves me this hot confection, thick with bread, melted cheese, caramelized onions, and broth. I feel like Heidi drinking her cheese and milk with the Grandfather. I have never tasted anything so pungent and delicious. I feel awe, am filled with love, freely given by another. I remember Julie Andrews and Christopher Plummer singing that song in the "the Sound of Music." When I was in the Sixth grade I thought it entirely extraneous to the movie. Now I understand.

I, too, feel as if I must have done something good. I finish my soup, replete with all the good things life has to offer.