On Lasts and French Onion Soup

I am not what you would call a maudlin person. At least to the outsider. I tend to be a #blessed kind of girl.

That said, inside of this blessed heart I am a constant war of worry, and fear of failing. I battle it. Hard. But, it’s there.

If you have ever looked at your sleeping children, or been in the car coming home from a perfect day, or had a handful of amazing, then instantly feared it would all end, you aren’t worthy, and the bad is on its way, you get me. That’s how I roll.

I thought I was the only one until I read a book by Brene’ Brown that shared the idea of “Leaning into Joy.” Which, basically, requires us to stop that negative thinking, and practice gratitude when the fear sets in. I won’t say I worry less, but I combat it more. I can snap myself out of it for the most part, but it is not easy.

I fell in love with French onion soup at a restaurant named Tilly’s. It was served in a crockery with giant chunks of bread and melted cheese. I had never seen anything like it. I was amazed that it was onions…and it was all because my Dad had ordered it.

As I grew up and began to cook, my Dad would make this soup once in a while. So, this was his soup. Still is.

Ironically, or poetically, but sadly, this was our last meal as a family before he passed.

Ever have those amazing coincidences but totally ordained not coincidences in your life?

Me too.

When my Dad was going through aggressive chemo and radiation, one of the side effects was burning of the esophagus. Which, meant eating became more about survival and very bland. Salty foods, spicy foods, crunchy foods all disappeared from my Father’s diet. We didn’t know if that would return, but eventually it did.

I knew the day my Dad starting eating food again he had turned a corner.

For someone who struggles with loving food and yet still work at remaining a particular weight (have I mentioned I love food?), it’s an interesting perspective when someone you love can’t eat. Daily I am reminded to be kind to myself, and that healthy food is a gift. I also remember my Dad, who struggled with his weight his whole life, was thin when he passed, and not from a good way. Sometimes thin isn’t the end goal.

We had less than a year with my Dad from the point of his diagnosis to his passing. His prognosis was not spectacular, and a second round of chemo had started, when I got a text that Dad had made French Onion Soup and were we coming for supper?

When your Dad is sick and makes his favorite soup, you go to supper.

If ever there was a perfect soup, with the good cheese (we use Gruyère)and the bubbly soft sweetness of caramelized onions and wine and salty cheese, this was that soup, this was that night.

And this was the last. The last time we sat together around the table and talked and laughed and celebrated perfection in a bowl.

Celebrated that the first week of the second round of chemo was done, that food tasted good, that we were lucky, lucky, oh so blessed to be together.

I have no idea what we talked about that night.

I had no idea it was going to be our last. I was silently thanking God that Thanksgiving, a few weeks away, was coming and Dad would be there. That the last Thanksgiving wasn’t the last Thanksgiving.

Three days later, I said goodbye to my Dad for the last time.

Truthfully, I can’t bring myself to make his recipe, yet. I have it. It is slightly different, and one day I will make it, just like he did.

Now, this soup, which is actually not exactly the same…and I sprinkle the good cheese instead of baking it and I cut a slice of homemade bread instead of making croutons, isn’t Cliff’s soup. But it’s pretty darn close, and he would have liked it too. That’s the beauty of soup. You make it your own. Throw a bay leaf in, choose your onions, make it with different wine. It will still be delicious.

We learn that we can’t avoid sorrow. It’s a part of this life. A sad crappy, but very real part.

We can, however, combat the fear and the anxiety that tries to steal the good stuff. Those moments which are perfect in imperfection, which the “worry” or “anxious” thoughts want to diminish…you fight those with all you have.

You make the soup that makes you sad and think of how lucky you were to have had your Dad. You eat it and remember. You eat it and remember, and smile. Because, every day is a gift, and you are wise enough to know it.

I hope you enjoy this recipe, and as always, thank you for coming to the table.

Chrissy

Click below for a printable recipe.

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