Leftovers Soup

Today, we tend to think of time as a straight line. Whether or not you believe in time travel, it’s hard to argue the fact that events happen one after the other, that tomorrow is later than yesterday, and that no two September 14ths are the same, even if the day comes back every 365. It’s hard to believe, then, that this wasn’t always the way that time was conceptualized.

Last semester, I took a class on Renaissance poetry. I’m studying the 19th century novel, and I never would have chosen it, except that it was one of very few options offered for a required credit, so I thought, “Why not?” On the very first day of the class, the professor (who was regularly 15 minutes late for the hour-long seminar all semester, but that’s neither here nor there), talked about the Renaissance conception of time, particularly the fact that, instead of a line, it was seen as a circle, an endless cycle of repetition, in the same way as the seasons are conceived today. Ages pass, but they come back — thus Renaissance, renewal, rebirth.

Modern metaphor allows us to think of the spring as a time of rebirth. Spring cleaning, spring awakening, spring fever. Spring is about things being new again, emphasis on the word again.

For spring comes every year; it’s not a new event, but an old one coming back. When we’re young, a year seems to last forever; now I look back and realize that eight years has passed since something that seems that it could have happened a few months ago. Time has a funny way of playing tricks, and in more than one way… because no matter how many springs I live, I always forget what spring is actually like until it’s here again.

I like the beginning of winter, the promise of snow, the smell of frost in the air. But there comes a point where you start to feel as though spring should be coming “any day now,” and for me, that time is always filled with a strange sort of longing and a weird sense that I don’t actually want the season of pink cherry blossoms and the smell of mulch to arrive. By simple matter of coincidence, a series of events in my life — unlinked in any other way — occurred in spring, events I’d rather not spend too much time pondering. The onset of spring, then, sends my mind whirling into remembering these days of uncertainty and anxiety, the idea that I’d rather stay hibernated in winter than actually poke my head out and witness spring.

And then, as if by magic, the early days of spring begin. The sun is out; I’m struck with the strange urge to walk for miles and miles instead of descending into the métro. I know that it’s only February, but as quickly as Paris was struck with its odd cold front at the beginning of the month, the past few days have been mild and sunny, and I’ve dragged the Country Boy out on my treks across the city.

Perhaps it’s to avoid the lethargy I thought was coming with these last days of winter, but I’ve taken my walks to a new level, finding corners of Paris to explore. TCB was happy to scale a wall with me and explore this abandoned railroad track in the 15th, soon to become a park. As we wandered past families, just starting to have coffee on their balconies overlooking the track, they stared.

I remember this time last year, the first moments of warmth that made the days of leaving my coat at home seem nearer, if not completely here yet. I’m looking forward, now, to opening a bottle of wine on the grass at the Jardin de Luxembourg, to evenings that seem to never come as the afternoon stretches on for hours, as late light catches in the trees and never fades.

Until then, we still get home with cold, stiff hands and the desire for something warm. So before I have time to forget, here’s what to do with the leftovers of your sweet potatoes and spiced beef stew. Toss the broth from the beef in a pot and add chopped carrots and Israeli couscous. Bring to a simmer and spoon the last of the sweet potatoes in. Allow the steam to cloud your glasses, and watch spring begin to appear.