Trout Whisperer - Little knife soup

Little knife soup
Sunshine is out the west door, and it’s the only door on the cabin, so today that door is wide open. I can see those warm golden rays shinning a bright white light off the melting snow.
The scene warms my heart.
He is sitting in his rocking chair, she is in the small kitchen making a pot of chicken wild rice soup. They’re both listening to the stereo. For those old enough to know what one is, or to even own something like that these days, is rare. As rare as one Doc Watson song after another, and they’re both in this little log-walled snug room.
The space is warm. I pull up a chair, we make our polites. In a moment I have a mug of tea. She doesn’t offer me milk, she knows I take it strictly as tea. To her man, a dash of milk is ladled in and handed to him.
They smile at each other.
Her crinkly fingers are cutting up some leftover crinkle cut carrots. He is tapping his slipper’d footed toes and softly whistling. He is just enjoying the sunshine. Says he likes when she makes little knife soup and it’s fun when it’s warm now, watching the snow melt. Then he says, why I bet in a month we will be looking at that blue lake again, suddenly accompanying Doc as he plies the guitar strings strumming, “The St. James Infirmary.” But before Doc plucks one note, he talks the bluesy tune out of his head so any listener will know what he is about to sing in song.
When Doc breaks into his version of Summertime, the Mrs. of the cabin can take it no more. She soft slides across the golden pine boards, takes her man’s hand and they sway in the open door to the music as slow and soft as the moment I get to witness.
The scene, warms my heart.

--The trout whisperer