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Feeding the Stew

I've long heard tell of the sort of soup that keeps going year after year, like a rather delicious family tradition. I've never had one of those. The closest I've had is the chicken soup Mama made, the one she stewed down for a few days (resting in the refrigerator in between to skim off the layer of grease) before serving.

This is a Stew.

I started it the other night with a package of beef and some potatoes and carrots. It's good. It's been hungry, since then -- I was running low on the meat in there, so I wound up partially thawing and then dumping in some chicken. Now it's cooked through, and starting to get tender and juicy, so I tore it apart a little, added more carrots and corn, and dumped in potato flakes to give body. (I'm too tired to wash and slice real potatoes right now.)

I never knew that feeding a soup was such dedicated work.

I've also decided that it needs a fume hood.
Gone away, gone ahead,
Echoes roll unanswered.
Empty, open, dusty, dead.
Why have all the Weyrfolk fled?

Where have dragons gone together
Leaving weyrs to wind and weather,
Setting herdbeasts free of tether;
Gone, our safeguards, gone, but whither?

Have they flown to some new weyr
Where cruel Threads some others fear?
Are they worlds away from here?
Why, oh why the empty weyr?

-- "The Question Song", Anne McCaffrey
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