As a young girl, I remember running through the rain and rushing from school in the heart of winter. The soaking rain drenched my shoes and socks and every cold droplet felt like it was stuck to my chilled cheeks. Despite the cold, I was smiling from ear to ear because I knew mom was making soup. It would be warm and inviting soup — the Cape Malay way.
After getting into some dry clothes, my four sisters, my brother and I would stand in line with soup bowls in hand, eagerly awaiting the ladle full of delicious, warm love being poured into it. To this day, any sign of a grey, cloudy melancholy day — and just one second of a downpour — sends me rushing into my kitchen because soup is definitely on my menu. Just like mom used to do.