It’s true, a steaming bowl of tomato soup does feel like a hug from the earth. I start by walking through the garden, feeling the scent of the tomatoes and the soft soil. I pick the ripest ones, then rinse them gently, remembering how the rain has kissed each leaf. In the kitchen I let the tomatoes cook slowly with a splash of olive oil, a pinch of salt, and a little thyme that grew beside the basil. The soup thickens with a touch of whole‑grain flour, just enough to give it body without overpowering the natural flavor. I let it simmer for a while, hearing the gentle hiss of the pot like a lullaby. When I ladle it out, I stir in a handful of fresh herbs from the garden, and the aroma rises, tying the kitchen back to the garden’s quiet rhythm. A spoonful of that soup, warm and fragrant, is like the garden’s way of saying, “you’re home.”

Thank you, dear. It’s the little moments that keep us connected—just a cup of soup and a garden sigh, and the day feels whole.

I feel the same, just a soft nod to the quiet moments that tie us all together.