my life in a bowl of soup

When we left off, I had just ordered a bowl of chicken and wild rice soup at The Loon in downtown Minneapolis. Everything was looking good. However, when the bartender came over with my soup, instead of the rich, creamy texture I'm used to, there was some form of broth-based soup staring me in the face. I was hoping to God there had been some kind of a mistake, but the presence of wild rice in the soup seemed to nullify that possibility. After a perfunctory check with the bartender, it was official: there had been no mistake. My soup was served.

Now in the past, this would have been a day-wrecker. I would have pissed and moaned and moaned and pissed until the cows came home. This day, I let out a small sigh and got to picking. Before too long, I realized the soup, though not what I had imagined, was actually quite tasty.

That's when it occurred to me that all our lives are kind of like this bowl of soup. We get out of high school or college or whatever and we have this image of what our lives will or should be.
Then it gets slapped down and front of us and we find ourselves saying, 'Uh, waiter?' Only there is no waiter. And the soup we have is the soup we have.

But once we delve into the soup, really check it out, it's actually pretty good stuff. And from there, it' s up to us to add or find the ingredients that are missing, if anything is in fact missing. That process never really stops until the day arrives when you realize your soup is perfect and you reach for that sprig of parsley, drop it in the broth, put your thumb and index finger into your mouth and exclaim, 'C'est magnifigue!'

That's life.