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The Broth

Maurice Saltash
Here comes the big dish, the deep dish. Here comes the white recipient with all
the water of the world inside of it, with all the steam of the world up of it. Its getting
nearest and nearest, I can smell the boiled carrots and chickpeas. I can see the fat
swimming in the grey water. I can hear the soft last bubbles of the water. Its hot as
hell.
The smoky liquid appears to my eyes, to my nose, to my hands but also to my
spoon. Its in front of me, all mied and delicious. The beef is perfect !well"cooked
and full of cartilage, shaky as an embarrassed woman#, the potatoes are soft and
the cabbage is fleible and almost transparent. Here there is one of the simplest
delicatessens.
I fill my spoon and I spill its content in my mouth. $irst, my tongue en%oys the heat
of the dish as the watery warmth of a kiss. Then the pieces of &egetables, seeds
and meat keep my taste perception occupied. ' feeling that belongs to my
childhood !or e&en to my conception# in&ades my head( )Isnt the first place where
the li&e appears a broth* )Isnt the place where I took form, in the interior of my
mother a blend of nutrients*
The broth seems to disappear with the first bit.

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