#finalmealfinalform

Ah, the age-old question: if one’s soul were imprisoned within a humble spoon, what divine broth would be deemed worthy to stir before ascending into the next plane of existence?

Now. If—Valar forbid—my soul were to become trapped in a spoon, I would not pass quietly into the next realm without making a final, dramatic statement. No. I would demand to stir, at the very least, three emotionally significant soups before I ascend. After all, if one must haunt a utensil, one might as well do it with flair and flavour.

Firstly: If I must perish and become silverware (a tragedy in three acts, surely), I would first demand—demand—to stir Eredin’s garlic and herb mushroom soup. Not just any mushroom soup. No, no. This one is rich, earthy, and absurdly comforting, with golden shallots that melt in your mouth and herbs so fresh they could compose poetry. He simmers it slowly, lovingly, like a bard composing a ballad—every swirl of cream a verse, every dash of thyme a chorus. He makes it every year when the leaves turn golden and the mornings grow crisp, and he insists on foraging half the ingredients himself. It tastes like walking into a warm home after a long cold day. It tastes like someone pressing a kiss to your hairline and saying “you’re safe now.” If I must be a ghostly spoon, I will be that ghostly spoon.

I wept once while eating it. I thought no one saw. Eredin absolutely did. He said nothing, but he made extra the next day and quietly handed it over with a spoon that may or may not have been warmed. I cherish that memory and that spoon. (It wasn’t even cursed!)

Secondly: Elihal—Eredin’s brother, who pretends to be emotionally dead inside but once knitted a sock for a horse. Oh, Elihal. He only cooks once in a blue moon, and when he does, the event is accompanied by dramatic declarations of “fine, but if anyone says a single word, I’ll toss the whole pot into the river.”

He made a spiced root vegetable and lamb stew once that was so good I nearly proposed marriage. The broth was thick, smoky, layered with flavors that unfolded like a well-kept secret. There were whispers of cinnamon, the heat of cracked pepper, and roasted parsnips that must have been kissed by fire itself. He said he just threw things in a pot. I believe he made a pact with a forest spirit.

Thirdly: There was once a hearty potato, leek, and carrot soup made during a particularly rainy week in early autumn—the kind of week where even the trees look like they’d like a blanket and a good cry. Eredin, of course, had gone out into the woods in what I can only describe as an ill-advised quest for “the perfect wild carrot.” He returned damp, smug, and holding exactly three root vegetables like they were newborns.

The soup itself was divine. Thick, creamy, humble—but don’t let the simplicity fool you. The potatoes were buttery, the leeks practically sang, and the carrots had the audacity to be sweet and earthy at once. There was thyme. There was garlic. There was a drizzle of cream and a flourish of cracked black pepper that made me gasp audibly. I am still recovering emotionally.

Eredin called it “just something to warm us up.” I called it a revelation. I nearly wrote a ballad. Elihal stole three bowls, claimed it was “mid,” and then went back for a fourth in the dead of night like some culinary cryptid.

If my soul must haunt this realm bound to the curvature of a spoon, let it be one that has basked in that broth.