Fall.
Hands down the season I love most. September, October and November are plump with comforting things. My thought locker is well stocked with memories of fresh notebooks, coloured pencils, and a new teacher with whom to fall in love.

Growing up in Vancouver with my two brothers John and David, I cherished the humble pleasures offered by Autumn. Crisp Macintosh apples that popped with the first bite, the rustle of a thousand golden poplar leaves piled as high as our house, warm bubble baths after playing outside in the dark and the savoury smell of soup on the stove were my favourite things.

Still, all was not perfect growing up. Our household was not a lilting cartoon of happy happy happy. We went without staples, and too often the heady aroma of home cooking was offered by the neighbours kitchen, not ours.

Raised by a single mother struggling to cope, Chaos was my third sibling, toppling serenity over at every turn. I am hard pressed to recall family dinners around the table or lovingly packed school lunches. I am endlessly grateful to all the mothers who sent along a little extra with their child, knowing we were struggling. Mrs. Bobbie McGregor and Mrs. Lorna Sawchuk, you were nothing short of Saints to me.

Yet, our mother’s soup, her occasional pot of slow simmering soup, was the most delicious delight in the world to my brothers and I. Mom would add anything and everything, fulfilling an emptiness and never tasting the same way twice.

Though Summer was an unpredictable wild card, Autumn arrived with sense of relief and comfort. Fall delivered a version of structure and a welcomed chance to begin again.

Once we had grown my brothers and I chose different paths. But just a few years ago David and I found each other once again. He was incredibly intelligent, devouring books like sandwiches throughout his teens. Classmates would agree he was principled and always an advocate for the underdog. He was also charismatic, cheeky and resilient.

Today David has cashed in more than nine lives, but respectfully his story is not mine to tell. I will tell you though, that my brother is the most sensitive person I know. And we have the same tender achilles heal. To witness the humiliation or honouring of another will reduce us both to tears. And we understand acutely, that to feed somebody is the most sacred way to LOVE somebody.

This morning I visited a local kitchen called The Dugout. For the past year or so, my brother David has been creating soup for the community. With donations from surrounding businesses, David and the team concoct the most delicious hearty soup in the hood. This non profit kitchen serves everyone.

This one is called ALL DRESSED Wen, my brother explained.

I put a dapper bowtie pasta on the top of every serving, haha.

In the past 15 difficult years, this is the happiest I’ve seen my big brother. He calls me every few days to relay the stories of sharing soup with the growing numbers who visit. He is elated by his own sense of purpose, and moved by the generosity of those who contribute on a daily basis. Each morning he receives bags of groceries which are masterfully folded into his legendary soup.

David also serves hearty helpings of acknowledgement, respect, and kindness with each cup to familiar faces and newcomers, because David knows firsthand the most important ingredient of any good soup, is LOVE.

And I could not be more proud of him.

Thank you for the ear,
Wendy Williams Watt

Davids message: We gratefully accept donations @