Fall is here.
How can I tell? It’s not the calendar. It’s not the turning leaves. It’s not the 6 o’clock sunset, which is absurd.
I can tell it’s fall because I have a cold.
I’m like atomic clockwork with the colds come fall. Every year. The Weather Channel should have a camera on my bronchial tubes the same way the “Today Show” puts a once-yearly spotlight on Punxatawney Phil, that groundhog who predicts the spring every Feb. 2. It’s fall when I get a cold, and I have a cold.
Therefore, it’s fall.
But this year, I refused to admit it for several days. I ignored my cold and went on with my business – working, exercising, overeating, indulging in the odd martini – you know, the normal day-to-day.
It didn’t work. Neither did doping myself on non-drowsy cold formula. So last night, I resorted to soup.
Now, they say that the best soup for a cold is chicken soup. I don’t know if I’d disagree. But when I got to the butcher to pick up some bones to make a broth, my eye caught a stack of oxtails, and my mouth began to water. Chicken schmicken, I thought. I wanted a deep, velvety, meaty, restorative oxtail soup, rich with soul and comfort, one that would take all day to simmer and only a moment to slurp down. So that’s what I made. I stayed home all day breathing in the soupy aromas.
Did it work? I dunno. My sore throat still lingers, but I’m in a better mood. Surely that’s worth something.
Tucker Shaw: 303-954-1958 or dining@denverpost.com
