Julia says, This is the kind of soup
you could make anywhere in the country,
even Kansas City.

Her voice is a flute, his a cello.
Jacques says, Even with salmon, right?
She calls him Jack.

Even hunched, her spine
curved like the fishbones in the stockpot,
she towers over him.

Proportions aren’t very important,
she says. That’s about half a big onion.
Here’s some garlic.

Jacques throws tomatoes in the pan.
It’s beginning to smell, Julia says,
like the streets of Marseille.

Julia says, You don’t have to have wine it.
Jacques, smiling & pouring from a bottle,
says I think you do.

But Jacques, gallant, mostly defers to her,
even though he’s doing the bulk of the work.
Julia is the legend, not him, not yet.

Jacques, judicious, ladies the stock.
I think put the whole thing in, Julia says, don’t you?
He says, I think you’re right.

Salt, pepper, thyme, tarragon, saffron,
not too much. You can always add more,
Julia says, but you can’t take it out.

Snapper, scallops, clams in the shell.
Mussels would be very nice, she says,
but there are none. Put in what you have.

Julia shows off a giant mortar & pestle
she & her husband found in a market in Paris
in 1949. Paul had to carry it a mile.

Ten years her senior,
Paul died years ago after a series of strokes.
Jacques looks a bit like him.

Jacques says, Shall we taste it?
Julia takes a delicate slurp, her eyes on him.
This, she says, is one of the best soups you can find.