I started writing this poem seven years ago. Today I finished it. This was prompted by a conversation last night about "mental load" and being directed to a cartoon illustrating this concept.  It is an interesting concept and I realised its close connection with my thoughts while writing this poem.  The pie chart above was constructed in 1999; that was not just about "mental load", but "physical load" as well.  I am half-hoping that the legend is illegible!  
NB: The poem was written at a time when we had a dog, a guinea pig and probably a budgie as well.  

Obstacles

This is the path
That leads to the shed
That Jennifer wants to write in.
 
This is the poo
That lies on the lawn
That blocks the path
That leads to the shed
That Jennifer wants to write in
 
This is the guinea pig
Nice and warm
Out in his hutch,
ignoring the storm
that needed fed
and straw for his bed
on the path to the shed
that Jennifer wants to write in
 
these are the garments
washed and wet
that need some drying
and ironing yet
 
here is the post
on the mat
needing opened
fancy that!
 
There is the telephone
Waiting to ring
Daring to call
To see if she’s in
 
Here are the dishes
In the sink
Here is the dog
Who needs a drink
 
Here is the clock
Ticking away
Measuring time
As it slips away
 
There is the rain
Falling out of the sky
Rescue the washing
-It’s nearly dry!
 
These were the obstacles
All in her head
Things to be done
And some to be said
 
Now she sees clearly
What she must do
-leave all the small stuff
And find a way through
To go on the path
That leads to the shed
That Jennifer's going to write in.

I often make soup.  At the organic veg farm where I work part-time, we take it in turns to bring a pot of soup to the veg shed on the day we pack veg bags for customers.  One of the things I love about soup is that it is very forgiving.  You can throw just about anything into it and it is usually pretty tasty and good.  (The only exception seems to be kiwi fruit, which a friend reminded me of today - that did not turn out well.  I do quite often put apple or pear in soup though, lends a lovely sweetness). Most of us who takes turns with the soup pot admit to making "bottom of the fridge" soup, with whatever is left and is maybe looking a little tired.  Some celery, onion, a courgette, a bit of broccoli, the odd kale leaf and some carrots - add ham stock, a tin of chopped tomatoes and hey presto, it's minestrone!  Minestrone is one of my favourites and yet I don't recall having it at home when I was a child.  We had broth (not a favourite; I disliked the gloopy texture of the barley), and homemade tomato soup with lots of carrots and was it sago, perhaps, to thicken it?  My favourite was cucumber soup, creamy and buttery and delicious.  My dad loved consomme, hot or cold (brown meaty jelly with chopped chives on top).  We had chicken soup too, made using a boiling fowl, with rice and leeks and chopped parsley from the garden to garnish it.  We used to laugh at Mum, who would make soup from the peapods after the sweet garden peas had been shelled from them. "Is that grass soup?" we would ask.  I quite often produce "green soup" of slightly dubious origins myself, these days, so I can now appreciate the greenness of her ways. 

It's a real comfort food. And not just the eating of it, or supping of it, but the act of making it.  I remember retreating to the kitchen of my mother-in-law's house the day after my father-in-law died very suddenly, over 25 years ago now.  We went to stay with her, with our six month old son.  To try to help; to organise the funeral, make endless cups of tea for people who came in to offer condolences; to try and make sense of it all.  All I could do was make soup. I chopped and stirred and added stock. I left it to simmer, tasted it, ladled it into bowls for whoever wanted some.  It seemed to help. It helped me, to feel I was providing comfort, of sorts.  I think I maybe even baked. There was comfort in it for me too. Just the rhythm of washing and peeling and chopping, stirring and tasting and serving. Life going on, in some small way.