The false sense of strength that my truckstop-strong morning cup of coffee induces makes me believe that I can take on the Goliaths and the sorrows that’re strewn throughout the newspaper. I fall for it every day – bolstered by organic, fair trade shade grown caffeine – I mantra: ‘Bring it on….the editorials, the national, international and regional….even the style section …’ Then as if on cue...I falter from overload by page 5 – the housing crisis, the collapse of the economy, bailouts….only to erode quickly into hopeless trepidation and ravages of doubt by page 16: the presidential campaign, the war. A bitter backwash of ‘what the f….’ rises in my throat despite the best attempts to palliate with gardening Q & A’s. Maybe it’s the intoxication of ink on paper that derails, not the chaos the AP wire service delivers, I tell myself. This bit of indulgence is a lie. And a lie is a lie, nonetheless.

In these topsy turvy times, really...it’s not so strange, nor is it a stretch how a bowl of soup for breakfast settles a stomach of news in ways that eggs & toast, pancakes & syrup, yogurt & granola and even bacon, just can’t. Any potent broth just off the boil will do the trick…though leftover from days before makes soup an even better antidote to counter the emotional and intellectual calisthenics that these mornings’ news provokes.

Today…it’s Portuguese kale with hunks of linguica, chopped garlic, torn leaves and stewed tomatoes. Strongly flavored, it’s not pretty…not even close. But there’s no uncertainty about it. That alone, calms.

In a parallel move that’s strictly self-defense, the newspaper gets tossed into the recycling — even the radio gets quieted. (Long ago we killed our television). In an instant – the distressing white noise of groundless experts and the insolence of fear mongering go poof!

The kale soup becomes my focus, gets my full consideration. It’s dark like gravy and thick from quartered chunks of small red skinned potatoes…the way the kidney beans give in to the bite makes me think that seasons back, they’d been exiled in a cannery. This is such a minor criticism…more of an ‘oh’ and certainly not worthy of condemning a lovely meal, made locally and bought from the grocery store’s deli. That, sadly, is what some hardcore tow-the-homemade-party-line foodies would demand. Canned beans or not — it’s a compromise that works. The soup has character — it's satisfying and fortifying.

My inner voice – ever chastising and judgmental — tries to tell me I am shallow and weak because not only did I turn away from the news — I didn't even make the soup.

Yup. that’s right — the MacNeil/Lehrer Report won’t be calling me for my analysis, nor will Food + Wine be banging on my kitchen door for the recipe. Yet I am breathing again deeply for the first time on this new day. My hands warm from holding the bowl close. Stirring slowly, steam rises. Looking up, I hear my sons’ voices, notice that the bird feeders need to be filled and I then remember…there’s good work to do. The morning fills into day…maybe by tonight’s night, I’ll be up for some eggs & toast.