one hour on high and the potatoes were still hard and woody. two and a half hours and the onion was caramelized and the potatoes were softish but firm.

with each successive bowl the broth became more agreeable. even the meat softened and chewing ceased to be a chore.

the ingested broth is becoming a part of me. of course it became non-broth as i ate it; became an acidic slurry and was enzymed and shunted over finger like absorbers,

and its warmth dissipated delightfully, euphorically;

and a search was sent to my brain;

broth. comic books.

and it turns out that in the comic book

Fantastic Four

Stan Lee

had an Irish doorman think about Ben Grimm,

The Thing,

some wistfulness including the phrase

“…what a fine

broth of a bhoy

he would be.”

even in my tweens,

though i loved comics and read them voraciously,

i thought Stan’s characterization of the doorman

hackneyed, a rather god-awful caricature.

the storytelling was superb, though,

thanks to the plot-assists of illustrator Jack Kirby.

..

I have digested the broth to the extent

that i am now partly former broth,

and have integrated the search

within my pop-culture continuity,

and so now am ready to face the day

with a bhoyish smile.