By Bob Dvorak

“A nice party,” Sue thought as she surveyed the eight guests seated around her dining-room table. The remaining six shared the extra table immediately behind it in the living room.

Busy conversation and the clinking of spoons as they dove into the soup. The conversation dwindled to words between sips, and began to revolve mostly around the menu. Anne Baker was the first to ask. “Fantastic soup! What is it?”

Time to confess. “It’s an old Tennessee recipe. My mother’s. It’s possum.”

The conversation stopped. For a few seconds the silence was broken only by the sound of a few spoons being set down.

“Aw, c’mon, guys. It was ‘fantastic’ a few minutes ago. It’s only Ma’s soup, y’all.”