Fish Soup
How a simple lunch in Greece reminded me that the sacred is within a bowl made with love
Just for a moment, I want to acknowledge slow living.
Not laziness. Not escape. Presence.
That rare state where breath meets movement and you remember you are not a machine moving from task to task, but a living, breathing human being. You are here. Inside you is a whole world… and a life still unfolding.
So pause for a second. Put a hand on your shoulder. You made it here.
And whatever you are carrying right now, I wish you ease. I wish you goodness. I wish you what you have been searching for. And if you are searching for nothing at all, let this be a small meditation on slow living.
Lately, I’ve been thinking about slow living through food.
I’m living by the sea in Greece at the moment, and during Lent many Greeks fast from meat in the forty days leading up to Easter. There is a family-run taverna here, Louizidis, where my mother and I went for lunch today. The meal is simple, but it asks something of you: attention, please.
Today we ate roasted beetroot with lemon and olive oil. Saganaki, crisp and salty, with more lemon squeezed over the top. Then came the soup: a silky orange fish soup made with white fish, pumpkin, leeks, carrots, onion, and pepper. On the side, the boiled fish itself, deboned, with zucchini, carrot, and potato. Nothing fancy. Nothing forced. Just honest food, made well.
We ate slowly. Every few bites, my mother and I looked at each other without speaking. It was that good.
It made me think of that beautiful scene in Chocolat when Vianne (Juliette Binoche) prepares a birthday lunch for Armande (Judy Dench), with Roux (Johnny Depp) and the others gathered around the table, undone by the pleasure of food made with sensuous care. What gives that scene its charge is that it unfolds during Lent. The whole town is trying to deny appetite, pleasure, and longing, and yet there is Vianne, quietly revealing that what is made lovingly, shared slowly, and received fully is not at odds with the sacred. It is another way into it.
That is what this soup felt like to me.
A Lenten meal, yes. Simple. Modest. But also full of beauty. Full of care. A reminder that fasting is not only about denial. It can also sharpen gratitude. It can return you to the senses. It can make even the most humble meal feel holy.
Thank God for chocolate.
Thank God for fish soup.
Hours later, I’m still thinking about that meal. Not because it was extravagant, but because it wasn’t. It was simple enough to be fully felt.
That is what slow living offers us. Not more. More presence inside what already is.
A slower walk.
A slower meal.
A slower gaze in the mirror.
A little less performance. A little more attention.
You are here.
Now.
Let that be the point.
