There's a Hare in my Soup!

There’s a Hare in My Soup!

By Judy Vandiver

Yesterday, I made a pot of beef stew. Nothing spectacular about it, but as the aroma hit my senses, time reversed at an alarmingly fast speed. It was 1981, and I stood in the kitchen of the house where we raised our children.

The large pot before me no longer contained beef stew. Back then, our budget didn’t allow for such luxuries except on the rarest of occasions. Instead, we often had rabbit stew.

My husband had bought two rabbits, and we allowed our children to name them. We explained that these two rabbits could be pets, but that they were for breeding purposes. The offspring of Thumper and Flossy were not to receive names. The future baby bunnies would become food for our table.

Our children nodded their heads in agreement. We found out later, that those nods didn’t represent comprehension.

Along came the bunnies. Cute bunnies. Bunnies that our children immediately named.

One day, as I stood at the stove, cooking a large pot of stew, our son David came running through the back door. “Mom, one of the rabbits is missing.”

I scraped the bottom of the pan, loosening meat that had stuck to the iron pot.

“Mom, did you hear me? One of the rabbits is missing.”

“I know. Go wash up for dinner.” No way was I telling the kids what had happened to the cute little animal.

My husband and I decided to call our supper “James Bond Stew.” The list of ingredients was to be guarded as if 007’s life depended on it. We swore an oath to each other; we promised; we crossed our hearts.

At dinner that night, my husband couldn’t resist temptation.

“Dad,” David said, “Little Bunny Foo-Foo is missing.”

“Well, son,” Steve responded, “Little Bunny Foo-Foo was walking through the forest. . .”

I gave him a James Bond look. “I’ll report you to Scotland Yard,” I interrupted.

Our daughter Melissa announced, “There’s a hair in my soup.”

“I know, honey,” Steve said. “There’s a hare in everyone’s soup.”