Pea-Grass Soup

By Rick Waddle

     “Who’s Debi?” my wife asked. Her voice flat, and face devoid of emotion.

     “Debi who?” I asked, wondering what sort of game she’s playing with me this time.

     “That’s what I want to know,” she starts, her voice betraying her muted expression, “Some woman called today, and asked if you lived here. ‘Yes,’ I told her, ‘but you weren’t home from work yet.’ She giggled and said she would call back! Now I want to know, who’s Debi?” My mind races, trying to think of all the Debis I know. At work, at church, I’ve been married over twenty years; it couldn’t be a girlfriend. About that time the phone rings. I answer, and the voice asks, “Rick, how about some Pea-Grass soup?”

     Debi was a stringy haired little blonde. She was about my height and a little pudgy, but “it’s just baby fat,” and normal for 10 year olds. My parents and I had just moved to the area, and Debi was my neighbor, and new school classmate. I had no siblings, and Debi didn’t get along well with hers, so we quickly became friends.

     Debi and I did many of the normal childhood things together. We played games, rode bikes, she taught me girly games, and I taught her “manly things”. One day she came by carrying an old coffee can. She had decided we were going to “cook something”, and asked if I would help. Knowing she still couldn’t build a fire, I gathered some sticks and we met at the old brick barbecue behind her house.

     “What are we going to cook?” I asked with childlike curiosity.

     “Greens,” she proudly stated, and proceeded to pull weeds from the ground and stuff them into the coffee can. I made a fire, and she put the ‘pot’ on to cook. It tasted just about like it sounds, and smelled even worse. While the pot was cooking, we talked, about nothing significant, but we both felt better afterwards, even after gagging on her ‘soup’. I went home at dark, and told my mom about my day.

     “What kind of greens did she cook?” mom asked. I pointed out some clover type weeds with little yellow flowers. “That’s Pea-Grass son,” she said. “Try a bite raw, it’s so sour it’ll turn your face inside out!” The next day I told Debi, and watched as her face tried to turn inside out, just like mine felt like it had.

     We spent the next eight years growing up, and trying to perfect our Pea-Grass soup recipe. Of course, we soon discovered that it was only an excuse to talk about things we were afraid of, and sometimes too ashamed, to talk about with anyone else. As we matured, so did the topics of our conversations. We started out talking about school, family, movies, and music. We progressed to life and death, boys and girls, sex and marriage. Our last few ‘pots of soup’ covered Nixon, Watergate, and finally, the Ayatollah Khomeini, Iran, and the hostages in Teheran. We made Pea-Grass soup so often we even cultivated a small patch in my mom’s flower bed. Through all of mom’s protests I know she didn’t mind, too much.

     Debi and I never became more than friends throughout our school years. We tried one date, but we were out of our ‘kitchen,’ so we had nothing to talk about. Shortly after high school graduation, my family moved again. I hadn’t heard from Debi in twenty years.

     “I wasn’t sure I would be able to find you,” Debi’s voice said over the phone. “Some people said you were dead, but I’d have known if you were. I just wanted to let you know we’re having our twenty year class reunion next month. I’d sure like to see you again.” She gave me the details while my wife snickered from the other side of the room. She knew all along whom Debi was, I’d spoken of her often. Now she was going to meet her husband’s childhood confidant.

     Pea-Grass soup was never mentioned during the reunion, but afterward, as I started to drive away, I saw Debi pick up a coffee can, study it for a moment, and then look at me and smile. I have a feeling Debi was thinking of our youth, and for just an instant, about Pea-Grass soup.

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