When my mom was in our home, in the final stages of hospice care, her sister (our dear, hoarding Auntie) would visit her. Often she brought a 2 qt. Revere Ware pot containing potato soup. The pot had a broken handle and had to be carried with two hands. My mom enjoyed sipping on the soup and my aunt derived satisfaction in helping in what was a hopeless, helpless situation.
And, as has been oft shown here, my Auntie had amazing ingenuity and resolve in negotiating her trails and stuff. The question we often pondered was how did she make anything in her kitchen. There was a negligible trail to one burner, to the sink and never a utensil in sight. Of course, when the fruit flies became overwhelming in the house, the search commenced for the cause. And, way below the stacks of this and that was an old coffee can with a gosh awful mess of potato skins and assorted gunk. This was some time after my mom’s passing.
There like some archeological discovery was some proof of the creation of the potato soup. Coupled with the bag of potatoes in a box on the basement stairs that looked like some other worldly creatures.