Pearl soup

At this very moment, just a few feet from my window, my neighbors are making pearl soup. At least that's what my mother called it. I know because I can smell the soothing broth, can smell those little dough balls I used to make with my palm as a kid. I remember trying to make different shapes out of the dough, like people make cookies shaped like trees and dinosaurs, but they always ended up being a globby mess.

A part of me wants to climb into their kitchen, and another part wants to shut the window (this is no time for homesickness).