good soup makes good neighbours

Remember Robert Frost's poem, Mending Wall (1914):

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,

That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,

And spills the upper boulders in the sun;

And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.

The work of hunters is another thing:

I have come after them and made repair

Where they have left not one stone on stone,

But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,

To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,

No one has seen them made or heard them made,

But at spring mending-time we find them there.

I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;

And on a day we meet to walk the line

And set the wall between us once again.

We keep the wall between us as we go.

To each the boulders that have fallen to each.

And some are loaves and some so nearly balls

We have to use a spell to make them balance:

"Stay where you are until our backs are turned!"

We wear our fingers rough with handling them.

Oh, just another kind of outdoor game,

One on a side. It comes to little more:

He is all pine and I am apple-orchard.

My apple trees will never get across

And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.

He only says, "Good fences make good neighbors."

Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder

If I could put a notion in his head:

"Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it

Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.

Before I built a wall I'd ask to know

What I was walling in or walling out,

And to whom I was like to give offence.

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,

That wants it down!" I could say "Elves" to him,

But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather

He said it for himself. I see him there,

Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top

In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.

He moves in darkness as it seems to me,

Not of woods only and the shade of trees.

He will not go behind his father's saying,

And he likes having thought of it so well

He says again, "Good fences make good neighbors."

I DIDNT REALIZE it was an old saying until I re-read it, or that the poet didn't agree with the sentiment (or lack of) that it expressed. I, on the other hand, have long been saying  "Good soup makes good neighbours." I make good soup. A lot. I have to give some away or I would be inundated with soup. But I don't give it away just to get ahead of my storage problem.  I choose whom to give it to and I am careful to remember the preferences of my neighbours. One doesn't like mushrooms; his wife does. So take turns or label it or what?   Another does'n t like too much Srirachco, so I have to use a light hand, if at all.

When you live in a building like mine - not an old-age home, but sometimes it seems, very close to it - there is always someone who could use some soup.  Or muffins. That's my other panacea.

Good muffins make good neighbours, too.