A while ago we didn't feel well. We felt really sorry for ourselves. We figured we were going to die, and summoned all our last strength to dial the phone. Please, we whined to a friend, Parrilla Suiza, puhleez. This is a good friend; he knew what we meant and made haste to the restaurant, picked up a giant bowl of consommé de pollo, and whisked it to our bedside. The first spoonful trembled in our tiny, feverish hand. The second burned our lips. By the third, that rosy glow had returned to our cheeks, and as we licked up the last bit of rice, celery, shredded breast, carrot and slinky broth, a little bluebird landed on our windowsill and began to sing. Now that's some soup.