The paper bag was set down on the countertop—which Jean appeared to have much more of than he did in his own little house. Reaching into the grocery sack, he started removing can after can of soup—different sizes, different brands, different labels. By the time he finished with the cans, there was a haphazard stack of nearly a dozen cans. A few more items were removed after that—teabags, a little bear-shaped-bottle of honey.
"Tea is about my only remedy for being under the weather—with plenty of honey." Pots and pans clanged around briefly as he sorted through a cabinet of cookware, eventually finding a teakettle to fill and set on the stove.
"But soup—played it safe, not sure what works best for flu." He leaned out of the kitchen entryway, a can of soup in each hand. "Vegetable beef? New England Clam Chowder—oh, hold on, that's terrible, nobody wants that." Without giving her a chance to interject, he disappeared, only to return with another armful of cans. "Italian wedding, chicken and rice, chicken and noodles, chicken with noodles in the shape of little letters—I quite like the sound of that one. Beef and barley, broccoli cheddar, turkey vegetable?"
For someone with a doctorate in the study of humanity—he seemed hapless, though well-intentioned, in caring for someone with the flu.