There are women who whip together culinary delights with the simple flick of the whisk. There are women whose homes are inviting; as though banana bread grows in their oven. Domestic Goddesses draped in gingham aprons, spooning out comfort by the bowl. I am not that woman.
This past Wednesday I was struck with the impulse to utilize the veggies from the fridge that were pushing their expiration date. There was cauliflower and broccoli, garlic, cobs of corn and collard greens. And I thought to incorporate the most veggies, a soup was my best bet. Now, there is something special about soup. Something that reminds me of community and togetherness. It’s warm and soothing. And as you may remember, I’ve been sick. So, obviously soup is the best choice! Right? Wrong. It was a culinary disaster. A bubbling crock pot of what’s now being called- Poop soup. Yes, Poop soup and for 2 good reasons. One: the green goopey sludge was high in fiber, actually it was only fiber and water. And two: it stunk up the whole house for days. And I mean STUNK. Like broccoli left in a dirty pot while you’re in Jamaica at an all inclusive resort. It’s just sitting there, stinking up the place and reminding me of my failure.
Now, you may be saying to yourself: Why on earth is she writing about failed soup? Because, like most things it’s not about the soup. Lately, I have been feeling happier and more pathetic than I can ever remember being. I know, I know, those are two very distant emotional relatives to be in such close quarters. But that’s where I’m at: Finally starting to fulfill my creative needs. I am performing on a semi- regular basis. I’m happy, satisfied, challenged and loving it. Here’s the pathetic part; like so many others, I gauge my success by how busy I am. By the hours worked in a day. And by how good my soup is. By these standards, I fall somewhere between wretch and a warning sign. I mean, it’s not exactly Soup-nazi status just yet, but the threat of no-soup is very real. So, while stirring tears into the bubbling green glop, I knew that even the best soup in the whole world, made with all the serenity and love of a talented Kitchen Wizardess, wouldn’t have helped me feel any better. But at least that would’ve been edible.