Angry at Soup

The Midwest, Summer 2024

Soup should throw no one into a blind rage, but here I find myself angry at soup. 

On Saturday, I decided to do my future self a favor. I would shop for the ingredients required to make a healthy soup on Sunday, which I would lovingly pack into lunch-sized portions for the work week.

I am rarely this mindful about my lunch. My usual 7:30 a.m. fumble-rusharounds yield results like:

1. Random leftover amalgam of drunken noodles, a side of meatloaf, and a melted mango smoothie. Yes!

2. Eggo waffles smeared with peanut butter and raisins. Yes!

3. Cup of yogurt, a jar of tuna, and a past-expiration bagged salad. Yes!

I am also not above paying out the nose for a crumbly-yet-damp turkey and cheese sandwich from the cafeteria (which is a safer bet than anything that ends in “salad” – tuna, egg, chicken, cobb, garden, etc.)

I eyeballed a few recipes for Ribollita, a Tuscan bread, veg, and white bean soup. It looked healthy and hearty. Heartiness is important. I hate eating thin soup and then spending the afternoon trying to convince myself that I don’t need a crumbly-yet-damp turkey and cheese second lunch. 

For background, I cook well. I am not humble about this. It’s the only area of my life where I’d say I exceed expectations. I’m average on everything else. 

I read a lot of cookbooks, so I generally have an outline of spices, ingredients, and cooking techniques in my head before oil touches a pan. If I am making something I’ve never eaten before, like RIbollita, I may use a recipe the first time so I know that I am not straying too far from the dish’s intent. After that, recipes may be consulted, but not followed. My cooking is jazz, not classical.  

In the grocery store, I made two fatal errors: 

1. I bought kale. It’s the worst vegetable.

2. I didn’t buy a loaf of ciabatta. It would have required a trip to a second store, and the recipe called for half a loaf. I didn’t want a half loaf sitting around this week, and more likely, I didn’t want to eat a half loaf on my drive home. I love bread so much. *sigh*

Soup making started out as a non-event on Sunday. I washed, chopped, and prepped everything per instruction. I even double consulted the recipe to verify there was no direction on whether to chop or dice the whole canned tomatoes. (Nope, add in the whole tomatoes.) 

Upon review, this is where things went poorly: 

1. I didn’t make my mirepoix sweat long enough, (My mom called. I blame her.)

2. I used whole tomatoes. (That’s on the recipe, which I double checked.)

3. I substituted croutons for day-old, pan-toasted ciabatta. (That’s fully on me.) BUT, the recipe said that the soup would have a nice thick texture if I put some of the bread (croutons) directly into the soup and let it break down. (That’s on the recipe.) 

4. The recipe called for a full pound of kale. (That’s on the recipe.) BUT I used my better judgment and only added a few ounces. BUT I should have used my best judgment and not purchased kale. (Yup, on me again.) 

Here are the results: it tastes like hot bloody Mary mix that had a salad bowl dropped in at the end, and then someone said fuck it, let’s chuck in some cannellini beans.  

The texture makes my soul hurt. 

The carrots are firm, and the celery is crunchy. But not just crunchy, the celery ribs squeak on my teeth like the spinny rubber nub that the dentist uses to clean my teeth. 

The whole tomatoes were perplexing, so I crushed them with the back of a spoon. I lost interest before they were properly macerated, and the result is a mealy mouthful of stringy stewed tomato. 

The croutons have proved surprisingly resilient. They want to disintegrate – we are both aligned on this – and are refusing to do so. When I squish them to hasten the dissolving, they reclump like the blobs in a lava lamp. I cannot smoosh their spirits.  

The kale sucks. Always has, always will. I just need to admit that there’s a food out there that I categorically don’t like and never buy it again. 

So now I eat bad soup. This is my week. I can’t throw it away. It won’t poison me. It hasn’t gone off. It’s full of organic veg. And vitamins. And nutrients. And it’s good for me. But it makes me so angry. I am angry at soup.

Angry at Soup

The Midwest, Summer 2024

Soup should throw no one into a blind rage, but here I find myself angry at soup. 

On Saturday, I decided to do my future self a favor. I would shop for the ingredients required to make a healthy soup on Sunday, which I would lovingly pack into lunch-sized portions for the work week.

I am rarely this mindful about my lunch. My usual fumble-rusharound at 7:30 a.m. yields results like:

1. Random leftover amalgam of drunken noodles, a side of meatloaf, and a melted mango smoothie. Yes!

2. Eggo waffles smeared with peanut butter and raisins. Yes!

3. Cup of yogurt, a jar of tuna, and a past-expiration bagged salad. Yes!

I am also not above paying out the nose for a crumbly-yet-damp turkey and cheese sandwich from the cafeteria (which is a safer bet than anything that ends in “salad” – tuna, egg, chicken, cobb, garden, etc.)

I eyeballed a few recipes for Ribollita, a Tuscan bread, veg, and white bean soup. It looked healthy and hearty. Heartiness is important. I hate eating thin soup and then spending the afternoon trying to convince myself that I don’t need a crumbly-yet-damp turkey and cheese second lunch. 

For background, I cook well. I am not humble about this. It’s the only area of my life where I’d say I exceed expectations. I’m average on everything else. 

I read a lot of cookbooks, so I generally have an outline of spices, ingredients, and cooking techniques in my head before oil touches a pan. If I am making something I’ve never eaten before, like RIbollita, I may use a recipe the first time so I know that I am not straying too far from the dish’s intent. After that, recipes may be consulted, but not followed. My cooking is jazz, not classical.  

In the grocery store, I made two fatal errors: 

1. I bought kale. It’s the worst vegetable.

2. I didn’t buy a loaf of ciabatta. It would have required a trip to a second store, and the recipe called for half a loaf. I didn’t want a half loaf sitting around this week, and more likely, I didn’t want to eat a half loaf on my drive home. I love bread so much. sigh

Soup making started out as a non-event on Sunday. I washed, chopped, and prepped everything per instruction. I even double consulted the recipe to verify there was no direction on whether to chop or dice the whole canned tomatoes. (Nope, add in the whole tomatoes.) 

Upon review, this is where things went poorly: 

1. I didn’t make my mirepoix sweat long enough, (My mom called. I blame her.)

2. I used whole tomatoes. (That’s on the recipe, which I double checked.)

3. I substituted croutons for day-old, pan toasted ciabatta. (That’s fully on me.) BUT, the recipe said that the soup would have a nice thick texture if I put some of the bread (croutons) directly into the soup and let it break down. (That’s on the recipe.) 

4. The recipe called for a full pound of kale. (That’s on the recipe.) BUT I used my better judgment and only added a few ounces. BUT I should have used my best judgment and not purchased kale. (Yup, on me again.) 

Here are the results: it tastes like hot bloody Mary mix that had a salad bowl dropped in at the end, and then someone said fuck it, let’s chuck in some cannellini beans.  

The texture makes my soul hurt. 

The carrots are firm, and the celery is crunchy. But not just crunchy, the celery ribs squeak on my teeth like the spinny rubber nub that the dentist uses to clean my teeth. 

The whole tomatoes were perplexing, so I crushed them with the back of a spoon. I lost interest before they were properly macerated, and the result is a mealy mouthful of stringy stewed tomato. 

The croutons have proved surprisingly resilient. They want to disintegrate – we are both aligned on this – and are refusing to do so. When I squish them to hasten the dissolving, they reclump like the blobs in a lava lamp. I cannot smoosh their spirits.  

The kale sucks. Always has, always will. I just need to admit that there’s a food out there that I categorically don’t like. 

So now I eat bad soup. This is my week. I can’t throw it away. It won’t poison me. It hasn’t gone off. It’s full of organic veg. And vitamins. And nutrients. And it’s good for me. But it makes me so angry. This is what hate tastes like.