I have a confession to make.
I made bad soup today. It was my first attempt at using a crockpot, which my beloved friend Katie gave to Chris and me as a wedding present; I based my attempt at soup off of a recipe Katie had given me for Basic Soup. Tomatoes. Onions. Garlic. Etc. I hung around the house, smelling the soup as it stewed for hours and hours. It smelled amazing as I went through my daily blog reads — as I paid my doctor’s bills — as I filled out my university hiring forms for teaching — as I watched bad television out of the corner of my eye — as I chatted online with my friend Joanne, who is helping me with a new banner for this blog.
I lay on the loveseat with my laptop and inhaled the soup-fumes, glancing at the clock. Was it three hours yet? No, not yet. Not time for soup yet. Now? Yes, at six-thirty, I could try the soup. The onions had gone translucent. I spooned myself a bowl. I even took a picture of the soup with my iSight, in preparation for blogging about it later. (It was not photogenic.)
Like I said, the soup was bad, and I was so sad that I had somehow ruined it. I ate three-fourths of a bowl out of dogged persistence (it’s okay, right? no, it’s really not… eh, maybe I should just stop) and then called Mr. Spot’s for some chili cheese fries. It’s okay, though. Next time I’ll make a truly bangin’ batch of soup…
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