There’s me and my typical Monday morning disarray of scattered Sunday papers, lost automobile keys and lists of things to do stapled to the lists of things I should have done.
Ahh me, oh my, it’s high ho and off we go. Seems all I do is make soup these days, it’s fine, I enjoy making soup.
It brings comfort, smooths the swelling sea and demands a focus that pulls the scattered remains of Sunday afternoon together into some semblance of a plan for the coming week.
A soup is just an extension of a great sauce and I’ve been known to be a bit obsessive, even to the point of rudeness, rather extreme rudeness, over the construction of soup. Or, at least what I consider to be the proper methodology of a good soup.
I suppose, on some level, it’s a form of madness and one day I’ll be locked up.
I mean, in the kitchen world, the real kitchen world, of gigantic cauldrons of simmering stock and mounds of chopped vegetables; a great sauce is a babe being born, an important event, wet nursed by an ancient, gnarled saucier, lovingly fed bits of herbs or spice, enriched with viands, creams or glaces, and just at the proper moment, enrobed with sweet, swirls of butter before standing on it’s own and finding it’s role either as the star or the supporting player on the plate before you.
Edible works of art, constructed from water, meat and vegetable, in the way Leonardo or Vermeer created the paints from oil and minerals for their masterpieces.
OK, no, well gotta go, yes, it’s just food George, settle down and try not to draw attention.
Make soup, it will all work out just fine.