Soup. Meh. I can take it or leave it, me.
I mean, sure, soup has its place, its purpose. And, for me, that’s on the Diet To End All Diets. I boil up vats of the stuff. Something punishingly bland and boring, and just, well... Yuck. Watercress broth à la Liz Hurley or, worse still, cabbage soup... I march triumphantly back from the supermarket, having stripped it all of things green and good, and stoically chop, slice and dice before setting my giant pan of hope to simmer on the hob.
But then there’s that smell, isn’t there? That stench..? Of noxious, no-calorie onions and vegetables and water. And an Oxo Cube. Boiled. That you’re supposed to survive on in order to shed two stone in as many weeks for a friend’s wedding, mouthful by boring mouthful. Two weeks! Two whole weeks – that’s 14 days, folks – of nothing but soup, soup, soup. In theory... Because I maybe manage a bowl or two before my good intentions go as limp as my cabbage. ‘I’ll go running,’ I resolve. ‘Every morning. At 6am. And still eat super healthy stuff. No carbs. Or booze.’
I wore Spanx and a maxi-dress to the last wedding I attended. There is no hope.
Yeah, I’m so done with soup.
Soup is for old people who can’t chew solids. Soup, when foisted upon you at a dinner party or something, is just about bearable when served with a hot, crusty roll and lashings of butter. But even then it’s superfluous to the bread and the spread. In conclusion, I hate soup.
Sick people tend to crave – correction, demand – soup when they’re unwell though. Take Ed... I’d been successfully dating Ed for a few months when he started to develop a serious case of the sniffles down the pub one Friday night. Of course, being all loved-up at the time, I thought his pouty, congested grumblings were adorable and so, taking him home for some tlc, plied him with sympathy and brandy (I’m a great believer, as is granny, that it’s best to drink through these things).
Come Saturday, his sniffles had turned into sneezes. In hindsight, I should have turfed him out at this point – not coz I’m some cold-hearted bitch (well, that too). But because there’s nothing quite like seeing the man you supposedly love all sweaty and sick, surrounded by used tissues, snot streaming from that snooter of his, which he just won’t stop bloody blowing and disgustingly dabbing with yet more tissues that he discards anywhere but the bin, to kill the passion in a relationship.
Seriously. Eeugh! Good on you if you’re a natural nurse. Or one of those weird couples who go to the loo in front of each another (ie, have no shame). If you welcome your man to your hospital bedside to watch – maybe even film – you squeezing something the size of a cantaloupe melon out your vagina, with all that mucus and mess, when you give birth. And you still find each other sexually attractive? Not for me, thanks. I find it difficult enough to accept someone could fancy me, with an arse the size of mine, when I’m feeling my best. Let alone when they’re having to wipe it when I’m ailing or elderly. I’d rather crawl away, somewhere quiet and dark... To die. Alone. Like an old dog.
But Ed? He was like a puppy with a poor sore paw at this stage. So I tucked him under a duvet on my sofa and fed him Nurofen Cold & Flu every four hours. Fetched him orange juice. Stroked his hair. Played nursey. By tea time, he barked for some soup – tomato soup, to be specific – to soothe his poor sore throat and fill him with vitamins to make him all better. I was only too happy to oblige. Funny what love does to you, isn’t it?
But, to paraphrase from Meat Loaf, I would do anything for love, but I won’t make soup, such is my hatred for the slop. So I instead popped to the shops for some good old Covent Garden Plum Tomato & Basil soup. It was then that I discovered my trusty cheese and chive rolls, which I try to keep stocked in my freezer, are the perfect accompaniment to tomato soup.
Next post: recipe and conclusion...
Illustration by Bex Barrow.
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