Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Soaking the Beans
Some people take up gardening to work with their hands and find renewal.
Apparently, I cook.
The results come must faster and you are not hungary afterwards.
Tonight it was soup. U.S. Senate Soup. It's been on the menu there since 1908, or something similarly impressive.
Soup. It's so comforting. Even the name, it invokes images of stoked fireplaces, fuzzy blankets, and warm comfy steam wafting up to warm the insides.
And it's not even cold here yet.
But fall is coming. Setting the beans up to soak this morning was maybe more symbolic than I had anticipated. I poured the water without hesitation, knowing tonight I would cook the soup. Knowing it would take a few hours to make, with enough down time to do a few loads of laundry. Knowing in the end that I would have delicious soup- enough for the week, even.
There is a gut wrenchingly sappy analogy here. Something about if only relationships were as easy as soup. You have to commit to making the soup, get the ingredients, choose a big enough pot, soak the beans, cut the onions (which makes you cry), and put it all together.
Stir.
Simmer.
Simmer some more.
Adjust the lid.
And simmer more.
Stir.
...
Simmer.
...
In the end you have really great soup. Enough to share.
I can't help but feel the soup making that ended last Tuesday was cut short. The beans didn't even get a chance to soak.
In the meantime, the soup that is put away in the fridge, in little air tight containers ready for lunch, is really damn good.
Really, really good.
(Thank you Max Richter for tonight's soundtrack. I was doing just fine, thank you, until I sat down to eat my soup. Your album is on it's third round. It's agonizingly appropriate.)
Apparently, I cook.
The results come must faster and you are not hungary afterwards.
Tonight it was soup. U.S. Senate Soup. It's been on the menu there since 1908, or something similarly impressive.
Soup. It's so comforting. Even the name, it invokes images of stoked fireplaces, fuzzy blankets, and warm comfy steam wafting up to warm the insides.
And it's not even cold here yet.
But fall is coming. Setting the beans up to soak this morning was maybe more symbolic than I had anticipated. I poured the water without hesitation, knowing tonight I would cook the soup. Knowing it would take a few hours to make, with enough down time to do a few loads of laundry. Knowing in the end that I would have delicious soup- enough for the week, even.
There is a gut wrenchingly sappy analogy here. Something about if only relationships were as easy as soup. You have to commit to making the soup, get the ingredients, choose a big enough pot, soak the beans, cut the onions (which makes you cry), and put it all together.
Stir.
Simmer.
Simmer some more.
Adjust the lid.
And simmer more.
Stir.
...
Simmer.
...
In the end you have really great soup. Enough to share.
I can't help but feel the soup making that ended last Tuesday was cut short. The beans didn't even get a chance to soak.
In the meantime, the soup that is put away in the fridge, in little air tight containers ready for lunch, is really damn good.
Really, really good.
(Thank you Max Richter for tonight's soundtrack. I was doing just fine, thank you, until I sat down to eat my soup. Your album is on it's third round. It's agonizingly appropriate.)
