Cooking is pretty alien to me, and I avoid it if at all possible. However, circumstances have challenged me to concoct some sort of soup dish from the various odds an’ sods that are lying about my kitchen, so I guess I’d better get on with it. How does that Mercutio quote from Romeo & Juliet go again? Ask for me tomorrow, and you shall find me bent double over the toilet bowl.
As you might have gathered, I have no idea to make soup. So I just start with a pot of water on the stove, into which I pour a dollop of vegetable oil and hurl in a liberal amount of salt too. Definitely seen somebody do it on the telly for some reason, so it’s probably legit. We had some apples so I chopped ’em up an’ flung ’em in, then did more or less the same with an onion.
This didn’t really look like much so I chucked in sprinklings of any and all spices I could find in the presses; nutmeg, cayenne pepper, dill, paprika, you name it. On the basis that garlic hides a multitude of sins I ground up a bulb of that – do they come in bulbs? It looked pretty bulbous anyway – and tossed it into the bubbling brew.
By this stage the mixture tasted impressively revolting, so I boiled the absolute shit out of it. None of that pansy-assed ‘simmer’ bollocks in my food preparation. Trusted strategy: If something tastes bad, cook it back to the stone age. Best case; the flavour is improved. Worst case; it becomes tasteless. Both would be improvements on my efforts.
The contents of the pan now appear to fix me with an accusatory stare, in a manner I imagine is akin to that of an unnatural abomination regarding its creator. What I’m going to have for dinner remains a question unresolved, but at least I now know exactly how Dr. Frankenstein felt upon bringing his horrendous creature to life.
Knew I should have ordered pizza.
Solidarity, brothers & sisters…