I've never been much of a soup person. But somehow, back in June, this blog started with soup. And here I am again, in this golden October, lying on the couch, inundated with soup. And you know what? I love it. I can't get enough of it. I love every steaming spoonful—even when it drips down my chin. Bean soup, noodle soup, chicken soup, squash soup, beet soup, soup, soup, soup. Oh my God. You know what I mean?
As I told you in back August, I made a resolution to surprise myself, and it keeps on happening. Dammit, I've become a soup person, and I wasn't even trying. I guess I should have seen it coming, considering I've got friends in some serious gourmet kitchens.
I've never been much of a cook either. If it's any consolation, I'm a fantastic eater. I tried all summer to expand my repertoire of recipes, and I even created a few of my own. Maxine Hong Kingston has a great passage in her book, The Woman Warrior, in which she describes feeling the weight of an entire culture resting upon her shoulders, in her kitchen. She insists: "I do not feed people."
I felt that way for a while. I didn't want to be expected to feed anyone. I barely knew how to feed myself. But this summer, I decided to open up my heart and my kitchen for a while, just to see what might happen. It was interesting. I was taking baby steps. I finally learned to open a bottle of wine. Chopped an onion or two. Made a salad. Risotto. Ceviche. Soup.
Pretty soon I was singing along to Sara Bareilles (my favorite) in the kitchen and licking spoons nearly every Friday afternoon. Feels like I was just getting started, and now here I am on the couch. Eating soup. At least this time I know a good soup when I see one.
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