Souper Trooper

As I am now a Souper Star I have decided to make myself soup and bread for dinner. As I write the bread is merrily making itself in the machine and I am about to delve into the depths of the pantry for possible soup ingredients.

I hope it will turn out better than the last soup I made at home, the vile taste of which was not improved by the presence of bits of glass.

Hair today, soup tomorrow

I'm blogging while waiting for my red onion soup to cook: Welshcakes suggested the soup as the Italian remedy for colds. What it really needs with it, of course, is some chunky crusty bread. I don't have any and anyway 'I'm on a diet.' I am so fed up of that phrase, particularly as I'm not losing any weight.

Wandering out of Tesco's this evening with two treacle tarts (for the price of one: how could I refuse?) I said to myself, 'I'm not losing weight by not eating so I might as well eat and not lose weight.' But then I also just opened the front door and said to Harvey, 'Allez! Allez vite!' He looked at me and said, 'Why are you talking to me in French?'
'I don't know; it just came out that way. It must be the influence of the onion soup.'
'Ah oui.' (He is multi-lingual, you know.)

So it was to the hairdresser this afternoon.

Is there any place on earth more likely to make you feel your age than a hairdressers'?

Sitting in front of a mirror in the glare of the harsh bright light, with hair scraped back from sagging pockmarked cheeks, while a slim blonde flawless-skinned nineteen-year-old dabs at grey roots, is akin to having a fortieth birthday every day.

(I'm about to eat my soup. Last time I made soup I found glass in it.)

I say fortieth because that was the birthday I found most difficult (so far). Thirty wasn't much fun but fifty was okay. I'm hoping they'll just get better and better.

Would you like ground glass with that?

Daughter is a marvellous cook. Whether she's following a recipe or creating her own, her food tastes wonderful.

She takes after her father in her creativity. I have to have a recipe that I follow to the ounce; he makes it up if he doesn't have what's needed.

So it probably wasn't one of my better decisions, on getting in from circuits tonight, to decide to make some soup. When Husband is away I tend to not cook properly so I had a vegetable rack of dodgy-looking roots facing me accusingly each time I went in the pantry. 'Soup's easy,' I told myself. Harvey sniffed doubtfully. I ignored him.

I gathered about me 2 onions (pay attention - you'll want to make this), 2 potatoes, half a swede, half a cauli, and a few florets of broccoli. After sweating them for a five minutes, I added two pints of vegetable stock and pressure cooked the lot.

The smell, when I spooned it into the liquidiser, was less than appetising but I told myself it was the taste that mattered. Harvey sniffed doubtfully.

It was when I tipped the puree back into the pressure cooker to reheat that I noticed the noise again.

First time I'd thought it was just me mishearing; this second time there was definitely something clanking in the soup. I fished around in it; there seemed to be more than one thing that shouldn't oughta have been in there.

At last my fishing proved fruitful: I had a piece of glass sitting on my spoon. I fished some more. The other clanketing bits were elusive.

I gave up and had a bowl of Frosties for dinner.