Soup’s Ugly AF.

Soup isn’t an attractive food.

 

There, I’ve said it. Someone had to. In fact, soup may be the least attractive food there is– right next to the McRib in terms of ugliness. It’s just stuff, vegetables, meat, or rice in broth; just sitting there looking sad and wet. It’s reminiscent of a whirlpool jacuzzi full of sagging old men.

 

Spooning soup up isn’t great either.Sometimes you miss your mouth and get it all over yourself. Better hope that it wasn’t a red base– that’s never coming out of that light shirt.

 

And the sound most people make eating the damn stuff. Some of us put the spoon in our mouth and gulp down like human fucking beings. The rest, the uncultured beasts of society, sound like they’re using a shop vac on a pile of liquidity puke in the bathroom at a AA baseball game. Why get so specific? Why not? Why is he being elitist about eating soup? Yes to all of those questions.

 

And yet, there’s a certain beauty to soup; it’s an everyman food.  

 

All you need is a pot, heat, some water, food to boil, and preferably some salt. You can add or subtract as many ingredients as you want. The only limit is your imagination and sometimes your budget. I’ve had amazing bowls of chicken broth with rice and then I’ve had some damn delicious bowls of Pho. However, the magic of a good bowl lies in the execution: soupsmanship as it were.

 

My own creations are like snowflakes. No two pots are ever identical. It lends itself to the artistry. Realize that the pot isn’t endless and appreciate it while you can. (We’re not talking about that Campbells canned nonsense. Unless it’s tomato. I fucks with canned tomato soup.)

 

I’ve made some quite terrible soups and I’ve made some masterpieces. One of the best I’ve ever made was a pot of spicy chicken and rice. I boiled upon it in the midst of fall as a complete accident. My steel-toe boots had bits of wet brown and orange leaves caked on the sides and the air outside had started to grow teeth. I had originally intended to make a classic chicken and rice pot. Evidently I channeled my inner Emril and liberally fucked the pot with spices galore. Red pepper. Bam. Basil. Bam. Garlic. Bam. Black pepper. Bam. Bam. Bam. Swallowing set a fire in your chest and cleared out the sinuses in a snap. I might’ve sucked down three bowls before calling it quits.

 

Although, as you stumble upon masterpieces. One is bound to trip and bust their ass over failures. Too much rice in the pot, too salty, too watery. Don’t get me wrong, soup in this household never goes to waste– every bowl, no matter how god awful, becomes a humbling experience.  
I guess the point of this rant is that I love soup. I see past the aesthetic shortcomings for what’s inside. It’s not just a bunch of ingredients that decided to have a sloppy pool party; soup is a symphony of flavor and ingredients– building off of each other, mingling and matching melodies to move you to “mmmm.” Thanks for existing, soup (you gross looking shit.)

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