I decided to take my sister’s advice and make some soup. Money was getting tighter, and an easy defense from a rising credit card statement lay among the assorted long-life food products in the cabinet. You see, when shopping for groceries, I sometimes fall prey to overestimations of my culinary prowess; imagine yellow curry with sweet potatoes, tuna niciose with lemon pepper sauce, and roasted chicken with beetroot salad; the result being the various cans of peas and carrots, beetroot, coconut milk, along with several tins of albacore that the grocery clerk insisted upon once it became apparent that he had no fresh tuna to sell me.
So in a coincidental surprise while taking stock of the pantry, I inventoried a dry mix for split pea soup. Checking the directions, I realized I could substitute the demands for fresh carrots and a tin of ham by using the canned carrots and the frozen hot dogs that my mother dutifully mailed me. “I thought you should be eating more meat. I can’t remember what’s in the box I’m sending you, but there’s definitely a bunch of meat in there”. And right she was, as I opened the box to find an assortment of chicken, steaks, fish, and of course, the dogs.
With my soup base intact, I emptied the ingredients into the somewhat broken pressure cooker, which although capable of doing its first job, had lost its essential timer in a dishwasher meltdown, and now spends its nights in semi-retirement as the largest pot-and-lid duo in the kitchen. But because I was cooking for quantity, “Old Bessie”, as I have only now ever called it, was put into action as I loaded preserved vegetables down its round, dimpled maw. I sometimes think about how we all apply human characteristics to lifeless objects at one point or another, and how we must seem to outsiders who witness a beaming man washing his new car, a teenage boy gleefully staring at his Jessica Alba poster, or how a little girl can hold her teddy bear so tight that it begins to hug back. We all revert to the conclusion that these items are just items, but we still catch ourselves toiling towards that narcissistic black hole, oblivious to how we got to where we ended up. And sometimes we don’t catch ourselves at all.
But soup doesn’t give a damn. At least not as far as I can tell. So I stepped forward in search of the boundaries, and cranked up the heat to boil the water. The spices infuse with the warming air, and all of a sudden, the kitchen begins to smell like an actual, restaurant-style kitchen, where authentic, human-style food could be prepared. After a moment of taking in the smell, I stirred the boiling pot of peas and pork, tossing in a handful of thyme for good measure. With my canned ingredients doing a heated dance on the stove, I do a once over in the refrigerator for anything that might fit in with the liquid. As my eyes concluded a sweep of the top shelf, I noticed the garlic jar.
I bought the garlic jar for two dollars out of a clearance bin at the grocery one day, and have never been disappointed by any one of the 128 ounces of minced vampire repellant that loomed beneath the blue metal lid. Having that much garlic under one roof at one time inevitably builds a gateway toward rampant garlic use; heaps of minced cloves plopping gently into the bread dough, spoonful after spoonful falling into hot oil, shooting vapors through the air, and into the hallway. I once saw my friend Elliott devour a bowl of chili mixed with dollops of garlic in place of rice, and later refer to it the best chili he’s ever eaten. Of course Elliott approximates every third thing he’s ever tried as the best of the best, but the man knows his business, even if it’s occasionally coated with a thick spread of enthusiasm. But as I began to exhibit drug-like side effects similar to the ones warned about by former schoolteachers, I stopped noticing the potency of the garlic, each time going back for more and more. I never did understand how my school teachers all happened to be streetwise former drug addicts with a riveting archive of stories about addiction, but I suppose there is a teacher shortage after all.
Four tablespoons of garlic later, I checked the directions to discover that the soup actually called for garlic, so I dropped two more into the simmering liquid, which had begun the process of building murky green clouds, visible like the vapors rising from a swampy grove. A quick stir revealed a medley of beans, sliced franks, and softened split peas, so I grabbed a spoon and pulled out a sample of my concoction.
It was at this point when I realized that I never liked pea soup in the first place. Peas in general seem to have a bad reputation around town, possibly because of the color of their skin. Once they meet the discriminating eyes of all the grown up children whose parents mandated a pea quota in order to receive dessert, there’s no way to forecast the degree of subconscious vengeance being levied down upon these verdant round balls from beyond the can. The pale green liquid was already walking a tenuous line between curiously desirable and positively slime, so when I swished it in my mouth, my tongue began to send images of pickled limes and old cheese into the center lobes of my brain. I tore into the pantry in search of a remedy for the two gallons of green water that was solidifying before my eyes.
The answer came in the form of a bottle of soy sauce. I enjoy an assortment of complex dishes from all over the world, and yet I often forget how salt really does tie the room together. Within minutes of infusing enough salt to make a Burger King employee bite his nails, the soup began to exhibit a larger range of flavors; the celery and thyme began to rise to their supporting parts, while the crushed red pepper finished the final leg of the race with a dash and a kick.
I imagine there are better soups around town, but this one was my own, even though a template was already in place. Sticking with this sinking ship of a pea soup resulted in a successful rescue mission, as penny was saved and an army of peas dutifully boiled alive in a sea of garlic. Even after being unjustly put down, made fun of, and almost discarded, tempered peas occasionally deserve accolade just like the next vegetable. I’m just glad I didn’t invite the beetroot.
