Bloody Soup

I’m still feeling a bit under the weather, and decided last night that the perfect antidote to the cold and the sore throat and the dark and the rain was home-made soup. Initially, my soup started out as vegetable broth, until I realised that I hadn’t planned far enough in advance to soak the peas or the soup mix. As the vegetables were bubbling away merrily by this stage, I shrugged and decided to just add some lentils and chilli flakes, and blend it to make a thick, spicy chowder-style soup instead. Just the ticket.

Unfortunately I had not allowed for the orange-to-green vegetable ratio, and the carrots and lentils were not enough to outdo the leafy green things. I was left with a disgusting-looking pot of green gunk. The thing is, it tasted absolutely delicious, but I couldn’t bring myself to sit down to a bowl of it while it was that particular shade of green.

From somewhere at the back of my mind I recalled a memory of last weekend, when Jay had dyed our dinner red for no real reason. Logically, this would suggest that the neighbours had in their possession such a thing as red food colouring, and, I reasoned further, if I were to add a few drops to my delicious green gunk, it would be transformed into a more edible colour (e.g. orangey-reddish).

I went next door, where E2 located and donated the food dye, while asking a series of questions about why I was making soup at 11.30pm, why I was dying it, why I couldn’t just eat it green and that type of thing. “Just don’t put it in the whole pot straight away,” she called after me, warningly, “try it in a little batch first. In case it goes… weird.”

I was very glad I heeded her advice, as when I opened the bottle and tipped it upside down into the bowl of soup I had just poured, I really was expecting it to have one of those dropper-style heads. I didn’t realise – nor did I see – that it was just a plain, ordinary, wide-open bottle neck. My first clue to my mistake was when the contents of the bottle went glug-glug-glug as opposed to drip-drip-drip. My second clue was when my bowl of green gunk turned rapidly into a bowl of blood-red soup.

I did learn from this test experience, and the main pot of soup was consequently transformed into the originally-intended orangey-reddish colour. Obviously I didn’t want to waste the other bowl, so I ate it in front of the TV, in the dark, so that I couldn’t see the disturbing colour I was consuming.

I think I could be a TV chef. I’m creative, and watching me work could not fail to be entertaining.

Risky Cuisine

“I think it’s probably best that we avoid the kitchen,” comments E1, coming back into the girls’ bedroom, where the three of us are taking refuge in the suddenly male-dominated household. A couple of their friends are visiting, and the testosterone level has risen sharply. To my distress, even though one of the guys is incredibly good-looking, the entire conversation seems to revolve around farts when the four of them are together. A football is bouncing around the house, the aroma is pungent, and a remote control car has been taken apart in the name of science.

Nevertheless, they are cooking dinner, so we are keeping silent and out of the way in the hope of eventually being fed. E1 has just returned from her trip downstairs, the purpose of which was to ascertain why the words “red food colouring” kept floating up the stairs.

“Is the chicken pink?” asks E2 sadly, as E1 shuts the door firmly behind her and looks around as if considering wedging it shut with a heavy object. “Yes,” she affirms resignedly. “But I think it’s going to be edible.”

“Wait a second,” I ask in some confusion, “Why is the chicken pink?”

E1 sighs heavily as she sinks back on to her bed. “Because,” she explains wearily, “someone left Jay alone in the kitchen.”

Sometimes just one sentence can explain so much.

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