So yesterday I decided to used some of the overabundance. I'd heard a friend rave about homemade tomato soup with grilled cheese, and though that flavor of soup is not my favorite, I gave it a try. Frozen tomatoes went in the pot with an onion and carrot and garlic and basil. It simmered and simmered down. Smelled good. I had hope.
I poured the boiling, chunky liquid into my blender. I knew this was dangerous, but I started slow. It gurgled slowly out the top. I spooned a good cup off the top to allow room for fierce blenderizing. I turned it on.
Who was it that was so careful, calculating her blender approach only to be startled by tomato puree sprayed all over an entire corner of the kitchen? Ummm, that certainly could not be me. But it was me and there I stood covered in tomato soup. Also covered was the wall, the cupboard, the stove, the recipe box, the canisters, the mixer, and the grill that was awaiting grilled cheese.
I wiped up. The counter. Not me. My clothes could wait. Supper could not. I finished the soup, timidly blending, not as confidently as before. The sandwiches were made after the fried soup was wiped off the griddle, and the kids came to eat. They eyed the soup.
"Who wants to try my new soup?" I ask.
"Not me," they all reply.
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