It started with an empty sink, clean counters, and a craving that couldn’t be squashed with anything from a can—or the gas station.
With the cooler weather, I figured now’s the time to cook enough cheesy tortellini soup for eight to ten people, according to the new-to-me recipe that I only barely glanced at. (I should stay away from recipes—they usually end in disasters.)
I have a couple of folks in mind to share it with. It’s rare for me even to consider cooking for others, so right here’s where I should’ve paused and said, “Beth. You’re not a cook. You barely cook for yourself and only in emergencies for others. You’re glitching.”
But did I pause? I did not.
Anyway, the extras will feed me at the start of the novel challenge I’m doing this month. Since I must decide what five fictional characters are wearing, saying, and eating with every turn of the page, I’ll take this decision off the table—it’s soup for lunch. And dinner.
It should be easy because it requires a crockpot, according to the photo on the recipe (that R-word again…). And aren’t all crockpot recipes just “dump-it-and-go”?
As bad luck would have it, I broke my crock a week ago. It had been sitting—long cold—in the sink for two days. Boiling water somehow happened upon my chilly crock (yeah, I know now). With a deafening pop, the crock gave up its status in my kitchen appliance gang, earning a spot in the bin, where it’s been rumored that four nonstick-no-more skillets, two microwaves, and innumerable spatulas have enjoyed blissful retirement just this year.
So I bought a new crockpot.
Full Disclosure #1: I cannot comprehend measurements, especially when I’m under duress or in a crowd. Duress and crowds happen at Walmart, where the crockpots are.
I open the box, remove the appliance, and a Tiny Voice in the waaay back recesses of my brain tells me, “This won’t hold food for ten. Or eight. Maybe not even six.”
Full Disclosure #2: I tend to ignore that Tiny Voice from the waaay back recesses of my brain. Too bad. Quite often, she knows what she’s talking about…
I give the crock a quick wipe-down and chop an onion to the point of tears. I dump in the other ingredients and check the recipe line by line as I go, because someone else might eat this, after all. I force the digital panel to count down from three hours, but there’s a disconnect between the display's time and how long I thought this soup would take. And I’m only two-thirds through the ingredient list dump list.
When do I add the rest of this stuff?
Full Disclosure #3: I never read a newly stumbled-upon recipe in its entirety. I read the ingredients and look at the picture. (Yeah… I know.)
The Tiny Voice squeaks again. This crock is already full, and one-third of the bulkiest of ingredients haven’t even been dumped in yet. I don’t listen to the Tiny Voice.
I drop down to the meatier instructions of the recipe and realize there’s a word I’ve encountered elsewhere in some other lifetime, but I have no idea what it means.
Roux.
I don’t bother looking this R-word up. I’m too aggravated that I’ll have to use the stove in addition to the too-small crock.
Three hours later…
The next line tells me to toss the crock pot goop into a blender.
No problem. I have a Ninja blender that can handle this.
I drag the thing over, plug it in, grab my mitts, and take the crock of hot tomatoey goodness and start pouring it in. The liquid fills the blender halfway. Then two-thirds of the way. Then the volume reaches the “Max Capacity” line on the Ninja.
That Tiny Voice says, “Beth…”
I do not listen to that Tiny Voice.
It'll be fine. Just a bit more.
The soup line reaches the tip top of the blender, but there’s still room to lock the lid. I’m quite proud of myself for squeezing it all in there.
Until I hit blend.
My Tiny Voice has now exited my brain and is standing in the corner of my kitchen, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. “I can’t even with you. We’re done.”
As the blade spins around the soup, some of it escapes the sealed lid and dribbles down the blender onto the counter. I let the blending continue and will clean up whatever happens.
When I turn the power off, the soup line is now just below the “Max Capacity” mark.
I send a dirty look to my Tiny Voice across the kitchen. “See? All good.”
I dump the broth back into the crock and return the crock to the base.
Now. Roux.
I read the instruction line: Flour, Butter, Cream? Why? What’s the point? I do it begrudgingly.
I glance at the recipe again and feel a thud on the back of my head. My Tiny Voice has removed the bag of tortellini from the freezer and is hitting me with it. Because the recipe calls for it to be “thawed.”
No worries. I dump it into a glass dish and nuke it in the microwave.
Now I have creamy broth in the crock, roux in a saucepan, and nearly-but-not-quite-thawed tortellini in a glass dish.
And still two cups of cheese to add to the mix.
I decide to take this time to read the recipe in its entirety. My Tiny Voice stomps off to the writing office, where her skillset may be of some use to Little Miss Muse. Because I’m clearly not in touch with reason.
I decide nothing will fit in anything that currently sits on my counter or stovetop. I pull out the giant chili pot and dump everything into it all at once, but there are several problems here:
My tortellini is only half-thawed.
My roux has been sitting for a minute.
The recipe calls for a crockpot finish. I don’t know how to convert crockpot heat and time to chili pot on the stove top heat and time.
But at least all the stuff is in a pot and sort of melting together.
I dish some out. It’s a little clumpy. I blame the roux, the two cups of not-quite-dissolved cheese, and the temperature imbalance from the half-thawed tortellini.
Well, looks aren’t everything. I’ll not judge the soup by those shouldn’t-be-there lumps.
I take a bite. Blink. Swallow. Blink. Take another taste just to be sure of my assessment.
Yup. This is definitely not shareable soup. Not with other humans, that is.
It’s barely gag-it-down soup.
I shall share it with the critters that live in our tree line. Poor, poor creatures.
I look at my kitchen. We started with an empty sink and clean countertops.
We ended up with three sinkfuls of dishes, the scene of a massacre, and a craving that shall remain unaddressed.
I grab a bag of chips and call it lunch.
I roll up my sleeves and wash and scrub and try to coax Tiny Voice and Little Miss Muse back into the vicinity.
Because when I’m done here, we have a novel to work on.
And a story must contain the right ingredients in the right order to boil it down to a shareable soup.
