To be completely braggadocios, I don’t often have inedible food fails when I cook. To be fair, I do prepare and eat a lot of mediocre food. It happens, especially when you read six different recipes take what you like from each of them and then just guess how much a teaspoon of whatever is.
For CSA Supperclub on Thursday I made French Onion soup. It smelled up my entire house with delicious oniony odors. I’m not even being sarcastic. I love onions. I love them raw and caramelized and breaded, deep-friend ring form. Yellow, Red, Green.
This could legit be my theme song.
So why wouldn’t I love French Onion soup? I was so convinced I did love French Onion soup I made some, obviously. But here’s the thing — even as a I was cooking it I tried to remember the last time I had a really good FO soup. I couldn’t think of a time. I couldn’t think of any time ever that I’d had it.
But onions and melty cheese and what’s not to love?
Nothing is to love. It is gross.
On Thursday as we were eating dinner I quizzed my brother-in-law relentlessly about the soup.
“Is the soup bad or do I just not like it?”
“It tastes like French Onion soup to me,” he said.
“But is it good French Onion soup or a shitty version?”
“It’s better than the stuff I had at Panera one time.”
“So maybe I just don’t like French Onion soup?”
“Maybe. It tastes good to me.”
I’m still not convinced that it was the soup and not me. Regardless, I sent the whole shittin’ shebang home with BFK yesterday. All the leftover soup, the bread, the cheese. It felt good to take care of her in some small way because she is really going through the shit right now.