The only thing I love more than making soup and eating soup is taking poorly-lit pictures of bowls of soup that I made and will consume soon and posting them on Instagram using the hashtag #soupp0rn.
Soup really is the perfect food. It’s warm and frequently delicious. It gives your insides a hug and if you’re feeling lazy it’s an entire meal in one bowl.
I love soup.
90% of all the soups I make are made in my beloved seventeen-year-old Crock Pot.
I know how old the Crock Pot is because I bought it shortly after Paul Wellstone died in 2002 for a Chili Cook Off contest at Jasc. I was peer pressured into buying it because the ladies of Marketing were appalled that I did not own one. Apparently this is one of the things one should have by the time they reach 30.
My argument is that nobody bought their own Crock Pot. They married into those suckers. Along with things like rice cookers, pot holders, Kitchen Aid stand mixers, and matching table settings for 12. Having never married I never got a Crock Pot.
Incidentally, and this kind of ties in with the bath towel post, baking pans and what not were another thing I had never bought because of the marriage thing. For my 29th birthday BFK got me a sweet set of glass Pyrex pans and I still use those suckers to this very day.
Anyway, as you can surmise I bought a Crock Pot for the Chili Cook Off and went on to win multiple awards over the years — Most Creative Chili, Hottest Chili, and Best Overall Chili Experience (just to name a few).
On Sunday, I managed to re-injure my back which I had hurt vacuuming the previous Sunday. Only this time the re-injury was about 121,183,854,052 times worse than the initial injury. Like I tweaked my back when I hurt it vacuuming, whatever I did this week was some sort of oh my god I cannot live in this kind of pain I want to die all the time injury.
I’m telling you this because it leads into the Crock Pot. Because I was hurting I didn’t have the stamina, patience, whatever to cook a proper meal. So I dumped a bunch of shit in the ol’ Crocker and set it on low and slow.
Sevenish hours later I had half-cooked carrots and potatoes and some other greyish meat. It was not good. Part of the not-goodness was my fault, but the half-cooked stuff? That was all Crocker’s fault. I’ve had this happen before, where Crocker has just decided to not give its all to my meal. Now it’s happened enough times that I have to admit that my hidiously ugly bought on a whim Crock Pot is not long for this world.
I’ll miss you Crocker. You made a lot of good food.