The Salt Lick That Wanted to be Soup

In a perfect world, I could moonlight as a Food Network star. I love food. I cook (although no one would ever confuse me for an actual chef). And I have personality (although some might argue that poop jokes do NOT equal personality).

My obsession with the Food Network began around Christmas of 2009. The Food Network had been recently added to my parents’ cable package, and I was snowed in at their house. The obsession didn’t take long to develop. Seriously — how adorable are Ina Garten and Jeffrey?! And how fun is it to do bad Paula Deen impressions?! Oh, the fun never ends. And Ina Garten and Jeffrey will never stop being absolutely adorable. I’m definitely not the sappy type — I think most sappy love stories are overhyped by the media and border on complete crap. But I love Ina and Jeffrey. She cooks for him — and he loves everything she cooks. [Note:  although this sounds like I have ambitions of becoming a 1950’s housewife — I have no such ambitions. None. I eat gender stereotypes for lunch.]

I occasionally like to channel my inner Food Network star while I’m cooking. I believe Ina may have sparked this desire.

Last week, John and I decided to make tomato soup. [You may be thinking: “tomato soup? in August?” You likely wouldn’t question this food choice if you saw the 30 paste tomatoes on my counter and the 50 bushels of basil in John’s garden. You’d say, “of course! tomato soup!”]

We found a recipe for fresh tomato/basil soup. It seemed easy enough. People had (supposedly) tried the recipe and had made many positive comments on the web site. No one blamed the soup on his/her onset of high blood pressure.

We followed the recipe, which included adding TWO TABLESPOONS of salt to the soup. We watched the soup pot simmer. It contained twenty of our little garden paste tomatoes, so we had a lot invested in this soup. We were positive the soup would be the tastiest thing we’d ever eaten. Or at least the tastiest thing we’d eaten that day.

We sampled. Even before the spoon entered my mouth, I was ready to exclaim, “YUM! SO GOOD! SO GOOD!” However, after the spoon entered my mouth, I couldn’t really get those words to come out of my mouth. So, since my momma taught me not to say anything when I don’t have anything nice to say, I just kind of grimaced. I even began to question my own sense of taste — perhaps my taste buds had all died. Perhaps.

John immediately identified the problem. Our precious tomato soup had WAY too much salt. He deemed it inedible. I agreed.

Lesser cooks would have discarded the salty, salty, salty soup and gone out to eat. We did not. John went to the grocery store and purchased about 20 Roma tomatoes. We boiled the new non-garden tomatoes and added them to about 1/4 of the salty, salty, salty soup.

TA-DA! SOUP! (edible soup!)

I believe we ate around 10 p.m. And we’re currently the proud owners of the remaining salty, salty, salty soup. It may take a bumper crop of paste tomatoes to dilute this stuff.

Ina would be so proud.

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