The prep work takes some time, as I have to peel and cut three large carrots, two-pounds worth of parsnip, three potatoes, and an onion. The soup simmers for a couple of hours before the vegetables are soft enough to be emulsified (I love that gadget). The end result is a thick, orange soup that looks exactly like a plate of mashed sweet potatoes (one of the foods I don’t like and never eat).
I have a cup and think it’s pretty good. I try to coerce Alexander into trying “just a spoonful.” My unsuccessful attempt progresses to a big silly fight ending in my dropping a piece of his prized fresh mozzarella into the soup and his flipping out. He refuses to accept the fact that the mozzarella is still good after it is fished out of the soup and rinsed off. His comparison, which I think is more than a bit extreme, is this: “What if I took your sheets, put them on the subway tracks and let a train run over them. Then I take them home and wash them. Would you still sleep in them?”
I have a few friends over yesterday afternoon to watch a movie (Biutiful with Javier Bardem) and offer the soup. Only one is hungry enough to try it, and she comments that it is very good. Another takes some home with her, at my insistence.
Today I sit down at lunch to a bowl of it. I eat about half before deciding it’s tasteless; I don’t like the consistency; and even at three points, it’s not worth the calories. So I use the remaining pot as a goodwill chip (I’m hoping my super, Roberto, will replace my bedroom air conditioner this spring).
I invite Roberto up to my apartment to look at something that needs repair, but tell him if he’d like, he can have some soup. I let him try it first just to make sure he likes it. He tastes it, smiles, and says yes, “I like very much.” I give him the contents of the entire pot. He leaves my apartment with lunch for the week.
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