Tuesday, January 24, 2012

Damn $10 Soup

Growing up, I never learned to cook. From the Autumn of my fifth grade year until the final, Championship game of my senior year, I was incredibly busy playing competitive basketball. I played on friendly, all-skill-levels-are-welcome Sno-King leagues. I played on Select teams (which are just essentially a more competitive and selective league than Sno-King) before High School and I, also, played on my Middle and High School basketball teams. At one point, I was even playing on three separate basketball teams at the same time. If I wasn’t playing basketball during the regular season at my High School, I was busy with off-season weight-training, running to stay in shape, attending open-gym (which is essentially scrimmaging) with my fellow H.S. teammates. We, also, played various off-season leagues, went to dozens of tournaments each year and I played ball with the “guys,” aka middle-aged men and a few cute boys my age, at my local gym.

I perfected my crossover but my cooking skills were limited to boiling water, making Top Ramen, which I am still very excellent at, by the way, and heating up my mom’s leftovers in the microwave to exact perfection.

My husband, Jarod, grew up with a very traditional household where his dad worked quite often and his mother stayed home, tended to the kids and all the household needs. In his home, guys weren’t expected to know or even attempt to cook anything, beyond Top Ramen.

Thus, there we were, fresh-out of our parents’ homes and living together without a clue on how to do absolutely anything in the kitchen. We, literally, as in I wish I was joking, were confused why we could never get an egg to be perfectly boiled and simply, not “runny.”

“Why doesn’t this ever work?!” we would pathetically ask ourselves in domestic-stupidity and confusion after we broke into, yet, another egg with it’s yellow remnants running down it’s side.

If I could give 18-year-old me any advice, at all, I would say, "IDIOT, cook the damn egg longer!!" Haha :)

So we did what every young, money-stupid kid does, we ate out . . . ALL the time (and then complained we didn't have any money; weird). From the very beginning of our relationship and until the birth of our first-born, Aiden, we worked the exact same schedule at the same workplace, which happened to be located conveniently at the mall. Therefore, we ate at one of the many various food options at the mall practically five times (and sometimes more) a week.

One day during our lunch break, we decided to go to the Nordstrom Café and ordered an entrée and an order of Soup De Jour, which was a delicious, creamy tomato bisque soup, to share. The soup was incredibly good. I remember us thinking it was quite possibly the best soup we had the extreme pleasure of eating, we raved to one another about the delicious perfection the soup exuded from the taste buds in our mouths and the next day at lunch, we decided it was essential to get more of that amazing soup.

There we were again the next day, we placed our order of a different lunch entrée and requested another bowl of the creamy tomato bisque soup. We anxiously awaited our much-anticipated soup to come as we talked and flirted with one another as newlyweds still completely in love and enamored with one another (and, most importantly, without a single child in sight!) are capable of. Our waiter returned and plopped a bowl of something entirely the opposite of our much already-loved soup onto our table.

This crap wasn’t our creamy, delicious tomato bisque soup. This shit was white; this shit was clam chowder.

What. The. Fuuuck. Is this?!? We looked at each other with absolute annoyance on our faces. How do you get such a simple order completely wrong? Isn’t this fucking Nordstrom?? The damn soup’s like ten dollars! Ughh.

“Excuse me!” we demanded the waiter back to our table, “this is NOT what we ordered!”

“Ohh, I’m sorry. What did you order?” replied the apologetic waiter, who frantically checked his notepad scribbled with orders from his customers.

“We ordered Soup De Jour!” I boldly remarked as I was fucking hungry and just wanted my damn $10 soup.

With absolute kindness in his eyes, the young waiter leaned forward into the table and replied with a voice slightly above a whisper, “This is Soup De Jour; it’s the soup of the day.”


Like my blog? Just one click equals one vote and then "all your dreams will come true!" ;) Thanks!!

No comments:

Post a Comment