potato soup for soul

Sometimes there are small moments in your day that feel like a breath of fresh spring air... I had one of those moments a few days ago while peeling potatoes.  Terry put the baby down for a nap as I straightened the house and started a pot of soup, preparing for a visit from some much adored long lost girlfriends.  As I sat at the kitchen table, sipping on the half cup of coffee I allow myself every few days (oh, the joys of breastfeeding), my husband sat down with me - his cup of coffee in hand and silence ringing throughout the house.  He offered to finish peeling the potatoes as I started to chop the onions... so we sat there, alone, drinking our coffee, peeling and chopping, talking about something I don't quite remember... and everything just felt peaceful.

Jump to the next day.  Yesterday.  I was putting the finishing touches on the lunch spread set out for my girlfriends.  I actually had makeup on and felt semi-human in my pre-pregnancy jeans (not sweatpants, thank you very much).  I put the homemade potato soup on the stove to reheat and simmer and... WWWHHHHAAAAHHHH... Felix starts screaming wildly from upstairs.  He's hungry.  Again.  So I rush to his aide.  I feed him, burp him, feed him, burp him, change his diaper, wash his face and hands, apply some lotion, change his clothes... and that's when I smelled it.

Burning.


I left the pot on the stove at too high heat... scorching the bottom layer of soup.  "Okay," I thought.  "I can fix this." I transferred the soup into a new pot and hoped the burning smell would stay in the old one, along with the crusty, once creamy, potatoes that lined the bottom.

At lunch time I made the declaration that I had burnt the soup and I completely did not expect anyone to eat it... but it was on the stove and, if they wanted, they could help themselves to a bowl along with the salads and bread, hummus and veggies, etc... I, personally, was too disappointed to even try it.  But I noticed a couple of half eaten bowls in the dishes later and thank the girls for humoring me.

Later, my brother came over and scooped a spoonful from the pot on the stove... telling me it tasted like I dumped a pack of cigarettes in the soup.

And I was okay with it.  Hey.  I'm a wife, a mom, and a damn good girlfriend... I can't always be perfect.  I can't always make it out of sweatpants.  And I can't always make a great soup.  But I'll keep trying... and my girlfriends will still be there.  And so will my brother, my son, and my husband.  And that, to me, is another breath of fresh air.