This morning, probably as it’s gotten really cold and miserable these last few days (yes, sorry UK, apparently I jinxed us all earlier in the week with my post about how mild this winter has been), I woke up with an insatiable craving for a big bowl of proper chunky deliciously warming-and-comforting winter soup. As Mr O is on a late shift, leaving it just me and the boys for dinner, I decided for convenience sake to dash out and buy some rather than spend two hours chopping vegetables and fending off Smallest’s grabby grabby hands and telling Biggest that while I know he is hungry he CANNOT have another biscuit. And that if he does not stop opening that bloody fridge door he won’t be getting ANYTHING, FULL STOP. No, there is NOTHING you can have to ‘snack on until dinner’ in there. SMALLEST! Get OUT of the DISHWASHER! GIVE ME BACK THE CHEESE GRATER!
As it turned out, the local shop ain’t big on soup. Catering mainly to the student population the cold shelves are stacked up with pasties and microwave burgers, and it left me with a choice of two soups. Italian Vine Ripened Tomato and Lentil, which the kids wouldn’t eat, and Pea and Wiltshire Ham, which I couldn’t eat. I have a real aversion to pea soup. Pea soup makes me a bit sicky in my mouth. When I was pregnant with Biggest I went through a mad craving for it and I ate it every day, twice a day, for an entire week. On Day Eight of Pea-soup-a-thon I put the spoon to my mouth, and before I even tasted it was overcome with an instant wave of nausea. I had my head down the toilet for an hour afterwards. The brief and torrid love affair was over, along with any residual feelings I may have had towards garden peas, minted peas, marrow fat peas, mushy peas, canned peas or any other pea you can think of. I’ve never got over it. However, lack of choice left me with no option but to get one Tomato and Lentil for me, and one (shudder), Pea and Ham for the terrors.
Upon opening it, I thought I would be alright. Despite the claims of being ‘Blended with 100% British Crème Fraiche’ it was a rather startling bright green and very runny, but I managed to get it into the pot without even a tiny bit of splash back (which would have been a disaster, if the damn stuff had got ON me), and I definitely did not feel pukey. Once it started warming up however, it was a different story entirely. Not even the rich earthy scent of my own soup bubbling away, or the enticing aroma of the garlic bread baking in the oven managed to counterbalance the pungent pea-ness emanating from the pot. I stifled a teeny tiny dry heave. Extractor fan was upped to full, tea towel clenched tightly to face, but even so by the time the damn stuff was warmed through I was dry heaving so much I’d given myself the hiccups. I broke up the garlic bread in record speed, poured the soup into the bowls whilst hopping from one foot to the other, snapped a quick pic for a daily dinner post on Facebook I’m part of, and then basically threw it at the children in my attempts to get it as far far away from me as possible in the quickest amount of time. As I fled the room I shouted over my shoulder that I was just going to eat my soup in the kitchen. Shout if you need me.
I immediately threw open the window, and took a few deep breaths before I tried to attempt my own soup. Once I was a few mouthfuls in I began to feel a bit better. It was tasty. Oh, it was lush! As I finished up I silently congratulated myself on being So Awfully Grown Up as to be able to control myself (fancy that?!), and went to check on the kids.
I congratulated myself too soon. As briefly mentioned in my first post, Smallest loves throwing his spoon/bowl. Usually at the end of a meal after he’s shouted ‘ALL GONE!’ and we haven’t been swift enough in clearing his plate. Sometimes, there is still food in the spoon/bowl. And while I’m sure he didn’t mean to, on this particular occasion he threw his spoon just as I walked into the room, hitting me on the shoulder and splattering pea soup right the way down my arm. Instantly, I threw up in my mouth. I charged up the stairs, and emptied near enough the entire contents of my stomach into the great white ceramic church. It erupted with such force some came out of my nose. I may have cried a little. And all that beautiful tomato and lentil soup I’d just demolished, wasted. Oh good god, it was awful. The whole experience was regretfully repeated a few minutes later trying to get my pea stained t-shirt off, when some accidently got on my face. And then afterwards, when I blew my nose, a lentil shot out. My humiliating defeat was complete.
Needless to say, pea soup shall grace my stove top no more.