Bad Home Cooking

Time to swap some soup again

It's not exactly soup weather in Southern California, but when did we ever let weather stop us from anything?

It's Soup Swap time again.

I've hosted two soup swaps at my house over the past few years, the first small and informal, the second too big to handle (for me). This year I'm doing my part in a slightly different way: I'm joining a team and swapping with five other teams for fun and prizes at the Sunday Long Beach Farmer's Market. Kelli organized this one, of course. She's good like that.

What to make? A brief pow-wow with teammate Audge brought up the idea of colors. Red soups, green soups, yellow soups.

Which makes me think of my infamous rosemary red soup with alien heads. A great, deep red color, provided you use the correct color of beet.

And something orange. With carrots. There's a bounty of carrots out there right now. Best to help use them up.

Let's see what happens. Stay tuned...

Good luck with that: Japanese New Year's soup

 
Every year on New Year's Day the Tanaka's open up their home for friends and family. On offer are all manner of Japanese and American deliciousness. There is cold beer (Mexican) and vino (Chilean). It's an event not to be missed. Especially if you're too hung over to cook for yourself. (which, in full disclosure, I wasn't, but why cook when somebody else is doing it for me?)

But the big event is the chance to eat George's special "Good Luck" New Year's soup. As people mingle and sip and nosh, George hunches over his big pot of soup, It's slow going: he has to grill a mochi, then cook it in the broth carefully before slipping it into the bowl, along with sliced carrots, a hard-boiled egg, chopped chicken and some kind of seaweed. Only when he's carefully assembled all this will he bring you your bowl.

And everyone who enters wants a bowl. Everyone agrees that 2009 was not a great year. Everyone hopes 2010 has to be an improvement. And everyone believes that every little bit helps, even if it's a soup.

So I asked George this year to explain to me the significance of this Good Luck soup. 

"Oh, there's great significance," he tells me gravely.

"Go on..." I say, hoping for some ancient Japanese wisdom, or at least a rare family recipe.

"Well, for example, there's chicken in the soup, see it? And there's half a boiled egg. These symbolize life. Mother and daughter."

"Really!"

"And the mushroom? That symbolizes the earth. And so hard work..."

"huh..."

"And the carrots....they symbolize....um, good vision. Like, so you can see the bigger picture..."

"Wait a minute..."

"The mochi really does have something to do with the New Year, but I don't know what."

"Is he making this up?" I peer at Dr. Ash, standing next to him, who starts laughing first. Usually the English can keep a straight face longer than anyone.

So there's no old family recipe or any particular significance behind this soup, I say. It's all hype. 

Well, not entirely. There is a Japanese soup they eat on New Year's, says George. And the dashi base is culturally accurate. "And I added the Shitake mushroom this year," he said helpfully. "But I think maybe it's too big."

I could only eat half my bowl of Good Luck soup. I had already filled up on Okonomi-yaki, which is a popular dish in Osaka, and frankly, one bite of the dense, chewy mochi dumpling in the soup topped me off for good.

George offered to take my bowl. "It was delicious," I told him. "Sorry I couldn't eat all of it."

"Half-eaten Good Luck soup means you'll have the most luck," he said, grinning. "People who eat all of it usually have bad luck. So you're good."

I'm gonna take him on his word on that on.

Happy 2010, faithful readers!

Moroccan butternut squash and chick-pea soup

Over the river (if you can call the L.A. river an actual body of water) and up the 101, to Grandmother's house we go.

I go up this year bearing two home-made dishes I hope will counter the bounty of processed foods otherwise gracing my mom's Thanksgiving table: A homemade apple pie, and Moroccan butternut squash and chick-pea soup.

I know the soup, at least, will turn out. Probably.

It's my favorite soup, creamy and flavorful, with a chestnutty taste of chick-peas and just a hint of Moroccan spices. It's so loaded with beta-carotene and vitamin A, you can feel OK about all that smoking and drinking you're going to be pressured into at Grandma's house this year.

This recipe for Moroccan butternut squash and chick-pea soup has been a favorite of mine for years, ever since discovering Kitty Morse's Vegetarian Table: North Africa (which features photographs I want to lick off the page). Morse calls it soupe aux pois chiches et au potiron.

I call it my no-fail Thanksgiving soup.

Here it is. I've ever so slightly adapted.

1 pound winter squash (butternut, acorn squash, sugar pumpkin or Mediterranean)
2 tablespoons veggie oil
1 large onion, finely diced
3 cups vegetable broth
1-15-ounce can of chick peas - drain BUT reserve the liquid
2 tablespoons tomato paste
salt and freshly-ground pepper, to taste
1/8 teaspoon cayenne
12 fresh cilantro sprigs, minced.
a few grates of fresh nutmeg

Preheat oven to 375. Cut the squash in two and scrape out any seeds or pulp. I use butternut squash in this recipe, so I like to add butter and brown sugar into the hollow before baking. Place squash in an ovenproof dish and cover tightly with Tinfoil. Bake until tender, about 50 minutes to an hour. Let cool for a bit, then put the pulp in a bowl, and set aside.

Meanwhile, in a large saucepan over medium-heat, saute the onion until tender, about 6-8 minutes.

In a blender or food processor, puree the squash, onion, broth, reserved liquid from the chick-peas and half of the chick-peas themselves. Do this is batches if necessary. Return this puree to the pan and gently stir in, under low to medium heat, the tomato paste, salt, pepper and cayenne. Heat the soup through and add the rest of the whole garbanzo beans. Sprinkle with minced cilantro before serving.

I like to grate a little fresh nutmeg in there as well.

Everybody loves this soup. And if you serve it in a beautiful Moroccan style bowl, they'll love it even more.

The hardest part of this recipe? Cutting the dang squash in two. It's always a death-defying moment, with five or more of my nimble appendages hanging in the balance. So far I've managed to cut a dozen butternut squashes and live to count all my fingers. But who knows about this year? Stay tuned.

Cold comfort soup (Pappa al pomodoro)

I was starting to worry that autumn would never come to Southern California. It seems to be arriving later every year. The kind of crisp fall weather I remember as a kid in these very same parts doesn't seem to be in stock anymore. The summer pushes deep into October these days, and this year even into November. Now that the weather has finally turned, I find that I am unprepared. I have no close-toed shoes, for example. And only one pair of socks. 

I find that I cling to the ways of summer. I want the long-sleeve t-shirt to suffice. I want to sleep with the windows open. I want the last three tomatoes on my long-suffering vines to ripen and I am slow to realize why they might not. The seasons, they have finally changed. And while I am greatly pleased, when I want warm comfort food to fight back the 5 p.m. gloaming and chill, all I can think of is tomato soup.

The universe said yes to my plans this evening. Through happy circumstance, I happened to have every single ingredient needed to make pappa al pomodoro, or the Florentine tomato and bread soup that would warm my soul and nourish my children (if I served it with a side of pasta and promise of meringues afterwards).

I had a large can of diced tomatoes in the pantry, olive oil, 4 large garlic cloves, tomato paste and vegetable broth. I actually had half a loaf of ciabatta bread, two days old and ready to be shredded for just this soup. In the ultimate nod of approval from the universe, I had fresh basil, because a girlfriend had come for dinner just last night, bearing a basil plant and a bottle of wine. 

The recipe comes from Kitchen Goddess Christina, adapted from Julia della Croce's wonderful The Vegetarian Table: Italy.

4 large ripe tomatoes (canned works just as well - I used a 24-ounce can of Trader Joe's diced)

2 tablespoons tomato paste
1/4 cup extra-virgin olive oil, plus some extra for drizzling
4 large garlic cloves, peeled and "bruised." (I smashed them with a knife...is that abuse enough?)
a handful of fresh basil leaves, torn into small pieces (about 3 tablespoons)
4 cups or so of vegetable broth (water also works fine)
1/2 pound stale bread, torn or shredded
salt and fresh pepper to taste.

Gently saute the garlic cloves until golden brown, about 4 minutes. Add the tomatoes and about two tablespoons of the basil. Simmer on medium-low heat until the tomatoes thicken, about 20 minutes. Add the tomato paste and stir to mix. Add the broth and bring to a boil. Add the bread and toss everything together. Continue to cook until just heated through and the bread has absorbed liquid and become "pappy." You can remove the garlic cloves at this point, but I left them in. Salt and pepper to taste. Ladle into bowls, throw on the remaining shredded basil and a drizzle of olive oil, if desired.

Such warmth! Such aroma! Such taste! The girl, well-evolved, uttered accolades as she slurped down her bowl. The boy, less-impressed, said it was OK, but too hot. He later asked for an apple to round out his meal. Me? I ate two bowls, because it just made me feel good. Content. Warm.

Better than the finest cashmere socks, in fact.

Tortilla soup -- the improv way

Talk about a hot date. Kelli arrived Saturday night bearing two bags of groceries and a six-pack of Mexican beer. "We're making tortilla soup," she told me.

I tried to make tortilla soup once. About three or four years ago. And the results were not pretty. I pulled a recipe off the internet, and all went well until I added the sour cream and the whole concoction curdled in front of my eyes. I ate a small bowl on principal and threw the rest away.

But I love tortilla soup. It was my favored dish at Picante up in Berkeley, years ago, where we'd eat at least once a week; the nits, then very small, feasting on beans and rice, Luke tucking into some giant wet burrito, while I hunched over chunks of avocado and tortilla strips in a spanky broth, twirling long strings of savory queso around my spoon. Ahh, bliss. Can I be blamed for trying to make it on my own?

This time, however, there would be no recipe. "I've read a bunch of them, and I've decided to just break out on my own," said Kelli. "With these sorts of things it's not so much the recipe as the process, anyway." All I could do was nod, snap open a cervezas and throw myself on her superior know-how and confidence.

Which is not to say I didn't try to participate. But it was an alarmingly complicated task, to my neophyte eyes. It took more than an hour to prepare, even using my home-made chicken stock. I tried chopping a big-ass onion using the three cut method Kelli had demonstrated at our last meeting, only to make a mockery of it and slice into my palm for my efforts. I didn't have pepper. I ran out of salt. I'd drank the last of the white wine we might have used for deglazing the frying pan. After a while, I stepped back and watched Kelli work.

If I suck as a sous chef, there is no doubt I'm a tremendous cheerleader. I don't think I closed my mouth for my constant oohs and aahs and general praise of her talents. Truly, there is much to learn just by watching a cook prepare a meal in your own kitchen.

Here's her "recipe:"

8 chicken thighs
Vegetable oil

Brown chicken and transfer to pan to finish in the oven

1 "big ass" onion, chopped or diced
6 cloves garlic
2 guajillo chiles
beer, wine, or tequila (note to self: Everyone needs a bottle of Patron in their pantry. Buy some soon.)
6 cups chicken stock
3 chipotle chilies in adobo
4 T tomato paste or small can puree

Sautee onion, deglaze with alcohol, add chopped garlic and guajillo chili.
Cook for a few more minutes, add stock.  Whisk in paste, add chipotles,
simmer.

Let cool a little and puree in blender or processor.  Strain in fine mesh,
china cap or cheesecloth for a silky soup base.

Meanwhile, back at the cutting board, prepare the condiments:

cilantro
roasted pasilla peppers
green onions
limes
avocados
diced tomato
tortilla strips (cut fresh tortillas into strips, season, coat with olive oil, then roast until brown and crispy)
sour cream (Lucerne brand is delicious, like Mexican crema)
feta, goat or queso blanco (we didn't use cheese, but please feel free. I'll be over later to sample.)

Although I hardly helped, I did learn a great deal. I learned, for example, that you can roast peppers right n top of the stove burner, and that if you put them in a paper bag while still hot, their skins will pull right off. I learned that you NEVER wash a pepper, or you wash away the flavor (that from the very mouth of the great Diane Kennedy, who Kelli worked for in her first ever catering job as a 19-year-old). I learned that you actually can deglaze a pan with beer, and it will still smell yummy. I learned that I really should pop for a food processor.

Also this: Peppers scare me. Both the handling and eating of.

No matter. The broth, while certainly kicky, was also rich and deep; "flavors on top of flavors," Kelli said. And when you added condiments of your choice, chunks of avocado, tortilla strips, lime juice, cilantro, or a dollop of sour cream with a few roasted, chopped peppers on top, it all went down smoothly, leaving you with a sense of profound warmth and well-being. Indeed, after my first bowl, all I could muster was a moan and a whimpered "This tastes like restaurant food!"

I knew I'd never be able to recreate this on my own. But then Kelli left me with a large portion for the week's lunches and a bucket of leftover roast chicken. And she promised she'd be available via phone to walk me through it should I want to attempt it again.

I'm only sorry that, in true BHC fashion, I've misplaced my digital camera, so there is no photographic evidence that this soup actually exists. You'll just have to take my word for it. Or show up and try some yourself while there's still some leftovers.

Rosemary red soup with alien heads

I had two bundles of beets on my counter, marinating in their own dirt in a plastic bag from Ralph's. Pondering them, I knew they could go two ways: abandoned and left to rot before being thrown into the trash, or cut up and made into a soup of some sort.

It was a few days after my Soup Swap, and the pressure had receded enough for me to consider the latter option: Time to try my Rosemary Red Soup again.

I had another epiphany as I chopped off their greens: Beets are alarmingly fleshy, like body parts. And they bleed.

I called in my seven-year-old son. "Look," I said. "Alien heads."

Tony looked up from the paper and rolled his eyes. "Great. Like I'm gonna eat that now," he said.  The drama-Tween in the next room shrieked. "That's disgusting, Mother!!"

But the boy was piqued. My master-plan is to turn him into a young man who cooks. I've already shown him how to make an omelet, currently his favorite dinner, and he's showing a real interest in the alchemy of creating food. He ran in to watch me decapitate the remaining beets with great interest. "If you eat enough of them," I said, "you'll pee red."

He was unimpressed by this last detail. After a few moments of watching, he snatched a head and ran through the house holding it by its tendon-like bottom, eventually chasing his sister outside and down the block.

Having thusly distracted the children, here's how you make Rosemary Red Soup:

3 medium carrots, chopped
2 beets, chopped
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 large onion, diced
2 tablespoons chopped fresh rosemary
1 tablespoon chopped fresh oregano
1 cup red lentils, washed and picked over
2 bay leaves
6 cups water or stock
2-3 tablespoons lite miso

Saute the diced onions in oil, add carrots and beets and saute five minutes more. Add the herbs, lentils, bay leaves and stock. Bring to a boil. Lower heat and simmer 40 minutes or so. Remove bay leaves. Let cool a bit, then puree soup in a blender, in batches if necessary. Dissolve miso in 1/2 cup water and add to soup. Reheat and serve.

You'll remember that you need RED beets for this. The results are quite pleasing, when you do it right.

Unfortunately, my likening this delicious vegetarian soup to a blood pudding made with alien heads backfired. Tony balked at tasting it. The girl wouldn't even enter the kitchen. And the boy wanted a glass of the stuff to play with outside.

I ate a bowl, patted myself on the back for finally having made it correctly, and gifted the rest to my friend Joey, an avowed vegetarian and soup-lover who I knew would appreciate it more than anyone. Alien heads are vegetarian, you know.

Second Annual Soup Swap goes big!

Ten things I learned at my soup swap:

1) I actually like celery and cashew nut soup (thanks Joey! But it was in the Convent Garden Book of Soups, so I shouldn't be so surprised.)

2) You can doctor up store-bought soup in ways that will impress a gaggle of foodies (Christy's fantastic Mexican Winter Squash soup is a case in point).

3) There is a workaround to everything (Or so says Lynne, when my Aunt Vere's Slush wasn't quite as slushy as I'd hoped. And she was right, of course.)

4) You can get quite full on seven small tasting cups of soup. Plus alcohol.

5) Let your crafty, catering friends help you with details (thank God for Kelli, who brought an extra table and thought to bring tasting cups).

6) The only way to get hipped to new flavors and textures is to host a soup swap. (Ramalee's Ayurvedic breakfast soup defied description...but was delicious!).

7) Soup with noodles and slices of steak will be eaten by children (I got two containers of Berry's beef soup with soba noodles as part of the swap. But they're gone already.)

8) Leveraging cultural stereotypes can lead to restaurant-quality soup (Colleen went ahead and asked an old Cambodian lady on the street where she could buy good coconut milk, was pointed in the right direction, and brought us the astounding result: Tom Ka Gai soup to die for.)

9) Nobody cares if the hostess has a soup to swap or not. (I did make the rosemary red soup, by the way. But in my own good time, with no pressure!)

10) It's always good to have a flamenco guitarist.

Lessons and pictures of the Second Annual Soup Swap after the jump

Soup Swap: The LBC swapped in style

It rained like hell. And still they came. Almost a dozen soup swappers descended on my household, crates and bags of soup in tow, for the second annual Soup Swap

I'm working up a post. But a gal's gotta pay the rent first. And clean up her kitchen.

Stay tuned!

Una Sopa Romero Malisima

I could see it, and it was inspired.

Rosemary Red Soup. Delicious. Creamy. Vegetarian. And, like the name suggests, a deep, ruby red.

It would look fantastic in my Heath bowls. Never mind that I didn't have enough for all the guests. Such details were not bothering me at the time. I could only see the visuals.

Details often come back to bite me in the butt, however. Indeed, it's a wonder I have any backside at all these days.

A friend of mine, a fabulous woman with a PhD in Moroccan Jewry  and enviable hostessing skills gave me this recipe, promising that it was so simple even I could make it. The secret, she told me, was in the beets and the miso. Red beets give this vegetarian soup its shocking color, while the miso gave it a sort of salty kick from deep within. I made it only once, probably five years ago. But as I recall, it turned out, and impressed everybody so much that nobody minded that it also terminally stained clothes.

As with so many dishes I ruin, this one started out with my focus on entirely the wrong element: I was concentrating on the reaction it would surely win, instead of focusing on the constructive details.

First I bought the wrong kind of beets. We got two kinds at the Farmer's market, neither of them the right ones. We needed red beets. The kind that are red throughout, not the ones that are just red on the outside. The orange beets weren't going to work, either, although yes, they were very pretty and exciting.

The proper beets seem to be an essential element in creating soup of this color. Most cooks would understand this fact. But not me. I have said this all my life, but clearly it remains true: The obvious never occurs to me.

Second problem: We started late in the day, when the Tagine was a bubblin' and Julia was assembling the bitter herb salad and attending to a trillion other details. This would have been fine, had the soup turned out.

Bad enough the soup wasn't the color I'd expected. But it wasn't any acceptable color, unless you like your diarrhea color on the mustard-yellow side of the spectrum. For some reason the puree wasn't as smooth as it needed to be either. Maybe I hadn't cooked the lentils long enough? Hadn't chopped the vegetables enough? Hadn't minced the rosemary right?  Realizing you've botched a recipe at the very first, most basic step is pretty demoralizing. But if your dish tastes OK, it's possible to redeem yourself.

Alas. Even Julia, a hardy optimist, was underwhelmed with my Rosemary Red Soup That Was Diarrhea Colored. For a soup with several vegetables, salty miso and an herb widely understood to be taste-enhancing, this was remarkably taste-free. I held out the wooden spoon for her, accepting my fate.

"I don't think it's any good," I said.

She tasted. She didn't grimace, which gave me hope for a small second.

"No. It's not good."

That's when I panicked. It was 6 p.m. People were going to start arriving any minute, and we didn't even have the soup course done.

"We can't serve this! We can't serve this! What are we gonna do?!"

Now I was openly cursing myself. For not paying attention to the ingredient details. For telling Tony NOT to bring Matzo-ball soup as originally planned, because I was going to make my own soup.  What the hell was wrong with me? WHY was I even trying to pull off a Seder when obviously it was horribly beyond my abilities, even with more experienced backup?  You've heard of fight or flight?

"I'm going to Trader Joe's!" I yelled, running for my keys. "I'm just gonna buy some soup!"

"Wait!" Julia held up her hand. "I have an idea." Obviously she intended to fight.

Her idea involved orange juice. Audacious, I thought. And if it weren't Zero Hour I would have embraced her creativity. But I was already flying. "Ginger carrot soup! I'll just get four boxes of it, we'll heat it up, and nobody will know the difference!"

"Quiet. Taste this now. What do you think?" She'd poured probably 3/4 cup of orange juice directly into the soup and turned up the heat.

I swallowed my heart and tasted.

It had *some* taste. As opposed to the no-taste it had just moments before.

Maybe it would work.

And in fact, in the end, people ate their soup. Some confessed to enjoying it. The two vegetarians at the table wanted more. Wanted the recipe, even. "...this isn't really the soup I'd intended to serve," I stammered.

Here's the soup I intended to serve. Maybe Sher or Janelle or one of the Gracious Bowl gals can make this correctly and show the food-blogging world what it's really supposed to look like:

Rosemary Red Soup
3 medium carrots, chopped
2 beets (RED!!!) chopped
1 tablespoon olive oil
1 large onion, diced
2 tablespoons chopped rosemary (fresh)
1 tablespoon chopped oregano (fresh or dry)
1 cup red lentils (washed and picked over)
2 bay leaves
6 cups water or vegetable stock
2-3 tablespoons light miso

Saute onions in oil, add carrots and beats. Saute as long as you feel prudent. Add herbs, lentils, bay leaves and stock. Bring to a boil, lower heat and simmer 40 minutes. Remove bay leaves and puree soup in blender. Dissolve miso in 1/2 cup water and add to soup. Reheat and serve.

Writing it down now, transcribing from a stained and well-thumbed notepad from another life, I note that I didn't follow any of these simple directions. Saute first?

That'll teach me to cook under pressure. Probably should have made this the night before, with a glass of wine in my system and no time constraints. But that's just one of the many lessons learned this Passover holiday. Stay tuned....

Never mind

I'm not one for labels, but damn, am I ADD. I'm probably even ADHD, because that has an extra letter, and so most certainly means extra unfocused and extra spacey. It's no laughing matter, this Attention Deficit Disorder. They put kids on medication for it all the time now.

It's a good thing they hadn't discovered this particular affliction yet when I was growing up or I would never have made it through graduate school.

Because I am a space cadet. In my own little world most of the time. I am amazed I get through every day without forgetting something important like waking up or releasing my parking brake. I'm also amazed I have to ability to eventually finish work assignments, because more often than not, though I do enjoy getting paid, I tend to lose all interest in the topic at hand very quickly, which makes it hard to muster any enthusiasm at all, much less a clever kicker.

But see? I digress. There was this hearty garlic and potato soup recipe in Cook's (my new favorite cooking magazine. A little homespun, true, but they are pedantic about their recipes and I need pedantry when attempting to cook.) At the time I saw the recipe it was cold and rainy and the thought of hearty garlic and potato soup made me sigh with desire. I decided I would make some.

But I needed a few special provisions first. I needed several heads of garlic.  And two different kinds of potatoes. I needed some heavy cream. Finally, I needed a leek.

These ingredients took several weeks to procure. I got busy with other things and remember, it's hard for me to focus. While I slowly collected them I read and re-read the recipe. I needed two kinds of potatoes, for example, because one kind broke down easily and provided starch while the other held up better in simmering chicken stock. I had to read the sidebar on how preparing garlic three different ways would lend itself to the perfect garlic taste, and how this taste would blend perfectly with the two different kinds of potatoes. Did I mention that Cook's is pedantic?

Finally, I was ready for a trial run. But wither my leek? I asked Luke, my ex, if he could find me a leek when he went to the Farmer's market on Friday.

He arrived that day to pick up the kids and handed me a pair of long, green leeks. I snatched them from his hand, held them above my head and pronounced, in my finest Elizabethan accent, "If you can mock a leek, you can eat a leek!"

"What's that from?"

"Shakespeare!"

"No it's not."

"Yes it is!"

"No it's not."

For the record, Yes, it is. Hah!

I like any vegetable you can quote Shakespeare by. Leeks are fun. It's a silly word. And apparently, according to Luke, the leek is the national vegetable of Wales. I aim to do more with leeks in the future.   

Still, it was another week before I could get around to being ready to attempt my hearty garlic and potato soup, and I only did so because I was afraid my leeks would go over in the crisper.

Here is the recipe (Cook's Illustrated, March/April '07, page 12. Written by Rebecca Hays):

3 tablespoons unsalted butter
1 medium leek, white and light green parts halved lengthwise, washed and chopped small (about 1 cup)
3 medium garlic cloves, minced, plus TWO whole heads of garlic, with the outer papery bits pulled off and the top third cut off.
6 cups low-sodium chicken broth, plus one cup to thin soup if necessary (huh?)
2 bay leaves
table salt to taste
1 1/2 pounds russet potatoes peeled and cut into 1/2 inch cubes (about 4 1/2 cups)
1 pound Red Bliss potatoes (unpeeled), cut into 1/2 inch cubes (abut 3 cups)
1/2 cup heavy cream
1 1/2 teaspoon fresh thyme leaves, minced
1/4 minced fresh chives
garlic chips (recipe below)

Now, this might seem simple to some of you readers, but it's fairly complicated for me. And we all know how I don't tend to pay attention to details. Basically this was a disaster waiting to happen.

First challenge: How to cut potatoes into cubes. At my age I'm too embarrassed to ask anybody how this is supposed to be done. So I make my own approximation of 1/2 inch...shapes.

Again I digress...

Melt butter in Dutch oven over medium heat. When foaming subsides, add leeks and cook until soft (but do not brown), about 5 to 8 minutes. Stir in minced garlic and cook until fragrant. Add garlic heads, broth, bay leaves and 3/4 teaspoon salt, partially cover and bring to a simmer over medium-high heat. Reduce heat and continue to simmer, partially covered, until potatoes are tender (between 15-20 minutes).

Discard bay leaves. Remove garlic heads and squeeze their garlic mush into a bowl, using tongs or whatever implement you can find. Use a fork to mash the mush.

Stir cream, thyme and half of the mashed garlic into the soup; heat soup until hot again. Taste soup, then add the remaining garlic paste if desired. Using an immersion blender (??WHA? luckily I have a regular blender), process soup until creamy, with some potato chunks remaining. Season with salt and pepper and serve. Sprinkle with chives and add garlic chips (see below)

Garlic chips - 3 tablespoons olive oil
6 medium garlic cloves, sliced thin lengthwise.
Heat the oil, fry the garlic. Sprinkle lightly with salt.

You might think, gentle reader, that your humble narrator stumbled and impaled herself on any one of several sharp challenges this recipe presented. But the fact of the matter is, the soup came out pretty well. But it took well over an hour, and, by the time I doled it out into a bowl to taste, I had lost all interest.

The result? It tasted like garlicky potato soup. Nothing more, nothing less. I had a few spoonfuls, but felt nothing. No ahhing, no soul-satisfying mmm-ing. In fact, it cried out for something, but I couldn't figure out what. And there was no one there to ask. No Tony. No Audrey. The kids certainly wouldn't have anything to do with it.

If you eat soup by yourself does it satisfy anyone?

Then it was bedtime and I poured it all out into my big green Tupperware container and shoved it into the refrigerator to think about on the morrow. Only the morrow came and went and I couldn't be bothered. A week went by and out of guilt I opened the Tupperware to heat up a bowl for lunch and was so affronted by the heavy garlic smell that I threw the whole thing out.

I wonder what Ritalin brownies would taste like?