It is a truth universally acknowledged that all processed food taste like chicken and we all ought to be raising our own food organically, unmodified and locally and wearing dungarees (if only Boden would do them in our colours).
I am not a domestic goddess. I did recently make a parsnip soup and froze some of it, but then again maybe my husband made it. I forget. I do not raise chickens. I do not purchase fields before or after consideration. I do not know the meaning of flax. My children do not called me blessed (Lily does the best air kisses and cuddles though). My husband has no trouble finding me, and I am not worth very many rubies, according to the strict technicalities of Proverbs 31. I would love to try and write a book about trying to succeed in all these areas, though. I am not sure Mr Threescore would like sitting in the city gates, but this is what comes of being the husband of a wife of potentially noble character.
Which came first? The plot or the diversion?
So it happened this evening, after a day with the old mater and pater and a walk to the waterfront and some food which I had prepared which dad could not eat, as well as food my husband had prepared which all of us could eat, and a lovely Rioja ’78 which wasn’t on offer to Lily, but whose box may make a suitable educational toy, that my husband and I sat down for a nice supper.
This is something we often do on a Sunday evening, and it has a lot to do with being exhausted but peckish. It usually involves a reasonably priced ciabatta and a tasty soup from a company which make rather nice soups. I had chosen a yummy looking Chicken Soup from their range.
You know how it is with chicken soup – it always tastes a little better than chicken. I wish I knew how they did that. Well, I was definitely getting the spice and the parsnips, but at the point where I started feeling around with my spoon in the further regions of my bowl – as you do – for a nice lump of Actual Chicken, it became apparent that this was Spicy Parsnip soup and it just tasted a little like chicken soup…
I even had parsnip soup in the freezer! I had a sinking feeling that even the chicken soup tasted more parsnippy than my parsnip soup (then again, maybe my husband made it). I still wish I knew how they did that.
Well, two options presented themselves to me. I have always been keen to call ‘Our Careline’ – whoever she is, and find out about getting a refund or freebies and whether she is as northern as she sounds. But I do like putting things in writing given the chance, and am as concerned for our poor vegetarian friends who were getting the tastiest Spicy Parsnip Soup of their lives as I was for my own and my husband’s welfare. I was going free-range with worry. So I decided to use the website and sent a note to the Head Soup Chef. I bottled out about the vegetarians, but am now waiting for the reply, and will tell you all about it when it arrives.