Chilled Cucumber Soup

In honor of the Winter Olympics (Wayne Gretzky waiting for those columns to rise… oh my, the nerves… he looked like someone tied his hands behind his back and dropped a snake down his pants) and in defiance of my complete disdain for all things soup, I present this cold creamy tangy triumph!

Yes, I hate soup. It has always been, as far as I’m concerned, a waste of a good mealtime. And yes, in the face of this, there’s always some die-hard broth-head who has had some kind of crazy soup in their past they swear will convert me. “Oh!” they exclaim, “you’d love a potato leak chowder with sliced almonds and an essence of baby’s breath!” No I wouldn’t.

“Oh!” they ask, “have you ever had a hearty tomato lentil soup with grated salmon tail?” No, I haven’t.

“Oh!” they implore, “you simply must try my Aunt Annie’s plomeek soup with candied celery ribs and vulcan meat.” No, I mustn’t.

Frankly, I’d rather go see that movie that came out last year about the killer orphan who was actually – spoiler alert – a grown woman with hooker dwarf syndrome. – than eat soup as a whole meal. In fact I’d rather have hooker dwarf syndrome than eat soup as a whole meal.  Maybe a little tomato soup with a grilled cheese sandwich when I’m sick with a cold, but THAT IS IT!

So why exactly did I decide to make chilled cucumber soup?  It isn’t really in honor of the Winter Olympics, though I’m told we are doing quite well.  And it wasn’t because I was trying to wow MG because he was at home making puppets.  And I don’t have any British people coming to visit.  I guess the only reason I decided to make it was because the picture in the Gordon Ramsay book looked sophisticated and impressive, and I was feeling some sort of inadequacy I needed to overcome, and English cucumbers are cheaper than Paxil.

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Farfalle with Sage, Peas and Bacon

MG is sick and I’m depressed about it. I know I’m depressed because I’m exhibiting my #1 symptom… I become super-productive on the weekends.

This is an improvement over what I did in my twenties when I was depressed, which was smoke grass, drink martinis and watch television until I either fell asleep or threw up.

Ah, the glamour of the twenties!

So I don’t plan too many structured events on the weekends anymore because they’ve become mostly about me and MG making fattening breakfasts, having coffee at The Big Fixx on Sunset (formerly Abbot’s Habit), watching television together and seeing who can win in the categories of “Snarkiest Comment,” “Best Impression of a Loser Celebrity.” and “Most Accurate Representation of What the Cat in the Cat Food Commercial would Sound Like if It Could Speak Human.”

Then we separate for a few hours in the middle of the day so he can get some work done, I’ll get together everything I need to make the night’s dinner, and we reconvene for more television, snarky comments and cocktails.

But none of that happened this past weekend, and by noon on Saturday I’d done all my grocery shopping, all my laundry, hit the post office and the dry cleaner, worked out, erased said workout by stopping at Carl’s Jr., tried to get my cat to eat a french fry and took a nap.

I had absolutely nothing else on my “to do” list for the entire weekend, so of course I spent it in the kitchen, making this meal, along with some other goodies that are being banked away for later postings. But MG wasn’t there to admire my kitchen technique, or rave about the finished meal after snaring his usual lion-sized portion, so it wasn’t nearly as gratifying and I have WAY TOO MUCH left over.

With each passing kitchen attempt I’m becoming more and more fascinated with perfecting the process than I am with actually feasting on the finished result. I’d much prefer to give the food itself over to someone else for them to enjoy, and just stay in the kitchen and tackle the next recipe on my long long list. Anyone else feel that way?

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