Oh, you thought you were gonna get a recipe of perfect broccoli soup? Steaming with a certain freshness and healthiness, only found in Instagram posts? I’m sorry, but if you’re not looking for a recipe of disaster I’ve got nothing for you.
Because let me tell you a little something about broccoli soup.
I’m not known for my cooking skills. Or, on the flip side, I’m well-known for the lack of them. Actually, when I tell people I’m gonna make them dinner they usually either
1) offer to bring their own/cook for me instead. (And, usually, they try to hide their intentions: ‘Don’t bother with the cooking, Linnéa, you’re contributing enough with your home!’)
2) secretly bring something eatable/devour something before they even get here.
Now, I’m actually trying to be more interested in cooking. Because I’m thinking that’s one of those basic skills one should have. At least if you’re like me and don’t wanna waste money on take-out for the rest of your life, resulting in me rather having a pot of plain beans for lunch. Yeah, it’s rough.
Hence, I’m trying to be more interested and learning as much as I can about cooking. So far, I’ve had three exceptional successes (one being with some help from Gruvfrun – but it still counts!) and more than ten failures.
But I knew that my broccoli soup was gonna make for another success. How could I fail anyway? It’s like broccoli and stuff blended together. Right?
When I was done chopping the broccoli into perfect little pieces and had put it all on the stove to boil for a very specific three minutes, Selma began whinging and demanded my attention.
‘I need to go ooooooooooout.’
This always happens when I’m doing things that need 100% of my focus. Our dog’s clearly psychic.
So I went out with her, reluctantly. I nearly stumbled on some kids but just made it through the critical moment of ‘hey, lady, can I pet you do-‘ by half-walking and half-running away from them (I’m known as the crazy neighbourhood lady that hates kids by now. And I’m alright with that because it’s just about true). But as soon as we got to her favourite peeing spot on the lawn – and yes, there is such a thing – she got distracted by some happy-Friday-person playing extremely loud music from their car.
Now, I play loud music too. When I’m INSIDE. So I gave him a hysterically bitter glare and tried to make Selma do her thing.
I tried to remind her that I had broccoli on the stove.
I tried to explain to her that if she was a good girl now, I’d give her a huuuuge reward later – but she called my bluff.
A solid ten minutes later she finally sat down. And, as I was in the elevator on the way up again, I realised that that was a little more than 7 minutes longer than I was supposed to boil the broccoli.
‘No harm done’, I thought, ‘it’s gonna be mash anyway.’
‘*soup’, my mind corrected me.
Of course, nothing is ever that easy and once I got inside, not only had the broccoli boiled over (I know, I know, very dangerous, next time I’ll turn the stove off) but I’d forgotten to turn on the fan, leaving a heavy, broccoli fuelled, mist absolutely everywhere in the flat. I instantly turned to our dining table to smell our bouquet of tulips, only to have to swallow the fact that it did, indeed, smell like broccoli.
In that very moment, I decided to give up. I took my hand blender – but not before I’d brought myself a comforting glass of wine – threw in some milk, and turned it all into a soup. Only it turned into a mash. And I had forgotten every kind of spice.
In my saucepan, therefore, there was literally nothing but broccoli and milk. A very sad little lunch.
And as I sat there, eating straight out of the saucepan, because I dread the idea of doing the dishes and ESPECIALLY unnecessary dishes, Gruvfrun came to my rescue.
‘How did the soup turn out?’ she texted me.
‘Fucking horrible. Taste like horse shit.’
‘Peanuts? Why pe- don’t tell me. Why don’t you add some more salt – you always put in too little’ (I didn’t have the courage to tell her that I’d forgotten about spices altogether) ‘pepper, and some chilli flakes? And top with some creme fraiche and sesame seeds.’
‘Okay, I’ll try.’
‘And PLEASE put it in a bowl. Don’t eat straight out of the saucepan again.’
To my surprise, although I wasn’t surprised at all, my lunch tasted great all of a sudden. And I did give Selma a huge reward anyway because I couldn’t stand her looking at me like: Mum, it’s Friday, and you obviously hate me.
Hope your lunch tasted moderately to awesomely good and if you had broccoli, let me know.